Thirteen months later...
Jennifer Lyle pulled her new running shoes out of their box - a birthday present from her parents - and admired them briefly before carefully placing them back and setting the box aside. Getting them properly laced and fitted would have to wait until tomorrow.
Her window showed her a perfect San Francisco day that practically had her salivating at the idea of a good, long run. She was on a tight schedule today, though, so it was now or never. That was fine with her - her trusty old running shoes would be fine for one more run.
She did pause to look in the mirror, smiling at the new running suit she was wearing. That had been her twin brother Josh's present to her, though she'd had to pick it out herself - Josh had been colorblind since birth. She'd chosen a light purple that she thought perfectly complemented her blue eyes and blonde hair.
Grabbing her phone and earbuds, she dashed out the door. it was exactly as gorgeous outside as it looked - seventy five degrees and barely a cloud to be seen, unusual in late August.
Jennifer briefly considered putting the top down on her convertible, but decided she didn't want to waste the time - parking would be a bitch on a nice day like this. Everyone would be out at Golden Gate Park - at least it was Sunday, so JFK Drive would be closed and traffic would be light.
Surprisingly, she managed to find parking pretty easily, right near the Panhandle. As she worked her way onto the thoroughfare, she spotted several signs painted in Day Glo colors, in the style once popularized by artists like Peter Max and Fillmore West.
The various signs and flyers announced The Festival Of Love, an upcoming festival celebrating the birth of hippie culture in San Francisco. Jennifer knew, despite being some generations removed, that the Park had been the site of several love-ins back in the day - some of which family and family friends had no doubt attended. The mental images conjured by that thought made her laugh out loud as eased herself into her run.
She paced herself as she ran, passing the spot in Redwood Memorial Grove that served as her one-mile marker. A man was standing there with a camcorder, apparently shooting footage of the park. She pretended to ignore him, but he was cute and she decided she'd try and find an excuse to speak with him when she looped back around.
The man had apparently noticed her, too, because he lowered the camera and smiled at her. It added a nice edge to the rush of endorphins as she picked up steam and headed full-tilt into her run.
With any luck, he'd still be there when she got back...
{*****}
Doctor Amanda Collins tossed and turned in her sleep, tangling her body in her bedclothes the same way her mind was tangled in her nightmare. It was the same one she'd had at least a hundred times over the last year - blood on white tiles, then the sensation of drowning as that smear of red suddenly became a veritable flood that pulled her under...
She snapped awake, then, gasping and sputtering even as she somehow managed to draw enough breath to call out. "Alex? Alex?!"
Even if someone had been right there with her, though, they wouldn't have heard her - her throat was so dry and tight that she barely managed a whisper. Switching on her bedside lamp, Amanda climbed out of bed and started walking through the various rooms on the second floor - she didn't even bother fighting the urge to turn on lamps and sound systems as she went.
"Alexandra?" Her voice took on a plaintive note she hated herself for as she stood staring down into her study from the second floor balcony. The huge six-foot-tall painting behind her - a black and white painting of a figure in Victorian garb - seemed to reflect her bleak mood as its subject stared forlornly past her.
The balcony circled the entire apartment, supported by elegant columns painted a robin's egg blue. From her current vantage point, Amanda could look down into her both her study and the loft's living room - both of which were currently unoccupied. The design helped give the impression of almost infinite space - only the bedrooms and bathrooms had actual walls, while everything in the lower level had movable gray mesh screens to give the illusion of privacy.
As Amanda moved toward the stairs, she allowed the familiar view of her study to comfort and steady her. It held not one, but three, computers. The center terminal - her own personal system - was currently dark. The other two - the one set aside for Alex, and one set aside as a spare - currently glowed with shifting fractal patterns that reminded Amanda of Mandelbrot sets.
There was, of course, the expected phone and combination printer/fax/copier, along with the expected working clutter on the desk. The thing that really dominated the study, though, was the wall of large pale oak bookshelves - at nearly eight feet tall, the things were massive, and Amanda had crammed them full to bursting with books, notebooks, and other reference material.
Even the site of her favorite spot in the loft couldn't erase Amanda's anxiety at waking from her nightmare to an empty home, and she started snapping at a red rubber band she'd placed around her wrist. She also started repeating the makeshift mantra the she'd discovered helped to calm her. "George Washington, John Adams, Thomas Jefferson, James Madison..."
She had a photographic memory - always had - but listing the United States presidents in order was still enough of a challenge that it helped focus and calm her. She'd feel even better after she got downstairs, amongst the various pieces of technology that now served as her window to the outside world.
First things first, though. She stepped into the nearby bathroom to retrieve her medication, pausing as she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror. Her already fair skin was paper-white after a year with no real sun to speak of, and the red hair she'd once lavished so much attention on was lifeless and shaggy. The dark circles under her eyes did nothing to offset the pallor or the hair.
A momentary flare of anger at her appearance only added to her anxiety, so she returned to her mantra even as she measured out her usual dose of Xanax. "James Monroe, John Quincy Adams, Andrew Jackson, Martin Van Buren, William Henry Harrison..."
She held onto the pills until she got to the living room downstairs, pouring herself a too-large Cognac to wash them down with. Alex wouldn't have approved at all - neither would Amanda's doctor - but it wasn't as if they were there to stop her.
Taking the snifter with her, she moved into the study and logged into her computer. Opening a web browser, she logged into a chat room she'd discovered during her confinement and started typing.
Anyone on?
Another user responded almost immediately. Lots of us on tonight. You having another panic attack?
No, Amanda replied. Nightmare.
That sucks, the other user responded. You housebound? Six months here...
Thirteen months and counting, Amanda replied. Several others jumped in to start chatting as well, and the lingering anxiety slowly began to abate.
After a few minutes, she felt calm enough to be bored but not calm enough to go back to sleep and risk another round of nightmares. A quick check confirmed that one of her favorite online chess partners - with the tongue-in-cheek screen name Czech Mate - was awake and ready to continue their game.
Your move, he messaged her.
Amanda made her move, which ended up being a rather poor one. Czech Mate couldn't help teasing her about it a bit.
Head's not in the game today, I see. How about we drop the game and meet? In real life - like a date.
Amanda just rolled her eyes as she replied - the exchange was something of a ritual between them. Already told you - I don't date. Not viable relationship material. Quit flirting and move.
A few moves later, Czech Mate had to sign off, so Amanda got up and wandered into the living room to stretch her legs. An expensive antique onyx and marble chess set - an unexpected find during a trip to Turkey years ago - sat out with a game in progress. It was the running match Amanda had with Alex, and she smiled to see that the other woman had finally made a move. Studying the board, Amanda made a countermove of her own before walking on.
Considering that she was no longer able to step beyond its borders, it was fortunate that Amanda loved her home and had spent so much time and energy getting it as close to her mental ideal as possible. It helped make her captivity a little more bearable, and she'd take any help she could get there.
The left wall of the living room had pale wood paneling that matched the hardwood floors, contrasting nicely with the expensive cherry cabinets.
A mix of both abstract and representational sculptures - all high quality - decorated the room. Two couches and several soft chairs in the center of the room picked up the burgundies and maroons in the cherry cabinets, and complemented the wine-colored silk curtain that ran the length of the right wall.
The seating was built with polished blond wood, the lines modern but still graceful, almost feminine. The cushions were rich, plush fabrics - velvet, and damask, and silk. Throw pillows in gold and wine red - some embroidered in complementary colors - were scattered across the two couches.
The Amanda who had lived here a year ago had loved the colors and the elegance and the sensuality of this room - had decorated it with just those things in mind.
The far wall, however, was what really caught the eye and stole the focus. Walking through the front door and into the living area, visitors would expect windows - lots of them - facing out to provide a view of the bay. Instead, the far wall was covered with a large mural in colors that complemented the room - the style wasn't anything immediately recognizable, but it echoed that of many of Amanda's favorite artists.
Amanda, staring at the mural, picked up a small remote from a side table and pressed the center button. The mural began to split into five-inch-wide slats that then turned 180 degrees to allow the expected view of the bay. The light coming in through the windows wasn't especially bright at that hour - it wasn't quite full sunrise yet - but Amanda still shielded her eyes momentarily.
Walking to the windows, she stared out across the bay to see Marin County in the distance as the postcard perfect image of the Golden Gate Bridge hung above it all. It was an unexpectedly lovely view for a prison...
"On a clear day, I can see forever," she half-mumbled, half-sang to herself before trailing off into a bitter laugh.
Situated along the waterfront, Fort Mason Center had been the site of a Spanish garrison during San Francisco's mission days back in the 1700s. In the 1930s, it was converted to an army embarkation depot, processing over a million soldiers over the next four decades.
Then, in the 1970s, Fort Mason was officially converted into a segment of the Golden Gate National Recreation Area. After that, it had swiftly become a haven for the arts and the obligatory cultural junkies that came with them. It held galleries, museums, theaters, bookstores, and coffeehouses - even Greens, a world-renowned vegetarian restaurant.
Tourists and citizens alike loved to stroll along the pier to take in its exceptional view of the bay. Many of them also fished off the piers, and there was always the restored SS Jeremiah O'Brien to tour once fishing lost its appeal.
Doctor Amanda Collins had been one of the very few with the money and good timing to buy up space in one of the only refurbished warehouses where the zoning laws had allowed developers to build residences. It was not lost on her that she'd chosen her home because it sat atop one of the most beautiful, accessible, interesting, and entertaining locations in all of San Francisco.
She hadn't seen any of it in thirteen months.
Finding her snifter empty, she turned away from the view and went to go pour herself another Cognac.
{*****}
Inspector Nikita Mears moved cautiously through the graffitied hallways of an abandoned tenement building. Tense, weapon drawn, she moved with a quiet strength that belied her delicate frame and equally delicate features.
Pretty and petite - though her features were at present largely obscured by safety glasses - Nikita's long brown hair drew most of the attention as it fell down her back against her dark suit jacket. Her partner Owen Elliott - well-muscled and a little stocky - was right beside her, looking equally out of place in his own suit jacket.
Stopping at an intersecting hallway, Nikita stepped out into the open with weapon drawn, her shooting stance picture-perfect. When the corridor proved empty, she moved on, signaling Owen to follow her. He moved just as quickly, taking up a position against the opposite wall.
They both stood there, quiet and still, until a figure leapt from an open doorway a few feet down the hallway. Dropping immediately into a shooting stance, Owen emptied all nine rounds on his semiautomatic into the attacker. Nikita wrinkled her nose at the smell of graphite, then whipped off her safety glasses to fix her partner with a familiar, much-put-upon expression.
They were on a training range, inside a specially-rigged building, and their surprise attacker was a life-size, spring-loaded cutout made of particle board.
Nikita's small frame and long hair made her seem younger than her years at first glance, but her demeanor as she strode forward to examine the target made it perfectly clear that she was Owen's superior in every way that mattered. Owen, for his part, observed her posture and her expression and wondered whether letting his imaginary opponent take him out might have been less painful than the tongue-lashing he was about to get.
"Well," Nikita said after a moment as she poked and prodded at the particle board, "the good news is you're still alive."
Owen, unable to resist teasing her, just gave her his best cocky grin. "You see a downside to that somehow?"
The grin didn't work - not that it ever had, in Owen's experience - and Nikita just sighed as she struggled to stay patient. "I mean it, Owen - this is basic stuff here. Didn't anyone ever teach you to shoot surgically?"
That was all fine and good - for Nikita - but it wasn't how Owen worked. "Let's think about this here-"
"You shredded him," Nikita pointed out, cutting him off.
Owen shrugged. "It was instinct."
"It was poor impulse control," Nikita countered. "Let's start by assuming you didn't shoot an innocent bystander who couldn't hear your warning. Let's say you shot your suspect as he was trying to surrender."
Owen just shrugged again. "Guy jumped out at me. It was a good shoot."
"Maybe," Nikita conceded, "but now you're on leave while IAB sorts it all out. And your dead suspect's wife has now hired a lawyer so she can hit you with a wrongful death suit."
"Fine," Owen said, chuckling. "Why don't you show me how it's done, then?"
As if on cue, another figure popped out into the corridor - a cutout of a man holding a hostage at gunpoint. With a dancer's grace - and a marksman's instinct - she raised her gun and neatly put three rounds into the target's shoulder. Without missing a beat, she jumped right back into her lecture. "Go for the brachial nerve - he drops the weapon, and you read him his Mirandas instead of reading your statement to IAB."
Owen nodded his understanding. Nikita was being a little hardcore about shooting technique, but she had plenty of reason - he'd heard that story himself, and could imagine what went through his partner's head every time she picked up a gun.
It hadn't even been Nikita's mistake. It was the mistake of another female rookie who'd come through the academy with her, and become Nikita's friend and roommate afterward.
They'd bonded over the shared difficulties of being female - and not white - at the academy. They'd had to fight twice as hard for the same respect the male trainees got automatically, and had shouldered that burden together to make it easier - it had helped that they both excelled on the shooting range to a degree that no one could ignore.
After graduation - both of them very near the top of their class - they were each assigned to different veteran officers for continued training. Nikita had been assigned to someone working among the Vietnamese community, due to speaking the language, and her friend had been assigned to someone in the Fillmore district, a rough area with a lot of street crime.
Neither of them had shown any fear or doubt, though. Instead, they'd bet dinner at their favorite restaurant - Hayes Street Grill - on which of them would make detective first.
Then the thing happened that every cop - no matter their beat or department - has nightmares about. Nikita's friend and her partner - one Rudy Tejada - were shortcutting through an alley en route to a domestic disturbance call when someone stepped out of the shadows and trained a gun at Rudy's back.
The assailant had ignored all warnings and requests to drop the gun. It remained pointed and level at Rudy's back, and Nikita's friend had done exactly as she'd been trained to do. She fired, hitting her mark - and discovered that the would-be assailant was just a nine-year-old boy, his tiny frame somehow magnified by a trick of the light.
The gun had been a bright orange plastic toy, impossible to see clearly in the shadows.
The internal investigation had cleared Nikita's friend, but that had done nothing to quell the community outrage over the tragic mistake. Even that might have blown over eventually, but the press had collectively determined that Nikita's friend was guilty and hounded her day and night. Unable to shake the guilt, denied any chance at all to make a fresh start, Nikita's friend had finally quit the force and found employment elsewhere.
The change in employment managed to save the friendship as well, but Nikita had taken the tragic lesson to heart. She trained herself relentlessly to shoot without killing, honing already impressive skills to an almost ridiculous degree. Her father and her uncles had all been cops, and old-school cops at that - 'serve and protect' was the Eleventh Commandment, and ranked right up there with 'thou shalt not kill'.
Admittedly, Nikita found that conviction to be slightly absurd sometimes in the face of the numerous times she'd seen killers go free, but she clung to it all the same. She was also determined to pound at least a little of it into Owen's head - even if he was the worst shot she'd ever seen.
Before the lecture could continue - thereby possibly escalating into an argument - Owen's cell phone rang. Butterfly by Crazytown blared out of the speaker, and Nikita didn't know whether to roll her eyes or smile at the completely smitten look on Owen's face as he answered the call. "Heya, Emily. I've been waiting for you to call. I can't get away for lunch today, so what do you say to dinner tonight or lunch tomorrow?"
Owen wandered off down the hall to get a little privacy while he talked to his girlfriend, and Nikita couldn't resist messing with him when another target popped out of nowhere at the other end of the hall. She landed her usual three shots and just smirked at Owen as he stuck his tongue out at her.
Then Nikita's cell phone went off, and everything but the job was forgotten as she and Owen raced for their unmarked car.
{*****}
Just under four minutes later, they came to a stop in Potrero Hills. Owen's right hand was wrapped around the handhold tightly enough to turn his palm white and leave marks from his fingernails - Nikita, for all her care with firearms, drove like she was in some sort of racing competition whether speed was of the essence or not. She had her iPod blaring, and they both sat there listening to the final notes of the current song as they took in the crime scene.
The crime scene was taped off with the usual yellow tape and SFPD stickers, while SFPD personnel rushed to and fro at their assigned tasks. The coroner's van and other police vehicles had left no room for anyone else to get by.
A small blonde figure in a navy blue suit pushed to the front of the crowd of onlookers, attempting to engage the officer nearest the line of police tape. The young officer seemed to fall for it, right up until the moment he spotted the tiny recorder the blonde was trying to hide in her hand.
Nikita let out a groan. "Fuck. Morelli's already here."
There was history there, Owen was sure of it, but Nikita had remained unusually tight-lipped on the subject and all he could do was tease her about it a bit. "Shoot her in the brachial nerve. She'll drop the recorder."
Nikita sighed, closing her eyes and slowly opening them again. "Don't tempt me."
Jill Morelli - small, blonde, impossibly cute, and possessed of a truly frightening journalist's instinct for news - spotted them immediately and made a beeline for them, meeting them as they reached the tape. "Nikita! Is this victim number three? They're saying it fits the same pattern as the other two."
Nikita didn't even bother correcting Morelli's uninvited use of her first name - more evidence to support Owen's theory of history between them. "I just got here, Jill. And you know I can't comment, anyway."
Morelli tried turning on the winsome smile and puppy dog eyes. "Is there a serial killer stalking San Francisco? The public has a right to know!"
Owen stepped in as Nikita started muttering under her breath. "Like Inspector Mears said, Miss Morelli - we just got here and are not prepared to issue a statement at this time."
He shook his head in disbelief as they finally got beyond Morelli's reach. "Is that idiot trying to start a city-wide panic or something?"
Nikita opted not to reply, instead heading over to a plainclothes cop who was unpacking camera equipment. "Hey, Bernie. Can you grab me some shots of the crowd?"
Bernie - a longtime friend - smiled at her as he nodded. "I can even have them say 'cheese' if you want, Niki."
Owen, looking around, grabbed Nikita's arm, cutting off her conversation with Bernie. "Fuck me. Tasarov's here."
Homicide Chief Ari Tasarov stood at the top of the stairs, conferring with a uniformed officer. A somewhat lanky man with brown hair that was beginning to gray, his easy smile and seemingly relaxed demeanor were deceptive. The man was a bulldog, tenacious to the point of being plain ornery, and was frequently quite angry - though that was to be expected in a job where a ridiculously small percentage of success was something to celebrate and no one was ever truly happy with your results.
Owen and Nikita knew the drill and walked straight over to him. Turning his attention to them, Tasarov began filling them in on the situation. "The landlady found our victim. The front door was open and no one answered the doorbell, so she got worried and went in. She used the phone to call 911 but swears that she didn't touch anything else."
"Robbery gone wrong?" Nikita tossed the idea out there, already knowing it wasn't the right answer. Much as she hated the thought of proving Morelli right about anything, years of instinct and experience told her she was about to confirm the third victim in the chain, officially making this a serial killer investigation.
Tasarov tried the idea on for size, then rejected it the same way Nikita had. "There's no sign of forced entry, and nothing else was disturbed. It's all yours now - I'll handle Morelli."
The last was directed at Nikita with a smirk that told Owen Tasarov had been privy to whatever it was about Morelli that Nikita was refusing to share. Setting the thought aside, Owen joined Nikita as the walked into the apartment, pausing only to pull on latex gloves and shoe covers.
The apartment was small, and neat, and clean. The victim hadn't had much money but had taken pride in the decorating she'd managed on her meager budget - based on the victim's age, this had probably been her first apartment out of college, her first place with no roommates.
Ikea furniture and Pier One knick knacks predominated, though there were a few family heirlooms scattered throughout that didn't quite fit in with everything else. There were also cheap framed prints on the walls - pretty, but nondescript and certainly nothing classic.
A tall white bookcase - more Ikea, probably - dominated one wall. A quick check showed it to be filled with a mix of self help books and some bestseller light reading, with a few old college textbooks thrown in. Nearby, perpendicular to the outside wall, hung a silkscreen print - a bright crimson heart against a black background, in a black frame.
It caught the eye no matter one's place in the room, and everyone seemed to find that just a little unnerving.
A middle-aged woman stood at some nearby windows, face streaked with tears as she stared vacantly through the glass. Nikita approached the very young, very blond cop tasked with keeping an eye on her, who looked so uncomfortable it was hard not to feel sorry for him. "Is that the landlady?"
The cop nodded his confirmation, and Nikita smiled at him. "Who was first on the scene?"
"I was," he replied, then immediately got distracted by Owen walking over to join them both.
"Johnson, huh?" Nikita asked, reading his name off his badge and using it to regain his attention. "What's the first part?"
Johnson looked a little sheepish at the slip in attention. "It's Mike, ma'am."
"Nikita will work just fine, thanks." Nikita smiled to take the sting from her correction. "Did you touch anything, Mike? Pick anything up or open any doors? I'd hate to get all excited about a good set of prints and find out they're yours."
"I didn't," Mike replied. There was an emphasis on the word 'I' that immediately caught Nikita's attention, and she filed it away for later.
She sent Owen over to interview the landlady. It didn't take him long to get her calmed down and talking - for all his cockiness, Owen could be surprisingly good with people.
Nikita went into the kitchen, taking in every detail as she scanned it from ceiling to floor, trying to find anything that might be useful in building a mental image of the victim. Clean dishes sat on a dish rack, and a hodgepodge of pots and pans hung on the wall. A quick inspection of the drawers and cabinets jibed with everything else about the apartment so far - not much money, but an attempt to make the most of what money there was.
The only thing that seemed out of place was the tea kettle, currently on its side in the sink. It was almost upside down, making it difficult to determine if it had been placed there out of habit or knocked over during a struggle.
Squaring her shoulders, Nikita walked into the bathroom to get a look at the victim. Jennifer Lyle - purple jogging suit nowhere to be seen now - lay in her bathtub, naked and bruised. She'd been posed carefully, too, one leg dangling over the side of the tub.
A dying floral arrangement sat in a vase on one side of the tub. Gift bottles of various bath salts, bubble baths, and bath oils cluttered the back edge of the tub, along with several small candles. Those candles had all burned down to nothing, and Nikita wondered if the killer had been the one to light them.
An expensive Danish mesh sponge sitting by the vase confirmed Nikita's initial read of the room - Jennifer Lyle had loved pampering herself, had loved spending time in that bathroom.
The coroner - one Frank Able - was just completing his examination of Jennifer's body, noting down the reading off a thermometer. He nodded in quiet greeting as he spotted Nikita.
It was Nikita who broke the silence in the room, squatting down beside Frank to get a better look at the body and the tub. "Got a time of death for me, Frank?"
Frank looked at the thermometer again. "I'd say about eight hours, give or take."
"I'm seeing ligature marks around the neck," Nikita added, "and petechial hemorrhaging in the eyes. Was she strangled?"
"Just like the other two," Frank confirmed, and his words hung heavy in the air of the small bathroom.
A serial killer was indeed at work in San Francisco. The kind of man who taunted legions of law enforcement agents - from beat cops all the way to FBI agents - with their seeming invisibility. The kind of man who murdered deliberately, intelligently, and with absolutely no humanity.
The majority of them, it seemed, hailed from America, and San Francisco - despite being named after the famously peaceful St. Francis of Assisi - certainly had its fair share.
"All right if I move her now, Inspector?" Frank's voice broke into Nikita's thoughts.
"Yeah," Nikita replied, giving the body one last glance. "Just... be nice to her."
Resisting the urge to cross herself or utter a prayer - every woman, even a cop, lived in fear of the end Jennifer Lyle had met - she left the bathroom to go look for Mike Johnson. He was still keeping an eye on the landlady, and looked even more worried and anxious than he had earlier.
Nikita eyed him, trying to figure out what was off. "You were the first one here, right, Mike?"
His simple 'yeah' felt a little evasive to Nikita, so she pressed on. "Are you sure you didn't touch anything?"
That netted only another evasive non-answer from Mike, so she pushed again. This time, though, she tossed in a smile and added a cajoling note to her voice. "It's okay if you did - as long as you tell me about it so we can account for it."
Agitation flickered across his face as he glanced over to the rec silkscreen heart and then back to Nikita. "There was some kind of stocking tied around the victim's neck when I found her. I don't know what happened to it..."
Nikita nodded, as if that was just fine. "Who was here before the CSIs? I'll check with them and make sure it got tagged into evidence."
"Just Captain Tasarov," Mike said after thinking a moment.
Forcing a relieved smile to cover a sudden surge of irritation, Nikita patted Mike on the arm. "Oh, that's okay, then. I'll talk to him. Thanks, Mike."
{*****}
Nikita burst into Ari Tasarov's office with a full head of steam, having had plenty of time to work herself up on the trip back to the station. "Why the hell did you remove evidence from my crime scene?!"
Tasarov was listening to an online interview that he was apparently streaming from one of the local news networks. He waved her into a seat while simultaneously gesturing for silence. "I'm listening to this."
Nikita's anger only grew as she recognized Jill Morelli's voice, positing her serial killer theory during an interview with one of the local news networks. (Never mind that Morelli was in fact correct.) "I'm just really worried - and I think we all should be. We have a potential serial killer in the city, and with the Festival Of Love about to start, who knows what could happen."
The interviewer asked the obligatory useless questions in response, somehow managing to create a perfect platform for Morelli's parting shot. "The police won't tell us anything, and I can only wonder - is that because they just can't tell us yet without harming their investigation, or is it that they don't even have any leads to share?"
Tasarov mercifully ended the clip before Nikita ground her teeth down to the gumline - but it was still a close call. It only added fuel to Nikita's current fire. "God, I hate that woman."
Tasarov didn't even bother to hide the glint of amusement in his eyes. "Then perhaps you shouldn't have slept with her."
Ignoring the jibe, Nikita launched right back into her tirade. "You took evidence from my crime scene."
Tasarov didn't immediately reply, instead letting Nikita linger in silence as he picked up an electronic cigarette and inhaled deeply. It was the only concession he was willing to make to the building's anti-smoking laws - and to Nikita's constant fussing about his habit - and it was also a convenient way to jibe back at Nikita.
The mutual respect between them elevated their constant jibing at each from something potentially toxic and harmful to merely an eccentric way of displaying a long-held affection for each other. It also provided a handy way for both of them to vent a little.
Still, the long pause as Tasarov took a few more puffs from his electronic cigarette had less to do with his usual teasing and more to do with doing some serious weighing of his words. Nikita, sensing this, closed the door before moving back to the desk. "Talk to me, Tasarov."
"Someone in this department can't keep their mouth shut," he said simply after a moment. "I still don't know who that someone is."
Nikita walked around to perch on the edge of his desk. "And that stocking?"
Tasarov rolled his eyes. "I tagged the damn stocking into evidence so we could keep it quiet - it'll get processed with everything else we collected. Let the damn thing go."
They both knew it wasn't just about the stocking, though - at least, not completely - but it was Nikita who voiced that fact. "Look, am I in charge of this investigation or not? I mean, really and truly. Am I?"
Tasarov tool another drag off his cigarette. "Of course you are."
"Good," Nikita shot back. "Then maybe I should be the one deciding what evidence to sequester."
Sitting back and suppressing a chuckle, Tasarov took the bait. "Tell me, Inspector, what evidence from this case do you believe we should sequester?"
Nikita grinned at him, knowing her point had been made. "The stocking that was found around the victim's neck - sir."
Tasarov grinned right back at her. "You're one pushy broad, Mears."
"And you watch too many old movies," Nikita shot back, though without any real heat. "But I'll take that otherwise sexist remark as a compliment."
He waved her off toward the office door, then realized at the last second that he'd forgotten one final and very important thing. "No one has said serial killer, Mears - you understand me?"
Nikita nodded as she stepped out into the bullpen, and Tasarov took a few more puffs off his cigarette as he tried to figure out how the hell he was going to keep this from blowing up in all their faces.