Chapter One

Then

"Detective?"

Detective Tony Ferano looked up from his desk, where he had been going over a casefile. "Captain," he greeted in surprise. "What is it?" He started to get up, but the captain held out a hand to stop him.

"I'm reassigning you, Ferano," the older man said. "I want you on this case." He handed over a thick folder.

Tony took it in surprise and flipped it open. "'The Tuxedo Murders'?" he read.

The captain nodded. "The White Tuxedo is a serial killer operating in Detroit and other major cities around the Great Lakes. Obviously, he always wears a white tuxedo." He sighed. "The strange thing about him is that even though there's almost always other people in the house at the time he kills, no one hears a thing. The victims are never heard screaming. Yet when they're found, they look like they were screaming their lungs out."

Tony pulled out a photograph of a young woman, her eyes wide and her mouth opened in a silent cry. A frown crossed his features.

"What do they think is the explanation for this?" he asked.

"No one has the faintest idea," he was told. "One or two people thought they'd been playing the stereo too loud to be heard, but the rest said the homes were completely quiet."

Tony set the photograph aside and picked up another, one of a white-cloaked figure jumping off a second-story balcony. "And this is the murderer?" he guessed.

A nod. "He's been seen fleeing the scene of more than one of these murders, but this is the best shot anyone's got of him."

Tony studied it in thoughtfulness. "I'll get right to work on the case, Captain," he promised.

"I'll feel better with you on the job," the captain said. He took up the folder Tony had been looking through before. "I'll give this one to Johnson."

"It's mostly an open-and-shut case," Tony said.

The captain placed it under his arm. "I thought as much," he said. "The Tuxedo Murders, on the other hand. . . ." He shook his head. "Baffling. Simply baffling."

Tony had to agree.

Now

"Tony?"

Tony looked up with a start at Vince's voice. The big man was coming into the kitchen of their current hideout, regarding him with curiosity as he sat at the table nursing a cup of coffee. Tony's return gaze was equal parts flat and questioning.

Vince slid into another chair at the table. "Are you okay?" he asked. "You looked kind of upset."

Tony shrugged. "I'm fine, Vince," he answered.

"Are you thinking about that weird time we had at Paddywhack's mansion?" Vince wondered.

Tony rubbed his eyes. "It didn't even cross my mind."

He sighed. For some reason he wanted to mention at least some of what actually had been concerning him. He considered Vince his friend and found him easy to talk to. At least, certainly it was easier than talking to Baby Face.

". . . I was thinking about an old case I was working on," he said at last. "The Tuxedo Murders. It was never solved."

Vince stared at him with wide eyes. "You were working on the Tuxedo Murders?" he gasped. "I remember that case! It was weird."

"Weird doesn't even begin to describe it," Tony muttered. Louder he said, "I don't know why I was thinking about it after all this time. It doesn't matter anymore."

Vince was quiet for a moment. "Do you . . . feel bad about how things turned out? With your life, I mean. Not the case."

Tony sipped the coffee. "I don't even know that."

Living as a gangster had never been the life he had wanted. He had not even intended to remain in the gang when he had joined. It had only been an option when he had been on the run for his life and had not known where else to go. But he had soon learned that joining at all had been foolish. Once he was in, he had not been able to get out. After all this time, he did not even know what he would do with his life if he did get out.

Harry entered the kitchen with the newspaper, preempting further conversation on the subject. He looked it over as he walked, nearly tripping on the floor for lack of paying attention.

Tony sighed, shaking his head. "One of these days, you're going to fall," he said matter-of-factly.

Harry grunted, setting the paper on the table. "There was a weird murder last night," he said.

"We're criminals and you're finding a murder weird?" Tony turned the paper towards him. In the next moment he blanched.

"What is it, Tony?" Vince got up and came around to look.

"It's just like those old murders back in Detroit," Harry said. "You know, where some guy in a white tuxedo killed somebody and no one ever heard anything, even though it looked like the person was screaming."

Vince's mouth dropped open. "Really?" He looked to Tony, who was clutching the newspaper in his hands and devouring the story. At last the former police detective raised his gaze to meet his ally's.

"He's right," he said, grim. "Either this is a copycat murder or the original culprits have decided to start the Tuxedo Murders up again."

And in spite of what he had said about it not mattering now, he wanted to know why. He had worked on that case for weeks, until for some unexplainable reason the killings had stopped. Now, the very night he had been dreaming about the case, a new Tuxedo Murder had taken place.

"What's this about murdering in a tuxedo?"

Tony looked up at the sound of Baby Face's grouchy, gravelly voice. The gang leader was wandering into the kitchen doorway, squinting through half-asleep eyes at the scene. He did not look pleased. "If I had to wear one of those monkey suits, I'd murder the guy who put me in it."

"Just be grateful you're alive to wear one," Tony commented flatly.

After what they had been through at Paddywhack's house of horror, it was still hard to get used to the fact that Baby Face was back among the living and not still an angry, vengeful spirit. Sometimes he would come into a room and Tony would do a doubletake, unable to believe what he was seeing.

"Eh." Baby Face crashed at the table and peered at the newspaper. "So they think some serial killer's loose again. That don't have anything to do with us."

"It does, Baby Face." Tony looked at him, his gaze steady. "I was the one trying to crack the original case in Detroit."

Baby Face raised an eyebrow. "Yeah?" He gave the story a second look. "Heh. Weird. Like it's followin' you around."

"I was thinking the same thing," Tony muttered.

xxxx

Halfway across the country, another Tony was yelling instead of muttering.

"KOLCHAK!"

Carl Kolchak, newspaper reporter of the macabre and morbid, strolled easily into the big man's office. "You rang, my dear editor Vincenzo?" he offered.

Tony Vincenzo waved a paper in the other man's face. "Did you put this on my desk?"

Kolchak peered at it. "Well, the Los Angeles Chronicle," he observed. "How about that."

"Don't be cute, Kolchak," Vincenzo snarled. "This is an article describing a murder last night. A murder that sounds very similar to those unsolved murders from several years ago—the ones you said were being committed by a bunch of supernatural creeps!"

"I said no such thing!" Kolchak retorted in indignation. "I said there was evidence that they could be a bunch of supernatural creeps!" He stabbed the paper with his forefinger. "And you've admitted that this murder sounds similar. I fully agree!"

"And you wanna be put on the story," Vincenzo deduced. "Is that it, Kolchak?"

"That's it exactly!" Kolchak said. "Tony, the good people of Los Angeles have no idea how to handle this. They aren't familiar with the case. But I am!"

Vincenzo exhaled in exasperation. "Kolchak, the LAPD had already contacted the Detroit PD, asking for anyone who worked on the original Tuxedo Murders to come in as a consultant. Unfortunately, that's impossible. The guy who was working with you on that case left the force and disappeared!"

"I know," Kolchak frowned. "And don't you see, Vincenzo? That leaves me!" He spread his arms wide. "I'm the only available connection! The LAPD is probably being referred to the good old INS as we speak."

"Lord have mercy on us all," Vincenzo snarled. "Look, Kolchak, am I to understand that you not only want to go out on this case, you want to help the police?"

"I've never had anything against helping the police," Kolchak countered. "It's just that they usually don't want my expertise!" He came closer, slamming his hands on Vincenzo's desk. "Tony, think of how big this story will be if we actually solve the Tuxedo Murders!"

"If," Vincenzo echoed. "That's a really big if, Kolchak. You didn't have any luck with it before."

"That doesn't mean we should give up!" Kolchak jerked upright and started to pace the office. "I know you want some publicity."

"Good publicity, Kolchak. That's the keyword." Vincenzo glowered. "And forgive me if I'm not that confident in your ability to deliver."

Before Kolchak could answer, the phone gave a sharp ring. His boss snapped it up, barking into it. "Yeah?" Instantly his eyes widened and his demeanor changed. "Oh. Yes, sir. Yes, I've seen it. . . . Actually, he was just suggesting that himself." Vincenzo turned and eyed Kolchak with a scrutinizing gaze. "Yes, sir. I'll have him on the next plane to Los Angeles. . . . Lieutenant Tragg. Fine. Yes, sir. . . . Yes, sir." Another glare. "I'll make sure of that, sir. Yes. Thank you, sir. Goodbye."

Vincenzo hung up and turned his attention to Kolchak, who was staring with goggle-eyed interest. "That was the police chief," he announced.

"And they want me on the case!" Kolchak proclaimed.

"On one condition," Vincenzo interrupted. "That you keep all of your crackpot spooky theories here in Chicago. The LAPD remembers you well after that disaster with the sharp-toothed broad and the big wooden cross. Don't think they won't hesitate to toss you unceremoniously out on your ear if you push their buttons too far."

"I'll be good, Vincenzo. You know I can play by the rules." Unless something happens that means I or someone else will be in danger if I do, Kolchak added to himself.

Vincenzo glowered at him, unconvinced. "Well, I'm against it, but you were right—the LAPD has been asking for you. So has the Sheriff's Department. They're probably just as reluctant about it as I am to send you. But to refuse would be an obstruction of justice, so you're to be on the next plane to L.A. Got it?"

"Yes, sir!" Kolchak gave a mock salute as he turned and made a beeline for the door. "You won't regret this, Tony. I promise!"

"Yeah, sure," Vincenzo grumbled. "You're working with a Lieutenant Tragg!" he hollered after Kolchak as the intrepid reporter made his way to his own desk. "Malibu isn't under the jurisdiction of the LAPD, but they want everything you've got in case the killer moves into L.A. next."

Kolchak nodded with a wave, not turning back. "Lieutenant Tragg, right."

Vincenzo slumped against the doorframe. "Why do I have a really bad feeling about this?" he moaned to himself.

Kolchak heard him but did not bother to answer. He was too busy gathering his trusty camera and tape recorder for the trip.

There was something else he was wondering about as well. What had ever happened to the guy who had worked with him on the case in Detroit? That detective had been one of the few police who had not given him a headache. And then suddenly there was a weird, unexplainable scandal and he had vanished.

All Kolchak really knew was that he had been falsely accused of killing his wife. He had apparently been acquitted in absentia, but the real murderer was still at large. And the detective was still missing. If the Detroit PD knew what had happened to him, they were keeping it under wraps.

Well, this case seemed to be resurrecting ghosts of the past. For all Kolchak knew, he would meet up with every one of the players again—Detective Ferano included.

xxxx

"I still don't know about this."

Mike regarded Micky in exasperation. "Oh, come on, Mick. You said you saw a guy in a white cape last night, looking in some chick's window. Now the district attorney wants to talk to you about it."

"So you go in and talk to him," Davy put in. "There's nothing to be afraid of."

"Oh no?" Micky frowned. "What if I didn't see what I thought I saw? What if it was just some peeping Tom? Maybe he didn't have anything to do with that creepy murder."

"Maybe he did," Peter said. "I've never seen anyone in a white cape on the beach before."

"And maybe that guy'll come after us next," Mike said. "So we need to get the word out about him so we might have some kinda protection." He tried to steer Micky towards the building.

"Besides, now that the police know about it, you might get in trouble if you don't talk to the district attorney, Micky," Davy said. "Especially when he's asking for you. Come on, it'll only take a few minutes."

At last Micky gave a frustrated, resigned sigh. "Okay," he said. "I'll do it." He pulled away from Mike and walked up to the building, hauling open the door. "But if he comes back to kill us in our sleep, I'll know he probably knows I told."

The other Monkees trailed behind as Micky entered and found directions to the district attorney's office. They exchanged worried and concerned glances on their way to the elevator.

"I don't know," Mike said low to the others. "Micky's been acting strange since last night. Don't you think?"

Davy nodded. "He's hiding something," he said.

"What if that guy does know Micky saw him?" Peter gasped. "Maybe he went and threatened Micky."

"Or maybe he threatened the three of us," Mike frowned. "That'd be more than enough to make him wanna keep quiet."

It was hard to decide. On the other hand, maybe even if Micky had seen the murderer—and vice versa—there had been nothing more but a look between them. A look alone, however, could be plenty to frighten a Monkee, if it had been the look of a cold-hearted killer.

The district attorney of Los Angeles County had an office high on one of the many levels of the tall structure. When the elevator doors opened and Micky and the rest got out, they were standing in one of countless similar corridors.

"There it is," Mike pointed to a plaque. "Hamilton Burger, district attorney. Must be his secretary in there; I don't recognize him." Through the glass door a dark-haired man was typing away on a laptop, involved with his work.

"I didn't know you knew the district attorney, Mike," Davy said in surprise.

"Well . . . I don't," Mike confessed. "But I've seen him on TV."

Micky was still agitated. He wrung his hands, pacing up and down and turning around. "I'm having second thoughts about this," he said.

The other three quickly grabbed him. "Oh no, shotgun. You're gonna get in there and talk to Mr. Burger," Mike declared.

"It'll be over before you know it," Davy said.

"We'll stay out here and wait for you," Peter said, trying to be encouraging.

Micky at last conceded. "Okay then." He took a deep breath. "Here goes nothing." He opened the door and went inside. "Hello?"

The man at the desk looked up with a start. "Hello," he greeted. "Are you here to see Mr. Burger?"

"Yeah," Micky said with hesitance. "I'm Micky Dolenz."

"The drummer. Oh yes." The secretary nodded to the other door. "He's expecting you. Just go on in."

"Thanks, I think." Micky walked past him, still more hesitant as he opened the inner door and peered into the other office. "Mr. Burger?"

A man in his forties glanced up from an open folder on his desk. "Yes," he said. "I'm Hamilton Burger." He stood and came around the desk to shake Micky's hand.

Still tense, Micky accepted. "I'm Micky Dolenz," he said. "I came about the . . . the guy in the tuxedo."

"Oh, Mr. Dolenz. Sit down, please." Mr. Burger indicated a chair in front of his desk. Micky sat uneasily, trying and failing to relax. Mr. Burger walked back to his own chair and sat facing the Monkee. "Now, Lieutenant Tragg said you saw the man looking in the window at Sharon Backman's house."

"Yeah," Micky said. "I thought it was her place, but I wasn't sure. I went and called the police anyway; I could see he wasn't up to any good."

"And by the time the nearest unit responded, Ms. Backman was dead," Mr. Burger frowned. "Could you describe the man you saw?"

"Not really, Sir," Micky said. "All I really saw was his tuxedo. It was some white monkey suit, man. He had a top hat and cape too. I thought he was probably coming from some masquerade party. I probably would've gone and asked him where it was if he hadn't been staring in that window."

"I see." Mr. Burger nodded. "And did you see the man at any other time that night?"

Micky hesitated so long that it was clear he was hiding something. Mr. Burger peered at him. "Mr. Dolenz?"

Micky jumped a mile. "Oh. What was the question again?" he asked. His innocent expression was a put-on, but his embarrassment was genuine.

Mr. Burger gave no indication of noticing. "If you saw the man in the tuxedo any other time that night."

Micky swallowed hard. "Well . . . I . . . I don't think you'll believe me," he stammered at last, shifting in the chair.

"Mr. Dolenz, a woman is dead," Mr. Burger told him. "Even if I don't believe you, I need to hear about anything else you know that might connect with the case."

Micky sighed, bowing his head in resignation. "Okay." He looked up again. "I did see him, just standing on the beach looking at me. His cape was blowing in the wind."

"When was this?" Mr. Burger pressed.

"I guess after he killed that girl," Micky admitted. "I don't know; I wasn't looking at my watch."

"Did he say anything to you?"

"Well . . ." Micky smiled in discomfort. "That's the part you probably won't believe. No, he didn't. But I heard some little kid talking. Only it wasn't out loud." He was all but mumbling now. "It sounded like she was talking in my head."

Instead of laughing or dismissing him, Mr. Burger tensed. "What did she say?"

"I couldn't really make any sense out of it, man," Micky said. "It was some weird poem. Something about gentlemen and seven something and people screaming and not being heard. Then this fog came out of nowhere. When it was gone, the guy was too!"

Mr. Burger leaned back, visibly troubled. "Mr. Dolenz, I'll be honest with you," he finally said. "I'm not a believer in the supernatural or anything off-the-wall. At least, I would like not to be. And little-known sciences such as telepathy are things I don't know what to make of. I'd rather think they're not true. I probably wouldn't believe you except for this:

"A while back there was a string of unsolved murders in the Great Lakes area, perpetrated by at least one man in a white tuxedo. And one of the only things we know about him is that there was apparently an unknown and unseen child with him, who sometimes spoke to people through what seemed to be mental telepathy. It was always the same, too—a poem like what you've told me. That information was never released to the public; the Detroit PD told my office about it two hours ago."

Micky gaped, wondering if he dared to relax. "So you don't think I'm nuts?" he exclaimed.

"At this point, no, I don't," said Mr. Burger. "But I'm concerned about your safety, Mr. Dolenz. Yours and your friends'. I'll arrange for a police guard to stay with you at all times."

"Thanks," Micky said. He shifted again. "But uh . . . do you think he'll really come after us?"

Mr. Burger sighed. "I wouldn't put it past him," he said. "I'm sorry I can't be more encouraging."

"Well . . ." Micky tried and failed to smile now. "I guess if there's nothing to be encouraging about, you just can't be." He started to get up. "Thanks."

Mr. Burger stood too. "If you remember anything else, Mr. Dolenz, or if something else happens, please call my office."

Micky nodded. "Sure. I will." He headed for the outer office, where the others were waiting.

"Well?" Mike asked when Micky came out. "How'd it go?"

Micky put on an easy-going smile. "Fine," he said. "Just fine."