Wow…it's been a long time (cringe). Sorry guys, I didn't mean it, I swear! Ok, well you're not here to listen to my lame excuses, so I won't give you any…I'm not totally happy with this chapter, I didn't quite feel it like it did the previous two…oh well, who cares, if I don't post soon I'm gonna drive myself crazy so, here you go.

Disclaimer standard stuff you've heard billions of times before boring if you wanna read it so bad go to some other fic, thank you very much

Laterz!

Chapter 2: A Time of Frustration

"…please help us find her. She means the world to us—please, if you see her, help her! Help us!"

Eric Rosavelasquez sighed and turned away from the image of the grief-stricken woman. Captured within a box of plastic and glass, Cassie Belfall was tearfully mourning the loss of her 13-year old daughter, Natalie. Unfortunately for the Belfalls, Natalie was suspected of having been abducted by the Coast Killer. And, throughout his entire reign of terror, no victim of the Coast Killer had ever returned alive.

The media had a field day every time a new CK vic turned up. Eric doubted that a single person in the entire country didn't know of that sick psycho's exploits. Every person in the country, however, did not have Eric's job, and every person in the country was certainly not blessed with all the lovely details of each heinous killing, courtesy of said job.

Eric had lost count of the times he had had to bite back nausea, swallow down bile, and force himself not to acquaint everyone in the room with his lunch whenever he beheld the Coast Killer's handiwork. The world spun when each new murder was described to him, and he felt downright faint when the photos arrived to support the telling. The indisputable proof that a human being would willingly do something like…that…to another person made Eric sick at heart—and to his stomach. He would be perfectly happy living in ignorance of the whole affair, yet such contentment had refused itself as an option to him. Being a math consultant really bites sometimes.

At any rate, Eric was not entirely unhappy with his intimate knowledge of the bastard's antics. Although he would have boycotted chalk for a week if it meant forgoing the graphic visuals, he was more than ready to accept and work with the data available. He had, in fact, done a lot of work with all the known data—enough to lead him to a breakthrough in this case, something nobody else had yet managed.

His discovery had led the FBI excitingly close to an arrest—and yet, at the last instant, CK had disappeared, without the hint of a trace as to where he had gone, or who he might be. Simmering with anger, the disappointed feds had assumed that CK's disappearance meant that he would be lying low for a while, letting his trail get cold, and allowing the world—and the people who wanted to either arrest or shoot him—to forget about him. Yet, as was currently apparent, this line of thinking was dismally flawed.

The Coast Killer—or a damn good copycat—had reappeared…on the west coast.

Eric first received word of this new development about a month ago, not from his job, but from the media. Presumably, this meant that the FBI was no longer interested in his services. But, then again…about two days ago, Eric received a phone call. In this call, he was informed that his presence was wanted out west, in Los Angeles to be precise, to once again aid the Bureau in the hunt for the Coast Killer.

Eric had never been to the west coast before. But something about LA…there was something there, buried beneath the glamour of that faraway city, that had always captured his imagination. It fascinated him to such an extent that he agreed to the hours-long plane ride, the stress of packing, and the all-out frustration of moving himself and his precious instruments to the opposite shore of the US of A. He was willing to set up a temporary base of operations so far away if it meant satisfying the curiosity that was now plaguing him in force. If not for the allure of LA, he might have declined a further hand in the hunt for the Coast Killer.

It didn't really matter right now, though. Curiosity had reared its chaotic head and ensnared him with a glance. He had agreed to the trip, and his plane left tomorrow morning. He and LA had a date with destiny—and Eric Rosavelasquez had never in his life let destiny get the better of him. In fact—

CRASH! With a sharp yelp of shock, Eric nearly jumped out of his skin, leaping up from the couch and hefting the remote as a weapon, ready to give new face implants to whoever had just smashed into his apartment. He decided against crushing a soft rubber numbers pattern into somebody's face, however, when he realized just who it was that had invaded.

Selena Evans, fresh from damn near ripping his door off the hinges, and from actually knocking exactly four picture frames from the walls, one basket from a side table, an umbrella stand from the freakin' floor, and two math awards from a supposedly Selena-proof display case, bounced into the room with enough energy to power all of New York City for 3.47 years.

Selena spotted him instantly, and pounced across the room as he lowered his impromptu weapon with an exasperated grin. Returning his smile, she grabbed him by the arm, turned around, and started hauling him back the way she had come.

"Last night here, cariño, and you know how I hate to waste an excuse to party!"

"Selena, when was the last time you even bothered to find an excuse to party?"

He heard the laughter in her voice as she mulled it over for a second. "Ummm…never. Who cares, let's go!"

Glancing over his shoulder at the damage of Hurricane Selena, he decided that it wasn't too bad, comparatively. He dropped the remote in a pocket of one of the coats that hung next to the door, and calculated how long it would take to repair the damage caused by the erratic woman attached to his arm. Then all thoughts of cleaning a messy house were wiped from his mind as said woman pulled him out the door and locked it behind them. Eric smiled as he let himself forget about LA, if only for the next couple of hours. Selena would not be denied anything, and as they made their way down the stairs ("Elevators are for sissies," she purred in his ear), he knew that every club in town was about to get hit by a storm.