A jog through the park near his condo left Carlton winded and touchy. Mid-shower, Marlowe opened the door and handed him a steaming cup of coffee, telling him to wake up and that she had laid out a nice suit for him. He had never consumed coffee while wet and naked before, but it actually had its merits, and when he came back downstairs, he felt vaguely human again and the chill was gone from his bones.

The blue shirt softened his features a little, and the sharp Hugo Boss jacket fit him perfectly. Marlowe had shown that she was not only good at making wine and shooting things, but she also had excellent taste in what kind of clothes he should wear. Granted, she also liked him in jeans and T-shirts, too. Or, frankly, nothing at all, playfully wrestling with her in bed. She had not yet been able to convince him to shorten his sideburns, but progress was progress, she had told him.

"Are we doing anything tonight?" she asked him, as she brushed his lapels and shoulders, straightening his tie. People at the station were commenting that he was becoming a clotheshorse, and those comments were made with real grins, not mockery. O'Hara had even said he looked downright dashing these days, even if he looked tired.

"I'm hoping we can eat dinner somewhere."

"Really? Like…?"

"Applebee's?" he grinned at her.

"Very funny."

"I'm in the mood for steak tonight. A big, thick, juicy steak. Porterhouse. Baked potato the size of a cat, a big salad, and a bottle of beer. PBR, preferably."

"Now you're talking," she grinned back. "You bring the A1, I'll bring the Lea and Perrin's."

"Only problem is that every steak place in town will be packed. In fact, every place will be packed, including McDonald's and that weird place that smells like too much like Woody's office for my comfort."

"Yeah, there's a fly in the ninety-proof," she sighed. "Well…I could go buy some steaks. I've got the cole slaw ready, and the black-eyed peas and the ham, too. That's a must on New Year's, y'know. You can grill the steaks outside!"

"And freeze to death."

"It's not that cold!" she said tartly. For some reason, Marlowe could tolerate cold, and seemed to relish it. Carlton started shaking when the temperature dipped below fifty, and his teeth chattered at forty degrees. "You can wear a hoodie, a parka and fire-repellant underwear."

The simple, quiet domesticity of their life together was so soothing it almost scared him. The word 'marriage' had not been mentioned. Yet. She was all but living at his condo, though her address was still across town and she swung by every couple of days by to pick up her mail. Her roommates were still trying to figure out what she saw in the gruff detective, but for the most part they were nice to him and he to them. He had even tolerated a Friday night at her house, playing poker with the guys ($642 now in his checking account) and being introduced to a few of her girlfriends, which wasn't half as hellish as he'd expected. He only walked by the kitchen once, to overhear one of her friends whisper, 'God, he's got gorgeous eyes!' and another ask, 'What's he like in bed?', which had gotten a giggle and an unintelligible answer from Marlowe that seemed fairly positive.

"You're a laugh riot," he told her dryly. "I'm dropping you off, right, at your parole officer's…office?"

"Mm." She tied her hair back with one of those clippy-things that Carlton never could figure out what to call, and straightened her clothes. She was wearing a soft camel-colored sweater and a denim winter-white skirt, and cute little saddle shoes, and she pulled on his leather duster – Marlowe had called dibs on it for cold weather, mainly because it was warm and also because she said it smelled like him. His comment about how nice it was to have someone think he smelled like a dead cow had only made her laugh and sock him in the arm. "I'll take the bus back across town."

"You'll take a cab," he said firmly.

"Carlton…"

"A cab," he said again.

She sighed.

"Promise me?"

"Okay, okay. A cab."

"Thank you."

Whitestone was already at his place, beside O'Hara's desk, when Carlton arrived at the office, grumbling a little because of the cold and how his hands felt numb. They had made few inroads on the serial killer case, and the press was starting to make all kinds of rude noises about it. The rag that liked to call him Detective Dipstick was being particularly nasty, and that wasn't helped when Juliet tore into one of their 'reporters' one afternoon and threatened to shoot his little editor off if he ever said anything unkind about Carlton again.

She smiled brightly at him, and he knew what she was thinking. When was he going to give in and go on a double date with her and Shawn? She had brought it up one night, while they were going over case notes, and he had told that he would be delighted to, as soon as the Detroit Lions won the Super Bowl. She had bounced away, practically squealing with excitement (the Super Bowl being just a month or so away), and had come back ten minutes later looking very, very displeased with him and had given him the cold shoulder for almost an entire hour.

The last thing he wanted to do was not only cope with Spencer, but cope with Spencer trying to get a rise out of Marlowe.

Carlton sat at his desk, looking at the photos of the seven victims that they had taped to the chalkboard. Seven girls, seven names, seven lives snuffed out just as they were starting to take flight. He stared at the board for a moment, then turned back to his monitor and logged in. Whitestone came over, O'Hara at his heels and they settled in to go over the case notes.

Whitestone was, to Carlton, a pretty steady guy. He kept concise notes, listened more than he talked, and had called in every single resource he could to get started on writing up his profile of the killer. Carlton had read over the man's initial ideas and found that he agreed with them all, which was in itself rather scary. For instance, Whitestone theorized that the killer had grown up in a 'psychologically terrifying' household, longed for attention and admiration, and had found it impossible to pursue romantic relationships with women, yet it was very likely that the man was married and had fathered children. He was also roughly between age forty and fifty, from the way Whitestone saw it, and 'probably in a position of some authority, possibly a minor government drone', where he could operate under the radar.

The son of a bitch has kids, Carlton thought, looking through Whitestone's notes again. And here I am, forty-two, divorced, and childless. He sat back in his chair and called himself several nasty names before continuing, catching O'Hara's curious look.

"We need to start talking with whatever community leaders are in that particular neighborhood," Carlton said, and caught Whitestone's nod. "Including civic leaders, clergy, regular patrol officers…everybody that moves and shakes in that area and knows the people…the gossip, too. And find out who represents that area in the City Council."

Juliet nodded and snatched up her phone.

"And we need a translator who is not a Uruguayan by way of Germany."

Lots of teenaged girls were coming to the station now to talk, but so far, none of them had given them any useful leads (aside from where to get really nice jewelry, which Carlton had taken note of with regard to Marlowe's birthday). Carlton passed a giggle of them on his way to his desk and noted that so many of them were tall, dark-haired, slim and pretty. That alone made him want to park them all in protective custody until they were either in college or knew how to use a pistol effectively. He had gone out for lunch and was not terribly surprised to see Spencer and Guster in the bullpen, chatting with O'Hara and Whitestone, when he got back.

"So we've got the FBI in on this case?" Shawn asked Lassiter as he sat down.

"Yep."

Shawn turned to the FBI profiler. "So you're Whitestone, huh? Originally from South Atlanta?"

"South Africa," Whitestone nodded. "Joburg."

"He means Johannesburg," Juliet said, giving her boyfriend a brief stinkeye.

"Right. I was gonna ask if there was a Jimbobtown near there, or a Billyjoeville. Did you ever meet Sharlto Copley? He was amazing in District 9. Made me swear off prawns for…almost a whole day."

"I never met him, no. I don't think we move in the same circles," Whitestone answered with a wry smile.

Carlton's phone rang. He answered and winced at a familiar voice – Hardwicke. "Detective Lassiter, I'm afraid we've got another body."

"It's so strange that we're finding bodies in places like this," Juliet told Carlton as they stood by a squadcar, drinking coffee and watching the coroner's wagon pull up. Two men got out and made their way down to the little hill to a small swale, in while the body of a fifteen-year-old girl had been found early that morning by a pair of kids on their way to school. She had been stabbed multiple times, in the chest, the stomach…the eyes.

"He's operating in places where no one will hear anything," Carlton nodded. "I was reading recently – in Eastern Europe and in Russia, a lot of people believe that the eyes of a murder victim will hold the image of their killer."

"So you really think the murderer is from there," she nodded.

"Right. I was thinking it was a Serb for a little while – bad blood, between Croats and Serbs – but somehow that just seems too obvious. I think it's a Croatian. How else could he be so comfortable moving around among them? It has to be someone they figure they can trust, right?"

Hardwicke trudged over, looking worn down. "We found some fibers on the body that don't seem to match anything she's wearing. Such a pretty little thing…" She shook her head, then pulled herself back together. "We'll send you all the info as soon as we get it, Detective."

He looked at Juliet, then at Hardwicke. "Detectives."

Carlton read the report, feeling more and more miserable at every word. Danijela Lulić. Excellent student, 4.0 GPA, National Honors Society, had ambitions of being a pediatrician ("loved babies"), cheerleader, sprinter with the school track team. Held the school record for the fifty yard dash…

He rubbed his eyes. She had not been into Goth or really anything unusual at all. The wildest she got was going to the mall with her friends, and even then she was frugal with her money and never bought anything she didn't need. Her parents owned a small restaurant in the neighborhood and were successful but still quite modest…

The mall.

Santa Barbara had more malls than he cared to think about, and he never went to them. A quick search online revealed nine of them, including a big outlet mall near the beach. All were major hangouts for local teens, of course, and there was a largish mall in the neighborhood where the killer was operating. The body had been found less than a mile away from that very mall. He got up quickly and grabbed his jacket. O'Hara, reading through the coroner's report, looked up.

"Where are we going?" she asked him.

"The mall. C'mon."

"Don't even look toward the Payless, O'Hara," Carlton said.

They were sitting at a table in the mall food court, and Juliet could tell her partner was smacking the puzzle pieces together in his mind, possibly with a hammer. Still, she suspected there would be logic behind his conclusion. He rarely came up with wild ideas.

"He's finding victims here," he finally told her. He nodded toward the small groups of teenagers milling around or sitting at the tables, and then he gestured more specifically toward the girls sitting by themselves, drinking their sodas. "Danijela Lulić wasn't like the others, but she might have known her killer, or at least recognized and trusted him…"

Juliet looked at the girls again, then at her partner. "Okay, it's an idea. I'm not sure if I completely agree, but it…does make sense. This mall is open 'til nine, right?"

"The majority of the stores close at nine," he nodded. "Only the aisle kiosks are open to ten, and by then the mall is a lot less busy, and so he could be…hunting then, and not be noticed outright." He consulted his notes. "We should start asking around. You start at the north end, I'll start at the south, and we'll work our way back here."

"Right, partner," Juliet nodded. She stood, glanced at the Payless for just one defiant second, and walked away, heading toward Sears while Carlton started toward Macy's.

It was almost ten o'clock. Carlton had been to every kiosk from Macy's back to the food court, refusing offers of skin care product samples made from salt from the Dead Sea, cell phone skins, toy helicopters (that was hard to resist, actually), watches, purses, calendars, and henna tattoos to ask if any of the kiosk operators had ever seen anyone accosting young girls. He was at a watch repair kiosk now, watching a lanky young man with spiky red hair replace a watch battery. The customer finally paid and left, and the kid ambled over to Carlton, who flashed his badge. The kid froze, eyes widening. "Hey, man, I'm off parole now."

For a moment, Carlton wondered if anybody in Santa Barbara had a completely clean record. "Good for you. I need to ask a couple of questions."

"Okay…"

"Have you seen anyone around here…maybe an older man, going up to girls and maybe harassing them?"

"No…"

"No one at all?"

Spiky Hair looked up into middle space, thinking, and finally looked at Carlton. "Well, there was a guy a few nights ago. He was talkin' to some of the girls there at the theater over there," he pointed. "But they kinda blew him off."

"What did he look like?"

"Tallish, I guess. Kinda funny-lookin'."

"So it was a tall Steve Buscemi?" Carlton asked tightly.

"Huh? No. Just kinda funny-lookin'. He was carryin' a bag."

"A bag?"

"A…leather bag. A satchel. Or is it called a valise? I only noticed 'cause, hey, you're at a mall, you carry shopping bags, not leather bags."

Carlton wrote this information down – 'Steve Buscemi, leather valise' – and gave Spiky Hair a vague nod. "Anything else besides 'funny-looking'?"

"Uh…big glasses. Other than that, he was…just kinda funny lookin'."

Juliet wished to God she hadn't worn heels to the mall. What kind of moron wears heels to a mall? Sure, heels make your butt looks good and show off your legs, but when it was all said and done your back is killing you and you know your self-centered boyfriend isn't going to offer to massage them and you end up with hammer toes that make you limp and that ruins the whole purpose of wearing the damned heels in the first place, and Shawn would rather watch Laverne & Shirley and ask her to go order Chinese. Which made her even more annoyed that Carlton of all people was in a stable relationship with another grownup. Sometimes, she didn't know if she should slap Shawn or yell at Carlton. Either way, it was starting to get to her.

She was drinking an Orange Julius and contemplating the Cinn-A-Bon, wishing it was open, when Carlton came striding up to her, looking agitated and excited all at once.

"I know how he's doing it!"

"Okay. How?"

They started walking toward the exit, Juliet wishing her partner would give her a lift, and he began explaining.

"He's coming to malls, seeking out the loners, or at least girls that are alone, and he'll talk to them and gain their confidence…"

"Who would be stupid enough to go off with a stranger, though?" Juliet countered. "When I was little, I was taught to scream 'Fire!' when a stranger tried to grab me and then run to the nearest woman."

He stared at her, brow furrowing. "Right. Good idea. And when the stranger pulls out his gun, he can shoot you both. I think the girls know him. He has to be somebody they know, if only slightly, and that they think they can trust. We're ruling out Serbs entirely, of course, and we're going to concentrate entirely on higher-ups in that community. Somebody most of them know or at least know of."

"So what do we do?"

"A…well, a stakeout, I think."

"At the mall?"

"A stakeout, O'Hara. We will not be doing any shopping."

"Not even during dinner breaks?" she asked, trailing after him as they made their way to his car.

"Fine, fine – you can shop during breaks. I'll look around in Victoria's Secret and you can case The Limited."

"Victoria's Secret? Looking for a present for Marlowe?" she asked. The flash of light in his eyes made her figure she was right.

Marlowe raised her eyebrows when Carlton came trailing into the condo, carrying his briefcase and looking bone-tired. She smiled at him and watched him do what he did every night – he removed his jacket, his badge, his holster and Glock, then his wallet, his cell phone and his checkbook from his pocket and placed them all on the coffee table. He removed the clip from his gun and dropped it in with its Tootsie Roll buddies and sat down on the couch, kicking his shoes off and stretching his legs out. He rested his stocking feet on the table. He sat back, closed his eyes, undid the top buttons of his shirt, and began rubbing his temples.

She refused to let him drink when he got home from work. There had only been a brief tiff over that, and he had conceded to her wisdom. Alcohol wasn't going to help, and he knew it. Instead, she would keep his dinner warm, sit and watch him eat until his plate was clean, and then take him to bed and give him a proper workout that would have him sleep like a rock afterwards.

"A bit tuckered out?" she asked.

"Hm? Oh. Yeah. Sorry."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"It's okay. What did you do today?" he asked, looking up at her.

"We're starting on editing a documentary about the life and films of Frank Capra."

"Ah. Sounds interesting."

"It is, actually. We're heavy into It's a Wonderful Life now. We're just working on preliminary stuff. The techie stuff at this point." She sat down beside him and snuggled against him. He turned the TV on and watched Ryan Seacrest introduce Lady Gaga onto the stage at Times Square. She was wearing what looked like a beaver on her head and most of the contents of a can of Reddi Whip across her chest.

"Dear God. I swear that woman is from another planet."

"Maybe that's really Weird Al Yankovic. Did you see his parody of Made This Way on YouTube? It's hysterical. I spilled coffee all over the keyboard."

"I did see it. I had nightmares for a week." He sighed and resumed rubbing his temples.

"The ball's about to drop!" Marlowe said excitedly, and looked at Carlton. She was not terribly surprised to see he had fallen asleep, mid-temple-rub. She smiled and touched his cheek, his stubble tickling her fingers. He looked so tired. His hair was messy, he needed to shave and shower and sleep for a few months, and she could see his stress and worry. For tonight, though, he was going to relax.

"Carlton?" she whispered. "Come on, sweetheart, wake up."

He snuffled grumpily and opened his eyes. They watched the ball drop as the final seconds of 2011 ticked by, and finally, the giant 2012 flashed, the crowd in Times Square making enough noise to be heard from space. Marlowe met Carlton halfway, and they kissed, his arm slipping slowly around her waist and pulling her closer, until she was finally straddling his hips and slowly unbuttoning his shirt.

"You're not really sleepy, are you?" she asked softly, as she pulled her blouse off and tossed it away, followed by her bra.

"Not any more," he said, pulling her closer, touching her silky skin, delighting in her, thanking God for her.

"Good. Because I can't think of a better way to start the new year. Can you?"

"Who needs to think at a time like this?"

"God, I hate malls," Carlton said.

It was January the third, and Lassiter, O'Hara, Spencer and Guster were gathered in a little group at the mall entrance.

"Listen, everybody. No shopping or getting distracted by shiny things," Carlton said, directing a sharp look at Spencer, who had the nerve to look offended. "We are looking for any man who might be accosting teenaged girls."

"And looks like Steve Buscemi and Woody Allen's love child," Shawn nodded.

"Spencer!"

"Hey, listen, I'm just trying to lighten the mood a little. We are at the entrance to the very epitome of American consumerism here. You're nervous. It's a place to socialize, and you have no social skills. You hate fashion, because you have no sense thereof. Lots of people are here with their friends or their family, none of which you have…so therefore, Lassie, you are out of your element. A fish out of water. A buffalo out of his herd. A pumpkin out of his gourd…somebody stop me…"

Carlton thought about Marlowe telling him he looked sharp that morning, and ignored Shawn, who thought Bermuda shorts and a T-shirt with a picture of a constipated monkey on it was the height of fashion, and his only actual friend was Guster. Still, he had to put on a proper show, to keep up appearances. "Spencer, if you don't shut your yap I will tear off your arms and beat you to death with them. Now. O'Hara, you head east, I'll head west. Spencer, head north, Guster, head south."

"The South has never been a good place for my people, you know," Guster pointed out. Carlton leveled a cool glare at him, and the younger man flinched before striding away toward Macy's.

"And keep your cell phone on!" Carlton yelled after him. Juliet, wearing sensible shoes and feeling rather chipper, eagerly headed off in her assigned direction. Spencer stood for a moment, studying Carlton with interest.

"You got some last night, didn't you, Lassie?" he grinned.

Carlton rolled his eyes and headed west, toward Neiman-Marcus. If he had been one to boast, he would have informed Spencer that he had gotten a lot last night and more this morning in the shower, but that was none of the little twit's business. He actually felt pretty good, all in all. Not once in the past several weeks had he needed antacids, and despite being the point man on the hunt for a serial killer, he wasn't feeling quite so depressed any more. Still kind of moody, yes, but that heartless bastard – hope – was actually just sitting on his shoulder, grumbling about being well-fed and tended to. Hope would do that, the ungrateful little punk, and he'd keep feeding him kibble to keep him there.

He observed groups of girls walking together, all talking a mile a minute about clothes and boys and God only knew what else. He ignored those girls, as they were not the right target. Instead, he observed all the benches that he passed. Tired, bored, ticked-off husbands holding their wives' purses. Old ladies trying to get their feet to uncramp so they could limp to their cars. Groups of teens taking pictures of each other and giggling. Girls dressed like future prostitutes, as far as he was concerned. Boys wearing jeans that were apparently discarded by rodeo clowns. All wore iPods and most were listening to something through one earbud.

He was almost to Sears when he saw a young girl – perhaps sixteen – sitting alone at a little playground. She appeared to be waiting for someone, and so Carlton veered away, taking a seat at a bench across from hers and pulling a crossword puzzle out of his pocket.

He was trying to think of the name of Napoleon's favorite charger when he spotted a man in a light brown trenchcoat walking out of Sears and heading toward the playground. The man sat down at another bench and watched two little children take turns at a slide, and Carlton felt himself tensing, his gut telling him that this case was about to be blown wide open. The man was wearing big glasses…and was carrying a leather satchel. He looked at the girl, who was texting someone, then back at the man – who was gone.

Carlton shot to his feet, looking around, and spotted the man heading toward the center of the mall, walking slowly. He looked at the girl, who finally glanced up at him and made a 'What's your problem?' face. He didn't have one. Her problem was that she was going to live another day. He took off, following the man, keeping on one side of the middle aisle, waving off offers of a try on a massage chair and at indoor bungee jumping, keeping only slightly behind the man.

He was memorizing the man's features the entire time. He was about six feet, a little pot-bellied, dark hair, balding, faded blue eyes, pale skin, poor posture. Blue plaid shirt, corduroy pants, leather shoes. Not threadbare, and he was wearing a wedding ring. Otherwise, nondescript and unremarkable. Roughly forty-five, give or take a few years. He didn't look like a serial killer. Then again, neither did most serial killers.

In the center of the mall, the man paused at a kiosk and bought a cup of coffee, and Carlton got in line two customers behind, listening for his voice, for an accent. However, the mall noise was so loud he couldn't hear anything. The man then went left and Carlton followed, momentarily right behind him before moving around a huge glob of poinsettias decorating the center of the mall and continued along, keeping one eye on the man and the other on the shoppers passing him. The mall was a few minutes away from closing, and people were heading for the exits. Even better, there was no Christmas music playing, which meant he wouldn't feel any urge to shoot the speakers out when Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer started playing.

The man finally took a seat outside Neiman-Marcus, and Carlton looked around. Very few shoppers remained in the mall, and those that remained were heading toward the exits. He finally caught sight of Spencer, who was seated near a fountain, looking around. He watched the man sit down, clutching his valise on his knees, then get up and walk slowly across the courtyard to a young woman – perhaps seventeen – seated by herself, scrolling through texts on her cell phone. She was tall, dark-haired, and rather pretty, if sullen Goth could be considered attractive.

The man sat next to her, and after a few moments, he began to speak to her. She moved away, giving him a narrow look, and Carlton was on his feet, moving toward them. He sensed, rather than saw, Spencer getting up and coming over, too.

"Sir?"

The man looked up at him, and got to his feet. The girl looked up at them, smacking her gum but looking kind of relieved.

He held up his badge. "Detective Lassiter, SBPD. Can you show me some ID, please?"

"My name is Cvitković. Andrej Cvitković." He got his wallet and opened it up, showing Carlton his drivers' license.

"Mr Cvitković, you need to come with us. We need to ask you some questions." He looked at the girl. "Call your parents and have them come get you!"

"Have I done something wrong?" Cvitković asked.

"Can I see what's in your bag, please?" Carlton asked.

Cvitković reluctantly handed him the bag, and he handed it to Spencer, who cautiously opened it and peered inside. He looked at Carlton, eyes wide, for once at a total loss. The detective looked down and saw the glint of the steel blade of a sharp hunting knife.

"Come with us, sir."

TBC. It's not going to be that easy, kids!