It was just as well that Nikita got what sleep she could. She got Amanda Collins' voicemail shortly after arriving at the precinct, and spent a good few minutes waffling over how to respond - a quick conference with Owen confirmed that he, too, felt they needed help from someone who knew serial killers, no matter what Tasarov was telling them, and agreed that Amanda Collins was worth the risk as long as they played it carefully.

Collins had agreed to see them right away when Nikita called her back, and so they'd headed right over. Nikita had been lamenting the sad lack of any chance to get herself some caffeine, but the sudden change in Amanda Collins once they got to the loft was more bracing than even the strongest black tea could possibly have been.

Alex Udinov had answered the door just like yesterday, greeting them warmly and seemingly understandably smug about having gotten Amanda to help them exactly the way she'd said she would. The woman who met them in the living room, however, bore strikingly little resemblance to the woman that Nikita and Owen had met yesterday.

Amanda Collins was still pale and a bit nervous - at least, that's what Nikita's years of experience reading body language told her - but she was decidedly not in the same scattered, agitated state of mind she'd been in during that previous meeting. She wore makeup today, and her hair had been neatly tucked into a simple twist, and she'd dressed for what she clearly considered a business meeting.

Someone had set out tea and coffee and breakfast pastries for them all, and Nikita was frankly quite glad for the momentary diversion of everyone's attention. It wasn't so much the button-down shirt and slacks that were distracting her - though they were plenty distracting in a way she had no business noticing - but more the sudden change in attitude and body language that left Nikita feeling she might finally be meeting the real Amanda Collins, the one she'd watched reign over a courtroom without batting an eye.

The few moments it took everyone to get their refreshments were enough for Nikita to regain her professional balance, and she was ready and eager to get started by the time Collins pulled out the folder and her notepad. It had already been decided that Owen would let Nikita take the lead - he didn't trust himself not to cause another panic attack or otherwise derail the whole meeting - so he pulled out his own pad and settled in to take the notes they'd need later.

There were four smaller files with the larger one, and Collins set three of them aside to flip the remaining one open. It held crime scene photos of a female victim, body battered and bruised as she lay sprawled on the floor, a bloody towel covering her face. "This one is different from the other three - it's the work of a different killer entirely. I assume it was a test of some sort - and that I've now passed?"

Collins seemed more amused than offended, so Nikita just grinned at her a little. "Half test, and half request for help."

Collins just sipped at her tea even as she fought not to roll her eyes. "How long has this particular case been open?"

"About six months," Nikita admitted. "We were hoping you could help."

"The crime scene is very disorganized," Amanda pointed out, gesturing toward the photos. "There's a lot of emotion there. The killer probably lives nearby - they would have been too disoriented to drive far, if at all. This is personal - you're looking for someone who knew your victim and cared for her deeply, maybe a lover or even a family member."

Owen couldn't help butting in at that. "No offense, but someone beat the shit out of her. That's not exactly love."

Collins gave him the same sort of patiently exasperated look Nikita did when he said something especially ridiculous. "The killer covered her face after they killed her - this usually indicates remorse, which generally means it was someone the victim knew. Especially since the reports indicate no sign of forced entry."

After giving Owen - and Nikita - a chance to weigh and digest her analysis of the first case, Collins set the first folder aside and moved onto the other three. The first one she grabbed happened to be Jennifer Lyle's. She held up a photo from both crime scenes by way of comparison. "The Lyle crime scene is something entirely different - this killer is highly organized and probably extremely fastidious. I'm assuming you found no biological evidence at the scene - no blood, no semen, not even fingerprints?"

Nikita nodded her agreement. "Not at any of the three related crime scenes."

Amanda nodded as if that was exactly what she'd expected to hear. "As I said, this killer is fastidious. The lack of forced entry means they probably charmed their way in - they didn't sexually assault any of the victims, so this wasn't about rape. This was still about power, though - see the layered bruising on the throat?"

She paused then, pouring herself a second cup of tea. "The hyoid bone was broken, wasn't it?"

"On all three victims," Nikita confirmed. "It's the only connection we have right now."

Amanda nodded again - apparently, she'd expected to hear that as well. "The killer strangles them face to face, so that the victim can see their power. Then they revive the victim and start the process all over again - it makes them feel powerful, in control. At the risk of being boring, we're looking for your standard American serial killer - white, male, intelligent, in his twenties to maybe mid-thirties. He's probably able to function socially, and definitely has an interest in American history."

Silence reigned as she looked between the two detectives, who sat staring back at her until she finally spoke again. "So - did I pass your test, Inspectors?"

It was Owen who found his voice first. "Wait - what do you mean, American history?"

Amanda just arched an eyebrow before setting her teacup down to point at a photo of Jennifer Lyle. "Where's the stocking that was around her neck? It should have been tied in a neat little bow."

Nikita finally found her own voice. "That was never made public - how did you know-?"

This time, Amanda did actually roll her eyes, as if she couldn't believe they hadn't already seen what she had. "The Lyle murder - it's the Boston Strangler."

Grabbing a tablet that Alex handed to her, Amanda pulled up a black and white photo that was disturbingly similar to the one of Jennifer Lyle - only it was decades older. "Your killer is imitating Albert DeSalvo right down to the fine details."

Owen and Nikita shared a glance as they both stared at the tablet, but it was Owen who spoke for them both as he handed the tablet back. "So you're saying our guy is copycatting someone who's been dead, what - forty years now? Why not somebody a little more recent?"

Amanda shrugged, though it was clear Owen had won at least a smidgen of respect with his knowledge of DeSalvo. "Think of serial killers like viruses - they mutate, so there's always some new and unexpected twist."

Nikita suddenly sprang into motion, having finally found her footing again. "We need to get back and pull everything we can on the Boston strangler. Doctor, I really do appreciate your help - would you mind if I called you later and-"

Something in Collins' expression made Nikita trail off before she could finish her question. "Is everything alright, Doctor?"

Amanda smiled, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Call me Amanda, Inspector. And, yes, I am here if you need me."

Amanda paused, as if weighing something, then reached out to grab Nikita by the forearm. "You need to understand something. This isn't like your other cases - doing everything right, working the evidence, reading the statements, may not work. More often than not it's just chance that gets them caught - a traffic violation at the wrong time, or a bad smell in their house. All your hard work may well come down to blind, dumb luck."

Nikita just blinked, not sure how to interpret Collins' warning. Was it intended to educate her - to set realistic expectations on her first serial case - or was it just Collins' own bitter cynicism bleeding through? "I'll keep that in mind, Doctor - Amanda."

It felt weird using Collins' first name like that - weird in a way that Nikita was not even about to contemplate if she could help it - and Nikita suddenly just wanted to be anywhere but in the place Amanda Collins currently happened to be.

Owen had also heard Collins' warning - and probably also noted his partner's distraction around the good doctor, though he apparently decided not to comment on it if he did - but waited until they were in the elevator to bring it back up. "Do you think Collins is right? That it's just gonna be dumb luck that catches this guy?"

Nikita didn't quite know how to respond, but gave the only answer that made any kind of sense to her. "Doesn't matter. We do our jobs - get up in the morning, show up at the station, and work the case just like we've been trained."

Neither of them said it, but they were both thinking the same thing: there was one other possibility, worse than either of the others. What would happen if working the case didn't solve it, and blind luck (or bad timing) didn't land their killer behind bars? Would he just slip away into the void, dropping off the face of the earth and leaving them to wonder, to hope and pray that the next call they got wasn't him starting up all over again?

And could either of them live like that?

{*****}

Over in Golden gate Park, the Festival Of Love had finally kicked into full gear, and the park's lush green grass had disappeared beneath a veritable sea of tents, blankets, and warm bodies. Even accounting for all the various (and obvious) signs that it was not in fact the 1960s or the 1970s, there was an uncanny resemblance to both those bygone eras.

Kids who hadn't even been born yet during either decade wandered around happily stoned, clad in vintage or replica bell bottoms, beads, and tie die. Generation gap temporarily forgotten, they mingled happily with those who had been at the original festivals, who'd returned to their old stomping grounds to relive their glory days by sneaking a joint or two while they watched their old favorite bands play.

It wasn't just the old favorites, either - bands of all genres and levels of recognition had signed on for the good press the festival would provide. It was a music lover's paradise, and booth after booth was scattered across the festival grounds, loaded with cds and dvds and all kinds of memorabilia.

Those booths - and the distinct lack of protest signs - revealed the festival for the commercial venture it was, but no one seemed to mind. Even commercialized, the nostalgia felt good and everyone was having a good time - which made life much easier for the people hired to be Festival security. They wandered around in their jackets marked Security, with their earpieces and walkie talkies., but their biggest concern was really just deciding at which points they actually needed to enforce the Festival's drug and alcohol policies.

For young Randi Salvino - just shy of twenty years old - it was the closest thing available to the old famous festivals like Woodstock. So far, she was thinking that it had totally been worth a couple of sexual favors for that jerk scalper friend of Julie's - at least he was kinda hot, even if he was a jerk.

Of course, she was in a mood to be forgiving - she'd been indulging freely in the drugs circling around the Festival grounds. Nothing heavy - just some pot, and some beer, and a hit or two of Ecstasy - and she was now high, pleasantly tipsy, and starving. Hence her current slow and meandering trek through the crowd as she tried to find one of the pizza vendors who'd been everywhere when she hadn't been hungry.

A lot of hot guys - and even a few hots girls - stared and smiled as she passed by, and Randi, pleased with herself, couldn't help grinning back. She'd known her white, lacy vintage dress would be perfect - it was pretty and sweet but also kind of sexy, since it was also a little see-through and she wasn't wearing a bra. With a wreath of flowers atop her loose strawberry blonde hair, and her vintage sandals held in one hand, she could have stepped right out of one of those documentaries on the 1960s.

She was halfway to the nearest pizza vendor - finally having spotted one - when she noticed the guy with the video camera. He smiled at her and gestured to the camera, as if asking permission to film her, and she figured it wouldn't hurt anything. Playing shy and coy for the camera, she fidgeted and smiled and played with her dress as the guy circled around her.

He smiled even bigger as she spun for him - her dress fanning out around her - and she decided that she was glad she'd stopped for him. He was really cute, even if he wasn't dressed retro like almost everybody else was - he had longish hair that would have fallen into his eyes if it weren't for his wire-rimmed glasses, and she found both things adorable.

Striking a pose she hoped was sexy, she flashed him a peace sign for his camera, giggling when he flashed it back. She decided she'd stay and talk to him a bit - maybe he'd buy her some pizza or some more beer.

And afterward she'd stop and think and try to remember where she was supposed to be meeting Julie...

{*****}

Nikita's day, already a little off-kilter after the early morning meeting with Amanda Collins, was not improving any - she walked into the meeting room to find one of the other detectives enthralling his (primarily male) audience with a string of sexist jokes.

She didn't get a chance to say anything, because Ari Tasarov walked in right behind her. She didn't have to say anything, though - Tasarov's entry effectively silenced the entire room, and his withering glance at the offending officer made it clear that he had zero time to waste on sexual harassment complaints filed against idiots with no impulse control.

While everyone settled in, Tasarov continued the conversation he'd started with Nikita in the hall. "The commissioner has been riding my ass on this one - I swear to God, if he 'politely' hints that we might need some outside help one more time..."

It was just the kind of opening Nikita had been waiting for. "We could use the help - the FBI databases, if nothing else."

Tasarov scoffed, exactly as she'd expected he would. "The FBI will bury us with help if we invite them in - and the case still won't get solved."

It was a fair enough assessment - and played right into Nikita's hands. "I've got some ideas about that. It doesn't have to be FBI..."

Tasarov knew exactly where she was headed and just scowled at her. "If you need help that badly, I can pull Bishop off his current case for you."

Nikita almost choked on a sudden rush of anger and indignance, but she managed - just barely - to swallow it back before she said anything regrettable. Tasarov didn't make idle threats, and he was signaling loud and clear that he would intervene if she didn't run this case the way he was telling her to - which is to say, without the involvement of the FBI, and, most importantly, without the involvement of Amanda Collins.

It wasn't like Tasarov to try and hobble his agents - if they told him they needed help, then he got them the help they needed - so Nikita could only figure that she'd underestimated the amount of pressure Tasarov was under to have his department solve things quietly and quickly. The threat to put Michael on the case wasn't malicious, but it was genuine.

Not that it wasn't still personal. Michael had seniority, and putting him on the case meant that he'd have the lead, and all the credit. Nikita would have to play by Michael's rules - and she knew him well enough to know that he could be a definite hardass about the rules if he thought it was in the best interest of the case, or the officers assigned to it.

It took Nikita a whole heartbeat to decide that Tasarov and Michael could just go fuck themselves - or each other, for all she cared. This case was hers, and she wasn't going to give it up without one hell of a fight.

Swallowing hard as if cowed, she nodded as meekly as she could manage, hoping she appeared chastened enough to fool Tasarov, at least for a little while. "That won't be necessary, sir. We'll... figure something out."

Mollified by the change in attitude - though he knew better than to accept it at face value - Tasarov just nodded his approval and turned his attention to the rest of the room. "What do you have for me, gentlemen?"

It was sort of a running joke, what with Nikita being the only female detective on the squad - but a joke that she and Tasarov had discussed often enough to know that Nikita didn't mind. It was, in its own odd way, a tacit acknowledgment from Tasarov that he understood Nikita could handle anything her male peers could - and probably better, at that.

There was a knock on the door, and Michael Bishop poked his head in. "You wanted to see me, Captain?"

Tasarov nodded. "Sit in with us, just in case we need another pair of eyes on down the line."

It didn't take the room long to recognize and understand the threat implicit in that request - leaving Nikita grinding her teeth almost hard enough to break them - but Tasarov didn't allow them any time to speculate or whisper. "I apologize for the interruption, Mears. Please begin."

All eyes turned to Nikita, and she put the two pictures Amanda Collins had shown them up on the projector screen. "The Lyle murder is copycatting the Boston Strangler. We're waiting on the files from Boston, but until then we've started checking for anyone with even a passing resemblance to Albert DeSalvo. We're also looking at the other two murders for any connections to the Strangler, or to any other serial killer."

It wasn't much, compared to some of the other cases they'd worked before, but it was everything to this case in particular. Tasarov, seeming impressed despite himself, actually unwound a turn or two - a very small turn, but a turn nonetheless. "Excellent. When do the records from Boston get here?"

Nikita assured him that the files were expected first thing in the morning. After that, everything else was forgotten as the squad provided updates on the million and one tasks that were already ongoing for the investigation, and divvied up the new ones created by the serial killer angle. No one argued or bitched or complained - they were just happy to finally have an angle to work, even if it wasn't one they were especially experienced with.

Tasarov also surprised them with his final statement as he called the meeting to a close. "One last thing - you're all cleared for whatever overtime you need. The commissioner wants a task force, so he's got one."

He fixed them all with one last stern look. "I do not want to hear any of you utter the words 'serial killer' or 'task force' outside this room - do you understand me?"

Michael was one of the last to leave. Nikita had been almost too angry to look at him directly, but she was glad she did - his expression made it clear that Tasarov had blindsided him too and he'd had no idea what Tasarov had called him there for. She nodded her understanding, glad that he was just as pissed off about it as she was and grateful that he was in fact still the good man she'd always known him to be.

Her heart sank down to her feet, though, as Tasarov stood and waited for everyone else to leave. Once it was just the two of them, he simply arched an eyebrow. "So I take it your interview with Amanda Collins was productive, then?"

Nikita shrugged, trying to appear unconcerned, and did her best to make her smirk seem genuine. "She'd called fourteen times, wanting to help. I was just following up and leveraging all my available resources."

Tasarov shook his head, somewhere between amused and exasperated and approving, before simply walking out the door.