"The Black Widow is typically intelligent, manipulative, highly organized, and patient; she plans her activities with great care. . . She relies on her ability to win the confidence and trust of her victims as a precursor to any attack. For this reason, she is seldom viewed as a suspect, even after she has committed several murders." Michael and C. L. Kelleher, Murder Most Rare

(H/C)

"Horatio." Horatio looked up from the lab results as Tripp came in. "What have you got so far?"

"More than last time. Speed found another fingerprint on the shoe, and also, there was some residue stuck between the tread on the sole. It turns out to be flour. Maybe the shoes were left sitting in a kitchen to dry after she'd washed them and picked up the flour from the counter."

"She bakes? With a dead body in the house?"

"Apparently. It at least increases the chance that she's keeping the body in a house, not in a garage or other structure. We've got the same pattern as usual from the autopsy. The burns were far deeper this time, the lines not as straight. All mutilations postmortem. She's an odd one. According to the FBI profiler, most female serial killers use poison, but she's obviously enjoying the physical destruction. Hey, Calleigh, what did you find out?"

Calleigh swept into the room briskly, and Tripp backed two steps to give her the spot next to Horatio. "The bullet matches."

Horatio mentally added that information to the file. "Again, she absolutely wants us to connect these murders. She's made a point of that, from the first one on. I haven't given up on the ABC theory."

"What's the ABC theory?" Tripp asked.

"Sorry, I hadn't had a chance to tell you about that yet. It's from a book, the ABC Murders by Agatha Christie."

Tripp cut him off before the explanation went any further. "Oh, that ABC theory. Interesting idea. Yeah, could be."

Calleigh stared at him. "You read Agatha Christie novels, Frank?"

Tripp shuffled his feet as his eyes fell. "Well, once in a while, if I can't sleep, I read mysteries and pick out procedural errors. What's your excuse, H?"

"I haven't read it. Raymond liked mysteries as a teenager, and she was one of his favorites. Anything I know about Agatha Christie is just from osmosis, not experience. Anyway, we haven't come up with any real motives so far on the first three, but we ought to have an interesting time with Fox."

Calleigh groaned. "There had to be a line."

Tripp nodded. "Thought about killing him myself a few times."

"That's why I think there's a chance that he was the intended victim in all this. I can certainly see him offending someone enough that they decide he had to be killed for it. By the way, he hadn't been drinking, but we all know what approach she used."

"Offering an exclusive," Calleigh agreed. "Probably set up a meeting in a deserted location and told him to come alone. For a reporter, that's even better than asking him to look at her car. Didn't that idiot ever listen to his own broadcasts? He knew he fit the description, and he knew the killer was a woman."

"He only reported crime; it was never real or personal to him," Horatio said. Speed ambled in at that moment. "All done with the fingerprint, Speed?"

"All logged, but no ID to match it to."

"Okay, here's what you do. One angle of this investigation will be finding people who had a motive to kill Travis Fox." Speed's eyes widened. "We're obviously working with too much data on that one. Any of us could name dozens of possible suspects. We're going to have to impose some organization on it. So I want you to start one year back – the profiler thinks whatever set off this killer was at least that long ago – and watch all of Fox's newscasts, working backwards."

Speed's mouth literally fell open. "You have got to be kidding."

Horatio had the grace to look sympathetic. "Sorry, Speed. Really. Check people attached to the events he reported who might have been offended – families, victims themselves, if living. We are looking for a woman, probably 30s or so, probably single, living alone, and – my latest guess – without a job, therefore with some level of independent means, since she has a car and a house. Many organized killers have jobs, but she just has too much time on her hands. These killings take place any day of the week, and then the mutilations take time, too. Make a list of any women you think are possibilities, and we'll track them down and talk to them."

Tripp nodded. "We're still working on showing pictures of the victims around the bars. Wish we could get some undercover officers on this, but the victims are too small. There's a minimum height for the PD."

"Keep at it. She is starting to make mistakes. Another thought I had – you can take this one, Cal – is traffic tickets. Son of Sam was caught because his car got a parking ticket near the scene of a murder. Check the women who got parking tickets near any bar on the kill dates for the two who were drinking. Try moving violations, too. They might have happened on the way to the bar, before she had the body with her. See if you can match the same criteria I gave Speed. She had to have her car with her to take the men away in. Worth a shot, anyway. Maybe we'll get lucky."

Speed looked even more sullen than usual. "How come she gets to look up parking tickets while I have to watch Travis Fox?"

Calleigh answered it herself. "Because I sleep with the boss, Speed. It counts for something." Horatio and Tripp both chuckled, and Speed, defeated, started forlornly toward the video room.

"Speedle," Tripp called, and Speed turned around. "Want popcorn?"

Speed muttered something they didn't quite hear but could guess well enough and continued out into the hall, nearly running into Eric on his way in. Eric was as buoyant as they had ever seen him after a murder. "Just think, guys, we don't have to put up with that jerk's face all over TV anymore."

"Shut up," Speed muttered and pushed on past him.

"What was that about?" Eric looked back at Horatio, puzzled.

"Speed's just a bit overwhelmed at an assignment I gave him. It really was too much for one person. Why don't you look him up and tell him I said you should help him out?"

"Sure thing, H." Eric retreated after Speed, and Calleigh turned to Horatio.

"That was absolutely cruel." He half-smiled but didn't apologize. "What are you going to be doing while we're all on these assignments, Handsome?"

The smile transformed from amused to predatory. "I'm going to go over Fox's cell phone records. The killer's call might be on there, but he also had a source in the department somewhere, and I reserve that interview for myself."

Calleigh and Tripp glanced at each other, recognizing the shared thought. Horatio's face and tone were both cast iron. There was at least one person on the force who was about to find himself enjoying this day even less than Speed.

(H/C)

"There wasn't any harm done." Officer Davis looked from Horatio to the captain, presenting his case to the jury. They might be his peers, but neither of them appeared sympathetic. Captain Martin looked disgusted, and Horatio looked furious. "I never gave him anything that mattered. Just little bits here and there. The big stuff was held back for the investigation."

"How the hell do you know that?" Horatio flung the words at him like a weapon, and Davis actually flinched, feeling the blow. "You weren't directly involved with those investigations. That explains the delay on some of the information getting out. How could you possibly know what mattered when you never saw all of the data? Even we don't know what matters until later a lot of times."

"The press has a right to information," Davis said. "It's in the constitution."

Horatio recognized the original source of that statement, and the flames in his eyes flared higher. "Did you ever think about the families? How would you feel, having details of your personal tragedy paraded by the press? Reporting is one thing, but that man was a vulture. Whether or not you hurt investigations, you hurt people." He actually took a step forward on the last sentence, and Captain Martin touched him lightly on the arm, firmly enough to be a reminder, not firmly enough to be a restraint yet. Horatio stood, staring at Davis, holding himself in check, but the effort was visible – and terrifying.

"How much?" the captain asked.

Davis was afraid to look away from Horatio, even while answering his superior. His body was poised in the chair, ready for evasive action if needed. "Depends on the information. He would go five hundred for the really good stuff." Horatio tightened up, then abruptly whirled around and left the room. Davis relaxed until the captain's voice, almost as deadly as Horatio's at the moment, sliced through his relief and amputated it.

"You are suspended without pay for the moment, pending results of an IAB investigation, including a thorough inspection of all of your financial records." Davis winced. Horatio had been right, Martin thought. If Davis was selling to Fox, he was probably doing other things on the fringe of his job as well. "Also, if we can prove that you interfered with the process of any investigation, you will be tried in the criminal courts for obstruction of justice. And the IAB will be quite diligent in looking for proof." Davis' eyes fell to his hands, which were suddenly knotted. "Give me your weapon, and then get out of my sight." Davis stood, unholstered his gun with unsteady fingers, and left the room. Horatio was leaning against the wall just outside, and he straightened up and surged forward as Davis came through the door. Davis stumbled to a halt, but Captain Martin was behind him this time, unable to intervene. Horatio's blazing eyes froze his victim as he ruthlessly closed the gap. One hand came out with smooth abruptness, and Davis actually whimpered as he tightened up with anticipated pain, but Horatio never touched him. Instead, he ripped the badge almost savagely off his belt, threw it to the floor, then turned and walked away.

(H/C)

Horatio dived into the pool, pushing himself into action the moment he hit the water, refusing to lose momentum. Ten laps. Twenty laps. The feeling of the water against his skin soothed him. It resisted – and then it gave way to determination. Like crime. The details would work out, the frustrations would end, and they would catch this perp. Thirty laps. Forty laps. He conquered the pool every morning, like he had gradually conquered his own physical weakness, like he conquered the cases at CSI. The water was heavy, powerful, exhausting, but it would always give way. Fifty laps. The odometer of his mind, spinning unnoticed beneath his thoughts, counting the laps, alerted him to the goal, and he slowed down for the first time and paddled to the ladder, hauling himself out of the water. He came across to the patio furniture at poolside, where Calleigh, Rosalind, and Peter had been watching him. "Your turn, Cal," he said, still breathing heavily. She watched the drops of water run down his appealingly lean, vital form and hesitated for a minute, wanting to prolong the image before she handed him a towel and got up herself.

Peter shook his head in admiration. He wasn't an early riser himself, and this happened to be the first of these morning swims he had seen in the week since being in Miami. The utter drive, the relentless attack with which Horatio faced the water surprised him. He had kept waiting for the machine-like laps to slow, but Horatio had held his speed from the first, obviously enjoying pushing the limits. Peter glanced at his extensively-scarred left leg, and Horatio caught the look. "Good as new," he stated, kicking the table leg with it, and Calleigh flinched. His smile to her was half reassurance, half apology.

Rosalind sat up, making her name sound for him, and he reached out to her. "Horatio, get the towel first," Calleigh objected. "You'll get her all wet."

"She won't mind." Horatio scooped up his daughter, twirling her around, and she laughed. Peter was getting to know her more, but he was still amazed at the transformation when she was around Horatio. She chattered at him now, then reached out, tracing the water drops herself, then sticking her fingers in her mouth. "Hey, Angel, you don't swallow it." Calleigh stood up and draped the towel around his neck, putting a barrier between Rosalind and the droplets, and Rosalind started trying to move the towel out of the way.

Calleigh extracted her reluctant daughter from his arms. "Horatio, dry off a bit, and then you can have her." Horatio toweled himself off, then sat down in one of the chairs, and Calleigh returned Rosalind to him, then dove into the pool herself.

"So how's this case going?" Peter asked.

"Slowly. We'll catch her eventually, but it takes a lot of tedious work sometimes. Poor Speed and Eric have been watching Travis Fox for two days straight."

Peter winced. "Are you paying them extra?"

"I tell them they're stocking up on brownie points for their next employee reviews. Calleigh and I are going out and talking to all these women they turn up. In the last two days, I've heard eleven women say that if it weren't for the other murders, they'd like to shake this woman's hand. Everybody wanted to kill him. Unfortunately, all of these women donated fingerprints willingly, and none matched. No traffic tickets. One probable cell phone call from the killer, and that was from a pay phone. This is just one of those cases that builds slowly."

"That's why I'd rather design houses. Everybody can see the progress. I like to drive by building sites I've designed every day and watch the building go up. Every day, there's a difference."

"So your business is going well in Norfolk?"

Peter immediately shied like a startled horse as he realized the location of his thoughts. "Um, yes, it is. So, do cases in Miami usually take this long?"

The cell phone, carefully placed on the table, rang just then, and Horatio and Rosalind both reached for it, with Horatio getting there first. "Horatio. Okay, Tripp. I'll meet you." He stood and handed Rosalind to Peter. "Take her, will you?" Peter was willing, but it was a bit like detaching an unwilling cat, equipped with 18 hooks, from a surface of which it has taken possession. Together, they pried Rosalind off, and she squealed, then subsided into resigned disgust. Horatio smiled at her. "Don't practice that expression, Angel. You'll turn into Speed." He walked over to the edge of the pool, and Calleigh, swimming with a bit less power but no less drive than he had, stopped as she passed him. "Cal, Tripp has a possible ID from one of the bars. They think the third victim drank there."

"They suddenly discovered this at 6:30 in the morning?" Calleigh pushed her wet hair back out of her eyes.

"One of the bartenders has been on vacation. He just got back last night and saw the picture we'd left, then remembered now that he didn't call when he got home a few hours ago. He was just getting ready to go to bed. Tripp and I are going to go talk to him."

She swept him with her eyes. "Better put some clothes on first."

"I was planning on it," he said dryly. "See you at CSI, Cal."

"See you then, Handsome. Oh, hell." He halted and turned back, puzzled. "I lost my lap count."

"You were at 19."

"I thought you were talking to Peter and then Tripp."

"I was watching you, too. You were at 19." He headed on inside, and Calleigh followed him with her eyes until he was completely out of sight. Finally, she pushed off again, forcing her distracted body into movement, counting the laps, starting from 19.

(H/C)

Peter prowled the much-admired living room, oblivious to his physical surroundings, restlessly pacing the cage of his thoughts. In a week of exquisitely close observation, he still couldn't find a crack in the relationship. Not that it was perfect, but Horatio and Calleigh somehow managed to disagree without getting violent and to agree without getting weak. It was a revelation. Nothing in his childhood had prepared him for this. With his parents, any disagreement turned into violence, verbal or physical, and agreement only occurred briefly with capitulation. He had run away at age 14, unable to take it any longer, and to this day, his only regret was leaving Calleigh to face it alone, not leaving home. He had left, like his older brother had already left, like Calleigh had left later. It was the only solution to avoiding the pain and disillusionment. It had become the creed of his life. Always leave, never let things go far enough that the thin veneer of happiness peels off a relationship to reveal the ugliness beneath. He had never expected to find one where he could not peek under that thin veneer, could not at least sense the fragile edge. It terrified him. So Peter had again done the one thing he had specialized in from childhood. He had left, even while disgusted at his own weakness. But in another week, when his vacation was over, he would have to return. The job tied him, if nothing else. What would happen when he went back?

His own cell phone rang, and he fished it out and stared at it in surprise. He had very few friends who knew the number, and all of those knew that he was on vacation. His throat tightened up as he saw the name on the caller ID, and he let the phone ring twice more, then forced himself to push the button. "Hello?" As if he didn't know already.

She wasn't buying it and didn't bother identifying herself. "How's your vacation going?"

"Pretty good, Becky. How are things there?"

"Fine. Got a minute?"

He scrambled for an agenda and wasn't even able to think up a satisfactory lie fast enough. "I guess so. Horatio and Calleigh are at work."

"Great. I've been doing some thinking while you've been gone. Peter, we need to talk."

(H/C)

Horatio and Calleigh came into the silent house after another fruitless day of dead-ends. The bartender remembered nothing about the victim besides his presence. Four more people had confessed to homicidal ideation toward Travis Fox, but none had gone beyond thinking it. Trudging, tired steps skidded to a halt just inside the front door. "Peter?" Calleigh called.

"He's not here," Horatio stated. The feeling of an empty house is vastly different from that of an occupied one, regardless of sound.

"That's odd. I know he's explored around Miami a bit while we work, but he knew we'd be home." Rosalind looked from one of her parents to the other and gave an inquiring babble. "Oh, well, he probably took a walk and just got delayed." She headed back for the nursery with Rosalind, and Horatio went into the kitchen. There was a note held to the refrigerator with a magnet, and he took it off, then froze. The details aligned in his mind and dropped into place with a cold, fatal click like a gun hammer.

The note was brief. "Cal, Horatio, I've met a few friends unexpectedly and am going out for the evening. I'll probably be back late. Don't wait up for me." It was the spacing that chilled Horatio, the painfully wide, exaggerated gaps at met a few friends. A flat-out lie, written by someone who wasn't used to lying.

Horatio wheeled around. "Calleigh!" His tone brought her instantly, and she came down the hall with Rosalind only half dressed tucked under one arm.

"What is it, Horatio?"

He passed the note to her, and she read it, then looked back at him, alarmed more by his attitude than the words. She saw nothing strange in them. "The spacing. It's a lie, Cal. He's not out with friends, but I know exactly what he is doing."

"What? What's wrong, Horatio?"

"He's setting himself up as bait so he can take down that killer."

Calleigh's eyes widened. "Why would he do something as idiotic as that?"

"To prove he isn't a coward. Look, I'll explain later, but I've got to find him before she does. Stay here with Rosalind, okay? If it weren't for her, we could divide and conquer, but Alexx and Jonathan are tied up tonight."

Calleigh still didn't follow his reasoning, but she trusted him. "Okay, Horatio. Let me know when you find him."

"I will." He was out the door almost before he finished the words. Rosalind stared after him, then looked back at her mother, puzzled, and gave a questioning sound.

"I don't know, Angel. I don't totally understand him sometimes, either. But he knows what he's doing." Calleigh was sure on that point, at least. She hoped Peter knew what he was doing as well.

(H/C)

Peter sat in the corner of the bar at a table, slowly nursing his beer, only taking tiny sips. His mind was hyperalert, even while his body had a studied, relaxed slouch. Any woman who entered the bar was the object of his immediate attention. The women noticed, too. Two had come over to inquire about that empty seat at the table with him, and he hadn't sprung his prepared pick-up line on either one, remembering what Horatio had said. They were both too tall. He was so busy looking at the women that men escaped his notice entirely, and he nearly jumped out of his chair as the hand seized his shoulder with a painful grasp. He turned, and his protest died unspoken at the expression. Horatio dropped smoothly into that empty seat next to him, and the laser eyes drilled painfully into Peter. He had never seen his brother-in-law truly angry before, much less been the object of it. His throat was suddenly dry, and he fumbled for his beer and took a swallow of it.

Horatio's voice was dripping icicles, sharp, pointed, and deadly. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

And Peter, having already had one uncomfortable conversation earlier today, prepared himself for a worse one.