He held the phone to his ear, using his other hand to click between emails on the laptop in front of him. His eyes skimmed briefly over the text on the screen. Then, he took his hand away from the laptop's track pad and pinched the bridge of his nose as he continued to listen to the voice on the other end of the line.

"So the layover's probably going to be another five hours, or at least until the storm blows over. That's what they told me." The girl groaned loudly. "Five hours!"

"See, this is why you don't fly," Detective Ledford said, knowing his grin was lost through the phone call. "You don't get accepted into prestigious music schools and you don't fly to Europe."

"Oh, okay," the voice on the other end replied with just as much wit. "You're right. I should stay in Krimson City and handcuff people all day."

"Hey. There's more to my work than that."

"Right, I forgot shouting 'put your hands up!'"

"Best part of the job." Detective Ledford's eyes flicked up when he saw movement at his open door. He saw a familiar face watching him. Arms crossed, Detective Castellanos lifted his eyebrows to relay the silent question, "You busy?"

Lowering his eyes, Ledford said, "Yeah, sorry bunny. I gotta go. Stay safe, and text me when you're about to board, okay?"

"Aren't we too old for nicknames?" came the groaned response. "Anyway, will do. Bye, Jackie."

"Bye." Ledford laid the phone down next to his laptop and resumed perusing through his emails. Slowly, the unread counter decreased. "How long were you standing there, Seb?"

"Since last Wednesday."

Ledford's next breath came out in a heavy huff. "That short? Shoulda kept you waiting a bit longer." He glanced up as Sebastian stepped in and sat in the spare computer chair. The office beyond the door was completely empty. The last officers had gone home hours ago. It was an unfortunately common occurrence that the two men here—the two work bees of the KCPD—remained long after the department had become a ghost town.

"Who's calling this late?"

"Ah, my lovely sis. She's on her way to France—stuck at the airport because of a thunderstorm, so she called me to pass a bit of time." That playful grin returned to the detective's face as he shook his head and added, "Only calls when she wants something from me. So selfish." He suddenly yawned and leaned back in his chair. "And damn, didn't realize it was midnight already!"

"Yup," Sebastian agreed grimly.

"Thinking about calling it a night?"

"I'm getting about ready to close up shop." Sebastian glanced out towards the barren office. "Figured I'd stop by—see if you were fixing to go too."

"Ah man," Ledford groaned, leaning on both elbows. He covered his face with both hands, and then ran them through his hair. "I goddamn wish. But at this rate, I'll be lucky to have a minute to nap under my desk."

"Don't tell me—another one?"

"Yeah, another one," Ledford sighed. "Missing. No body yet, but it'll turn up sooner or later. They always do." With a quick push, he slapped his laptop shut. Bending to the side, Ledford opened a cabinet in his desk and pulled out a fat folder that was starting to tear at the crease. He plunked it down on the tabletop and jabbed a finger onto it. "This isn't coincidence, Seb. It's a serial killer."

"Careful, Jackson," Sebastian replied. "Guys around here don't like throwing around that word."

"And why would they?" Ledford said. "It's fine when talking about a movie or show—not so much when describing someone in your own neighborhood. But we're going to have to start using that word at the next press conference. At least before the tabloids and clickbaits start using it first." He sighed and opened the folder, taking out the topmost stack of clipped-together papers. "But something's different this time."

"Yeah?"

"Girl that went missing a few days ago wasn't any kind of model—not like the others. She was a local singer—is," he quickly corrected. "Death hasn't been confirmed." But it's only a matter of time.

Sebastian shrugged. "There's only so many models in Krimson City," he said. "Could be that whoever it is had to branch out a bit."

"That's what Radley said too," Ledford said. "But this change, even if it's only subtle, is still a change. So far, these murders have been methodical. For it to suddenly go off the track… I don't know. It leaves a real bad taste in my mouth." Suddenly, he let out a tired laugh. "Whatever, man. This isn't your case—you shouldn't have to worry about this. Go home, Seb."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. You've got a family waiting." Ledford whisked the paper clip off of the papers and began flipping through them. "I've got a preliminary report to write up with what I have here so far, and then we're starting the search first thing in the morning. This shop ain't ever closing up."

"All right. Best of luck." Sebastian stood up. He took a step and paused when he spotted something on the floor. For a second, he disappeared behind the desk as he stooped over and then came back up with something in his hand. It was a metal nameplate. "How many times you gonna knock this over and make me pick it up for you?" He threw the plate onto Ledford's desk. The engraved words DET. JACKSON LEDFORD gleamed under the office's luminescent lights.

"Wait 'til you realize I'm doing it on purpose."

"I'll kick your ass."

Ledford chuckled. "Alright, get out of here already. Hey, tell Myra and Lily I said hi."

"Will do. Have a good night, Jackson."

When the door at the far end of the office closed, a heavy silence fell over the empty department. Ledford let out an exhausted puff of air and pushed his chair away from his desk. He leaned back, letting out a grunt as he stretched. Turning his head, Ledford spied the framed photographs sitting on the nearby shelf.

There was a picture of Mom and Dad—God rest their souls. Him and his little bunny, taken about two years ago on the beach. Then there was the picture that had been snapped right after he and Sebastian had finished last year's Warrior Dash—both of them were covered in mud, looking absolutely dog-tired but triumphant with their medals. And the mud caking the two of them sure hid the beating and bruising well. The far left photo was a gag gift that a few officers in the department had gotten together to get him a few Christmases ago. It was a photograph of his favorite actress. In the corner, there was a message written with marker that said "To my sexy boy Jackson" with an obviously faked signature. She was leaning on something—a wall or another person, but that thing had been erased and Ledford had been poorly photoshopped in.

Ledford tore his eyes away. Quit stalling, he told himself. You got shit to do.

There were two things he had gotten for her to commemorate the one-year anniversary of rebirth. Celestina was shocked and undoubtedly pleased when she saw the beautiful, glistening Steinway & Sons in the corner of the studio space. With a hand over her chest, she walked over to it and delicately ran her fingertips along the lid prop. Then she stepped over to the keys and played a chord. The notes reverberated richly from within the grand piano.

"Oh, this…" Her eyes flickered over to the man watching her. "Stefano, these aren't cheap!"

"Don't you worry, amore mio. I've a friend who owed me a favor," Stefano replied nonchalantly, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. He looked up and spotted Celestina gazing back at him, her eyes afire. How he loved it when his muse gave him that sultry look.

She let out a slow sigh. It played from between her lips like a moan. "Oh, you are so good at making me ache for you." She pressed up against him, wrapping her arms delicately around his neck. Lifting her face, she brought her lips close, expecting a sweet, sensual response.

Stefano denied it from her, and he reveled in it. He brought his hand up and pressed a thumb gently over her soft lips. "Not," he told her quietly. Celestina's eyes opened. He ran his thumb down, pulling her lower lip with it before letting it fall back in place. "Yet." He flipped his hand over and ran the back of his fingers down her cheek. "Amore mio, you know I hated seeing you so upset last week. You're right—she wasn't as beautiful or talented as you. But I've made such good use of her."

He saw Celestina's lips part. And then she smiled—a horrible, wicked smile that was breathtaking. "Stefano, you didn't…?"

"My latest creation," he said. "Inspired by you, for you. Would you like to see?"

"Always."

And he was excited to show her—oh, the refreshing excitement! What was art if it was not admired? If it did not receive the recognition, the veneration, it deserved? His eye focused on her like a camera every time he showed her a new masterpiece—drinking in every brushstroke of delight that colored her face like an alcoholic downing every drop. Even with one gone, one facet of his sight obliterated, he saw her so clearly. What weight did the words of critics have against a true connoisseur? What was the bleating of sheep against the sole human voice?

'Silence' was the name he bestowed upon this piece, and it made Celestina laugh so euphorically. The composition stood on tiptoe like a ballerina, one leg straight while the other was slightly angled backwards. Thin rods piercing the flesh and cords suspended from the ceiling supported it. Its head had been removed, and instead of a grisly stump, a bouquet of flowers sprouted from its shoulders instead. Wound around its neck like a choker was a gold ribbon. It held its head daintily in its hands, with one reaching around to cover its mouth. From its back, stabbed into the shoulder blades, were mirror shards that rose up in the formation of wings. The shards, held up by thin, polyester strings, reflected the beams of light focused on the piece.

It was the first one he had sculpted, not simply posed, and it was finer than any marble statue. And all the while he had molded this masterpiece, he was inspirited by the thought of his beautiful Celestina. The anticipation of her reaction had guided his hands. And he was doubly rewarded.

No words came from her—only the white clouds of her breath. Ah, she was speechless! Rightly so!

Stefano knew he would have never reached this height without her—this pinnacle. No, it was not a peak. There was nowhere else to go from here but up. And this muse of his—like a timeless moment caught in a photograph, he wanted her forever.

The camera he used to capture her was a question.

This year's gala, as always, was extravagant. Strings of light ran across the garden, forming a loose screen of star-like canopy over the guests. Round garden tables dotted the grass, each holding a single lit candle. Voices bubbled up over the cool evening air, dancing just below the notes of a live band.

She had said her hello's and given her polite small talk to the mayor. And he did that thing—took her hand and kissed it a little too enthusiastically like he imagined it another part of her body.

There was one reason and one reason only she had come to this little fickle gathering. Everyone here had something to show off—presence, mostly. The very fact that one was here meant something. The very fact that one wasn't here meant something even greater.

But tonight, Celestina had something other than her appearance to subtly gloat. And she did so by holding her champagne flute in her left hand, tilting her head back so she would hold it especially high. Under the garden lights, the diamond twinkled.

Then, finally, someone was bright enough to notice. It was an old friend of hers—Clarissa Denevor, a fashion designer who was married to a senator. "Ah, Cellie!" Clarissa said, her smile minimized by her plastic surgery-stiffened face. "Why didn't you say anything? Who's the lucky man?"

"Oh." Celestina let her eyes lower bashfully. She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and continued, "I met him about a year ago. Turns out we had so much in common. It just sparked, you know? Like a wildfire."

"Is he well-known?"

"In certain circles, yes."

"Cellie!" Clarissa was never one to let any shred of juicy gossip go. "Don't you tease! Who is he?"

"I'm not sure his name would be familiar to you," Celestina sighed, swirling her flute in lazy circles. She watched the diamond on her finger glimmer in the light. "But if you want to know his name, just wait a few days. I'm sure the announcement will be all over the city."

Her eyes flickered up and caught the mayor talking with a woman a short distance away. She couldn't catch their words, but he looked utterly charmed by her. Who wouldn't? She was pretty with a short, blonde pixie cut that curled out from under her ears. Celestina pursed her lips together before saying, "Clarissa, dear, who is that over there? With the mayor?"

"Her?" Clarissa's gaze swept across the garden. "Oh, I've heard a little about her. Some up and coming little darling. Didn't get much attention until her appearance on Broadway a few months ago." She turned back to Celestina. "Maybe you ought to show her the ropes? Let her learn from the best?"

Celestina let herself blush from underneath her powdered cheeks. "Stop it!" she breathed. "Although…" She looked back over. "She does have that aura about her, doesn't she? That little dear could steal the spotlight from anyone she wanted." Suddenly, her face brightened with a smile. "Clarissa dear, I'm afraid I'm going to have to leave you for a moment. I'd like to go over there and say hello."

\ * \

With great pleasure

CELESTINA AMONTE

and

STEFANO VALENTINI

cordially invite you to join in celebrating their union

Saturday, June 4, 2007

at two thirty in the afternoon

Rosenberg Chapel—Krimson City, CA

Reception dinner to follow at the Zeratin Hotel