I am glad to see that there are still readers for this story. It's been a long journey. It's hard to believe that I started 'And Then There Was One' over a year ago now. I hope to be able to post the next chapters regularly. I appreciate those who have stuck with it, and who have taken the time to share their thoughts and generous praise. It has been a true pleasure to share it with you. Cathy.

Chapter 48

Brass stared at the sheet of paper that he held clutched in his hands. His chest felt tight, his lungs constricted, as though he couldn't draw breath. His mind whirled, and he could hear the sound of the blood swishing through his head, as the adrenaline surged and his blood pressure skyrocketed.

He had been going through old receipts of Beth Marchison's. Jim had been impressed with her organizational skills. Everything was in a clearly labeled folder, everything alphabetized, everything broken into subgroups...utilities, household expenses, entertainment. He found it in the group of Visa purchases. He almost overlooked it, not realizing the import of what he had found, until his dark eyes scanned to the bottom.

They had been so close! He and Catherine had been on the right track. The mall was the epicentre. But it wasn't the bank that had been the connection between the women. It wasn't the lingerie store.

Six hundred dollars, the total before tax. Beth Marchison's full name, address and phone number were printed clearly on the top of the bill. For a moment, Brass was transported back to the pleasant backyard of Dorothy Marchison. "Tia is a Maltese," Dorothy Marchison explained with a smile. "She's not really a puppy. She's nine years old now." The smile faltered for a moment. "She was Elizabeth's dog. She had only just gotten her. Tia really was just a puppy then, only a few months old. Stanley and I took her in."

The receipt was from Fins and Fur, the pet store that was in the same corridor of the mall, opposite where the Wells Fargo bank was located. It was dated less than a week before the cocktail waitress' body was found in her own home. Beth Marchison's signature was near the bottom of the receipt, acknowledging the credit card charge and her understanding of the limited health guarantees for her new Maltese puppy. And below her signature...that of the sales clerk.

Brass couldn't make out the name, but the first initial of the first name began with a D. Even to his untrained eye, there was no denying that whoever had signed the purchase agreement was the same individual who had penned the letters that followed the Holiday Murders. The one who had written the letter that Denny Martens had secreted in his home safe. The person who had composed the note to Brass, the one that bore traces of the anti-HIV drug, Videx.

That clear, narrow D had been imprinted on the detective's memory. Dear Detective. The same oversized loop. The duplicate icicle writing that Ronnie had explained to them. "I circled the areas that stand out as the most distinctive, and as you can see, they are identical in each one. The first letter, the D in the salutation, is crisp, thin, with no observable lead-in stroke." Jim didn't need the handwriting analyst to confirm what every nerve and fibre of his being was screaming at him now. Whoever had signed this receipt, had already murdered Jada Miller and Marilyn Hegel, and then killed not only Beth Marchison, but all of those other women. And finally, had taken the lives of the three detectives who had worked the original case.

The surname began with an S but Brass could not decipher it. Something that ended with a y, it seemed. Story, maybe? The killer's initials were D.S. Brass knew what he looked like, and knew where he worked. He glanced at his watch. There was still time to get to the Sunrise Centre Mall before it closed. Jim tucked the .44 Magnum into its holster, and then donned a suit jacket to cover the firearm. His veins sang with the expectation of victory. He was truly on the bastard's trail now.

Brass drove his own car to the mall, not caring that the FBI agents would follow him. He hadn't been forbidden to go shopping, and if they wanted to tail him there, that was fine. On the way, he wondered if the killer would actually be at the store. He imagined the man's face, when he walked in, and the guy knew the gig was up. Jim realized that it was possible that it was the killer's day off. Possible that he didn't even work there any more. It might be necessary to question other employees, at which point his lack of a badge and his I.D. card could be a problem.

His solution was imperfect, and despite the seriousness of the situation, Brass couldn't help grinning as he came out of the costume shop on the mall's upper level. He wondered about the legal technicalities of what he was about to do. Could they charge you with impersonating a police officer if you really were a police officer...albeit a suspended one? The metal badge only had five points, as opposed to the seven of his real badge, but Jim was banking that the average civilian wouldn't be aware of the difference. And the heavy, metal star was convincingly realistic enough, he thought. If it allowed him to pull off the masquerade, it would be worth every penny of the seven dollars he had just spent on it.

The mall was closing in twenty minutes. He didn't have a lot of time. Brass knew that one of the FBI agents was back at the parked Lincoln, while the other wandered the mostly deserted mall, trying to look inconspicuous in his dark suit. The agent hung back, just observing. Jim was tempted to wave at the man, but he didn't want to be a total ass. The guy was just doing his job.

When the detective went into the pet store, the agent took a seat in the corridor between the potted palmetto trees, and picked up a discarded copy of the day's paper, pretending to immerse himself in the news. He looked up briefly when another patron strolled past, then away from the small, dark-haired man disinterestedly.

A young brunette woman was sweeping the floor of the shop when Brass entered. She looked up at him tiredly, and he caught her glance at her watch. Still, she fixed a smile on her face and set aside the broom. "Can I help you, Sir?"

He flashed the badge at her, before slipping it into the front pocket of the jacket. "Captain Jim Brass, Las Vegas Police," he told her. She looked guilty for a moment then her expression cleared. It was funny, he thought, how so many people automatically felt guilty when he introduced himself as a police officer, even if they hadn't done anything wrong. "I'm looking for someone who's an employee here." He extracted the receipt from his inner pocket and showed it to the girl. "Do you know whose signature this is?"

The girl took the paper and studied it for a moment. Shaking her head, she passed it back to him. "No, I don't recognize it."

Brass tried to stave off the disappointment. It could be that the killer no longer worked here. Somewhere though, there would be an employment record. Someone would know him. "How long have you worked here?" Jim asked the girl.

"Three months," she replied.

So, the killer probably hadn't been there during that time frame at least. "Do you have a number where I can get ahold of the manager or the owner?" he asked hopefully. "This is urgent."

"Mr. Hayter is in the back doing some paperwork," she replied. "He's the owner. I can get him if you like."

So, the owner's name was Hayter. Not something that began with an S. That would rule him out as a suspect. Now, hopefully the store had not changed hands recently, and Hayter would have been there at the time the killer was, and could finally tell Jim the identity of the man that he sought.

Moments after the brunette disappeared towards the back of the store, she returned with a middle-aged, portly, red-haired man in tow. He was about Jim's height but with a fleshier build. Hayter certainly didn't match Gladys' physical description of the suspect who had broken into Elliott Keeth's apartment.

"I'm Phil Hayter, Officer, how can I help you?" Hayter seemed to have accepted the young woman's identification of Brass as a policeman.

"I'm looking for one of your employees. Possibly a former employee. Have you owned the business for long, Mr. Hayter?"

"Almost twelve years," the other man told him. "This used to be a hair salon, but it went out of business, and when the lease came up I relocated from downtown," he explained. "Is one of my people in trouble? I can't imagine that."

The brunette went back to her sweeping, though Brass could see that she stayed within earshot, curious as to who the detective was seeking and why. Jim gave Hayter the receipt for Beth Marchison's Maltese puppy. "Do you recognize the signature of the person who sold this dog?"

"Wow, this is an old one," the other man remarked. "We're all computerized now, sales receipts come off the printer." He checked the date, and whistled. Then, narrowing his hazel eyes, he brought the paper closer to his face. "Left my glasses back on the desk," he sighed. "Yeah, I think I know who signed this. He hasn't worked here in years though. Dean. Now what was his last name again? Oh yeah, Sturney."

Dean Sturney. Brass felt the gooseflesh ripple across the surface of his skin. He had a name. After all this time, after all the dead ends...he now knew who his adversary was. "Do you have an address for Sturney?" he inquired. "Social security number?"

"He was here before we joined the electronic age," Hayter mused, "otherwise I could just type his name into the computer. But I do still have some paperwork in the back in the filing cabinet. I can take a look for you."

Brass sighed with relief. Hayter hadn't refused to give his assistance, or asked for a warrant. He followed the older man back behind the cash register, through a narrow door to a cramped, windowless room. As the business owner pawed through disorganized sheafs of papers that could have benefited from the late Beth Marchison's skills, he turned his head and glanced back over his beefy shoulder at the detective.

"So why are you looking for Dean? You know, I always thought he was an odd duck. Did his job well enough. He was always pushing the puppies, and that's always a good profit. He loved to set up the pen and get the pups out playing in it. Sometimes I used to think he just did it because it always attracted the pretty girls," Hayter chuckled. "Women can't resist a tiny, cuddly bundle of fluff. Put the pups on display and instead of just walking by, people stop at the store."

Brass could envision the women. Miller. Hegel. Marchison. In the mall on other business...Miller here to purchase lingerie, Hegel and Marchison doing business with Wells Fargo. All of them entering and exiting the Sunrise Centre Mall through the back entrance. All of them passing by the pet store. Drawn by the puppies that cavorted in their wire pen at the front of the store. Pausing to look, or to stroke their silky fur, while soft, pink tongues lapped against their skin. Just as Catherine had been drawn to them the other day.

And watching the women...Sturney. Selecting from among the ones who took his bait, those who would become his victims. Perhaps he had chatted with them. Had they recognized him, later, when he had raped and then killed them?

He'd managed to convince Beth Marchison to buy one of the pups. Cleverly getting her home address. Not needing to stalk or follow her, but able to attack her at his leisure. In what should have been the safety of her own home. She had had no idea, as she had filled out the purchase agreement, what kind of monster she was dealing with. Not knowing that her hopeful purchase had sealed her fate.

"I don't encourage impulse buys when it comes to cats and dogs," Hayter defended, "that's a long term committment that needs a lot of thought. But if it gets people in the shop, makes them decide that even if they don't have the lifestyle for a dog they might like a bird or a fish, then hey it's all good."

"You say he was an odd duck," Brass said. "What do you mean, exactly?"

"Well, he was a really keep to himself kind of guy. I hesitated to even hire him in the first place, because I like my people to be...people-people, I guess you'd say. And there was a kind of coldness about him. But he was a bright guy, and pretty knowledgeable about animals and had a good business sense. And I found out that he could turn on the charm with the customers, when he wanted to.

"I don't know why he took a job here, really," Hayter continued. "He mentioned one time that he had some money. Some insurance settlement. His mom died in a fire or something. It was the only time I ever heard him say something that was personal. I got the feeling that he didn't really need to work, you know what I mean? Or that he had enough he could've opened his own business if he'd had the ambition.

"One thing that stood out...he always refused to work the holidays. Even for time and a half. Wouldn't even consider it, made it really clear the first time I asked him if he'd do a shift on Easter for me. It wasn't a big deal, there were always students eager to get the extra money. It just struck me as strange, because he never talked about any family, and he wasn't the religious type, and those are the only two reasons I can think of that someone wouldn't want to work the holidays. And it wasn't just the stat holidays, it was any of them. Hallowe'en even."

Jada Miller, killed around Labor Day. Marilyn Hegel, abducted on Hallowe'en and discovered murdered not long afterwards. Beth Marchison, found dead in her home the day after Thanksgiving. Brass' blood ran cold.

"And he seemed really...angry...that I'd even brought it up. Nothing obvious or insubordinate. It just made me think that somewhere underneath all that cool, Sturney could have a really bad temper." Hayter looked chagrined for a moment. "To tell the truth, he made me kind of nervous that day, though it's hard to say why. But it was quickly forgotten, and like I said it wasn't a big deal, I had enough other employees to work the holidays." Phil Hayter looked curiously at the detective. "It's funny, I haven't thought about Dean Sturney in years. And now I can remember him so clearly."

"What did Sturney look like?" Brass asked, though he already knew the answer.

"Not very tall, bit below average. Bit shorter than me." He eyed the detective, judging them to be about the same height. "Or you. Good build. You could tell he worked out. Dark hair. Really pale blue eyes. They were kinda striking. Not what you'd call a good lookin' guy or anything, but not a dog either." Hayter laughed. "No pun intended."

Gladys hadn't mentioned seeing the burglar's eyes. Except for the build, Sturney sounded like the same man though. Could his current gauntness have to do with his being HIV positive?

"Here we go. This is the information I had on file," Hayter explained. "Whether or not it's current, I have no idea. Like I said, he hasn't worked here in years. Several years, really. I guess the social security number isn't gonna change though." He pulled the sheet from the drawer. "You want a photocopy?" he asked the detective agreeably.

"That'd be great," Brass told him appreciatively.

"So, I guess you're not gonna tell me why you're looking for Dean, huh?" Hayter smiled knowingly, as he fed the page into the fax machine, which whirred to life, and created a duplicate.

"I can't," Jim smiled back. "Not right now. But I will say that your help has been invaluable."

"Well, I'm happy to do anything I can do for Las Vegas' finest," Phil Hayter said sincerely.

It was time to lock up the store, and as Brass exited, the pet shop owner slid closed the big glass doors behind him. Tucked safely in his breast pocket was the information that would help him locate a serial killer, and put a murderous spree to an end for once and for all. Brass had committed to memory the last known address of Dean Sturney. An apartment just a few blocks away from the mall.

Jim couldn't wait any longer to confront Sturney. He was so close to resolving this case, to putting an end to the horror, and to getting his life back on track. It would mean that the FBI agents would follow him to Sturney's apartment. They wouldn't have any idea what the disgraced detective was doing there though, and so they were unlikely to interfere. By the time he brought Sturney out, it wouldn't matter anymore. Starting up the sedan's engine, Brass pulled out of the now secluded parking lot, watching in the rearview mirror as the black Lincoln did the same just moments later. The bulge of the metal at his waistband was comforting. His insurance that things would go his way.

The apartment was a lowrise, a block of mid-priced units that formed a square around an outdoor pool. Brass was able to walk up to the third floor, to apartment 3-G, to the last known address that Phil Hayter had had for his former employee, Dean Allan Sturney. Keeping one hand near his right hip, close to the gun, he raised his other and knocked.

The door was opened by an attractive, fortyish black woman. She was wearing silk pajamas, obviously readying for bed, even though it was only just past nine. "Yes?" she asked with a dazzling smile.

"Captain Jim Brass, Las Vegas Police. Ma'am, I'm looking for a Dean Sturney." Sturney wasn't here, Brass knew automatically. And probably hadn't been for some time.

"I'm sorry, you have the wrong apartment," she told him politely.

"I'm sorry to have bothered you," the detective said. "May I ask how long you've lived here?"

"Almost four years," she replied evenly.

Jim thanked her for her time. His steps, as he came back down the stairs, were heavy. Had he honestly expected that Sturney would still be there? That he could just knock on the door and take him into custody and this nightmare would be over that easily? If he hadn't been under suspension, Brass could have called into the station, and had someone run the information Hayter had given him. Determined whether or not Sturney was even listed as being in the Clark County area. But he didn't have those resources right now.

What was his next move? Where to go from here? Jim had to find a way to get a current address for Sturney. Before the killer knew that the detective was on to him. There was one possibility, but he would have to go back to the loft. So, with the surveillance team in tow, Brass went back to his own apartment.

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

"Fontaine." The FBI agent brought the cell phone to his ear and listened. "He did? Yes, I'm sure it means something, but I don't know just what." Another pause. "Make sure he stays there. If he tries to leave, I want you to intercept. Bring him in. Otherwise, just sit tight. Thanks, and good work."

Fontaine returned the phone to his pocket, his grey-eyed gaze meeting the serene sapphire one of Catherine Willows. He regarded her thoughtfully. "Your Captain just took a little trip to the mall," he told her. "The Sunrise Centre Mall." He watched her eyes widen, before she quickly veiled them again. "That's interesting, isn't it?"

"Is it?" Catherine smiled back at him. What are you up to, Jim? she wondered.

"You and he were pursuing the lead about the bank, that's how we got onto Harrison. You don't think...after the sheriff ordered him not to be involved in this investigation in any way...that Captain Brass is still poking around on his own, do you?" Fontaine gave a thin smile.

Catherine shrugged her slender shoulders. "Maybe he just went shopping," she replied coyly.

"Well, he did make a short stop at a costume shop, and then a longer one at the mall's pet store," Fontaine told her. "Can you think of any reason he might do that?" His tone was light, but there was a tension in his tall frame.

"No," Catherine answered guilelessly. "Though the mayor's costume ball is next month, I believe. And I think Brass might have mentioned something about getting a goldfish."

Fontaine's eyes narrowed. "Just in case there's any confusion about where your loyalties lie, let me remind you. You aren't doing yourself...or Captain Brass...any favours if you withhold any information that might be crucial to the resolution of this case. I understand that you might not agree with everything that has happened here in the last twelve hours. But we both want the same thing. To keep Captain Brass alive, and to apprehend this killer who has eluded us for so long. The only way we're going to do that, is to work together.

"If you know anything, anything that could help this investigation...and you keep it from me...there could be repercussions beyond whatever you might have anticipated. And I'm not talking about people's careers here...I'm not making any threats, I don't give a damn about petty office politics...I'm talking about people's lives. Believe me, I can imagine how you feel. How you all feel. But I need you to trust me. To work with me here. I honestly believe it's the only chance we have."

Catherine stared at Fontaine. While his features were as impassive as ever, she could hear the sincerity in his impassioned words. There was something compelling about the tall, dignified Special Agent. Finally, her gaze softened and the resentment eased from her features. "I don't know what Jim is up to," she told him truthfully.

Fontaine sighed. "I just hope he's not planning to try anything stupid."

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

Access denied.

Brass had expected as much. His password to get onto the LVPDs computer system was invalid, temporarily suspended, along with the other trappings of his career. He hunched over the keyboard and typed in another succession of numbers and letters, thinking of Elliott Keeth as he did so.

Keeth, with his stubborn, combatitive nature, who was often finding himself on the outs with his superiors. It had been Elliott Keeth who had mischeviously shared a secret with his partner Jim Brass several years ago. The other cop had shown Brass a trick he had learned, with the help of a friend who was a reformed computer hacker. A way to create two passwords to access the LVPD's system. The second one, created using the first, hidden and buried, difficult to detect unless someone specifically knew to look for it.

Password accepted.

Brass was in. It took him only a few minutes to enter Dean Sturney's name. And to discover that the former pet store employee had recently renewed his Nevada driver's license. He was living here, in Las Vegas. At an address on a quiet, residential street of detached homes, out near McCarran International Airport.

There was a photograph. Brass felt a tightness in his chest as he stared at the grainy photo. Beneath a shock of thick, dark hair, Sturney's unusually pale blue eyes seemed to stare a challenge back at him. The man's cheekbones, and the collar bones at the neckline of his open-necked golf shirt, were prominent. Dean Allan Sturney. Brass felt a mixture of hatred and rage. He took a deep breath. He would have to contain his emotions. This one was personal, no way around it, but Jim had to make sure he was in control.

Brass knew that the right thing to do would be to notify P.D. To turn over everything he had discovered. To let the Feds take over. It didn't matter who apprehended Sturney, as long as the serial killer was off the streets. But he couldn't do that. Not knowing that Sturney was responsible not only for the murders of several women, but for the deaths of three fellow detectives. Two of them, friends of Jim's. All of them men he had liked and respected. Men whom the job had brought closer in a way that most people could ever know or understand. He owed it to them to get this guy himself.

Sturney had reached across time and space and set down a challenge. He was going to be coming for Jim Brass. But Jim was going to get him first. And then, if Mobley or Fontaine wanted to strip him of his stripes permanently...if they wanted to throw him in the slammer for obstruction of justice...so be it. That wasn't what the detective wanted, of course. He wanted his job and his freedom. He wanted to be able to fix things with Cecilia. To build a life with her, a real life that was more than the mere act of existence that had been his circumstance for longer than he could remember.

But he wouldn't...couldn't...back off now. Not when he was so close to the end. No matter what.

Jim left an envelope for Catherine on his desk. It contained the information about Sturney. Just an insurance policy, in case, somehow, Sturney bested him. He wouldn't take the killer's identity to his grave.

The detective stood at his window for a moment, looking out at the familiar city view. Somewhere in the darkness above were the glittering lights of stars, he knew, though they were always obscured by the megawatt output of the city itself. Unable to compete with the blinding, man-made brilliance.

Brass turned, and surveyed his livingroom. Everything was familiar and comforting. His furniture and those few personal items he had out on display. His collection of music. Everything in its place. Everything his. Everything a little part of him in some way or another. There was an electricity in the air. After tonight, he knew his life would be forever changed. He would return a new man, with a new lease on life. One with new hope and new dreams to pursue.

Or...Jim Brass wouldn't return at all. And those hopes and dreams would die with him.