Bernard Harris thought he heard a scream from the home two doors

down from his own on a quiet cul-de-sac, but he wasn't sure. It was

late, well past midnight on a chill October night in Northern California.

Harris was walking his nervous Fox Terrier past his mysterious neighbor's

residence when he heard the guttural cry through a lighted, upstairs

window. The strange noise made Harris pause in his tracks, exchanging

curious looks with his dog, Scout. A louder, more distinct yell rang out and

Scout flinched, his head darting about in confusion. Harris had no time to

react when a body suddenly crashed through the window, landing head first

on the cement driveway below with a sickening thud.

Scout yapped and dashed away, yanking the leash out of Harris's hand.

Scout's owner was stunned, gazing without comprehension at the heap in

the driveway. More noise emanated from the home, a persistent rumbling

drifting through the damaged blinds of the shattered window. It sounded

like somebody was rushing out of the room, slamming into things along

the way. Then Harris heard the gunshots, four of them in rapid succession,

followed by a faint, prolonged crashing, something falling down the stairs.

The living room area erupted with a series of loud noises, quickly

replaced by a furious jiggling at the knob of the front door. Harris was

situated just down the walkway from all the commotion when it occurred

to him that whatever was causing the disturbance to the quiet night was

heading in his direction. Curiously, the door didn't open right away. Instead,

the doorframe shook violently; somebody was desperately tugging at the

unyielding door, but failing to budge it. Harris heard the scratchy fumbling

of locks coming undone before the door flew open.

A dark, crazy eyed man in tattered clothing occupied the threshold, his

mouth a grimace, panting like a cornered animal, his frantic gaze settling

on Harris. The killer clutched a gun in his hand as he bolted at Harris,

screeching unintelligible words.

Panic gripped Harris and he reached for the sap tucked in his

waistband. He'd barely managed to pull it out when the maniac was upon

him and Harris swung reflexively at the man's forehead, connecting with

the temple. The man's hands clutched at Harris's clothing and his putrid

breath filled Harris's senses when he swung the sap two more times into

the man's skull, driving him to his knees. The man yanked pathetically at

Harris' trousers when Harris knocked him a final blow on top of the head,

sending the attacker crashing to the pavement.

Dale Cox clutched the woman of his dreams, an exotic, dark-skinned

beauty with the face of an angel and the body of a centerfold. They were

in the frenzied throes of making love on a sun-drenched beach in Hawaii,

Cox quivering with ecstasy, when a phone began ringing in the distance.

The sound panicked Cox for some reason, but he ignored its persistence

and continued his blissful endeavor despite the sudden emptiness washing

over him. The phone grew louder in his ears, causing the nameless beauty

in his arms to slowly fade into the sand they were lying on. Soon the sand

faded too and the ringing phone overpowered the sunny beach, turning it

black as night.

Cox groaned from deep within his throat, the sound transforming into

a whine of bitter disappointment when he realized he was sleeping. The

phone on the nightstand persisted in pulling him from his slumber, until

his lids fluttered open, and the cramped confines of his tiny, darkened

bedroom came into focus.

It was the work cell phone, the one Cox carried when he was on call.

The luminous numbers on the alarm clock by his head indicated it was

a bit past one in the morning. "Dammit!" Cox snapped groggily, tossing

aside the covers and sitting up as an overwhelming sense of emptiness

washed over him. His feet clunked heavily on the carpet as he slammed

his hand on the cell phone and lifted it to his ear. His thumb hit the receive

button just in time to keep the call from going to voicemail. "What is it?"

he barked irritably, rigorously scratching the back of his scalp.

"Detective Cox?" a voice inquired.

"Yeah, yeah, that's me. What're you wakin' me up for?"

There was a short pause. "I've got you on the roster as the on-call

homicide detective. Is that right?"

Cox breathed deep through his congested nostrils, irritated. "Yeah, I

got the duty. What the hell you want?"

Another short pause before the voice spoke again, the tone testy

now. "This is Officer Royer. I gotta double residential homicide here. A

passing neighbor heard the whole thing when he was walkin' his dog, and

he managed to smack down the perp when the guy attacked him on the

sidewalk."

Cox stopped scratching his head. "Whadaya saying? You got two

people killed and the suspect in custody?"

"Kinda, yeah. The paramedics are getting ready to load him in an

ambulance. They're takin' him to county. The witness got him good, used

an illegal sap. By the way, you want me to cite the witness for that?"

"Don't do anything till I get there," Cox said sternly. "It's my crime

scene and I don't want nobody screwing things up. Are we clear?"

"Whatever, detective," the officer replied, making no attempt to mask

his sarcasm. But the hostile tone went unnoticed by Cox.

"I'll be there in twenty minutes," Cox said. "You got the area cordoned off?"

"Yeah, everything's in order."

"Good. Keep all witnesses secured at the scene. I'll want to talk to them

when I get there."

"Sure thing, detective."

Cox was about to make more commands, but the officer abruptly

ended the connection. Cox pulled the phone away from his ear and studied

it curiously before setting it on the nightstand, his mouth still agape with

the words he was about to speak.

Dale Cox didn't like getting roused from sleep, but he did appreciate

the stature of being in charge, being in control. It was a sense that eluded

him in his personal life now that the remnants of his third marriage were

unraveling after a span of only nine months.

Cox stumbled into the bathroom and flicked on the fluorescent light

over the wash basin. He splashed cold water on his face and dried it with

an old, used towel snatched off the shower door handle. He dropped the

towel to the floor when he was done and studied his reflection in the grimy

mirror over the sink. His face was wide, with pock-marked skin and a thick,

crooked, boxer's nose. His eyes were beady and dark and there were puffy

bags beneath them. Cox raked his fingers through the scraggly strands of

his graying, brown hair, pushing back the greasy locks until he felt his coif

was sufficiently presentable.

Okay, so maybe he didn't have the best looking mug, but it was

handsome in a rugged way, or so he liked to think. Stepping back, Cox

hunched forward, cocking his slightly bent arms away from his body before

bringing his bunched fists together at his waist. He flexed every muscle

in his upper torso area, presenting the best body-builder pose his stocky

frame could muster. Then he frowned, not quite seeing what he'd pictured.

He still had muscles, but their outlines were soft and elusive, almost flabby.

Cox also hated how bronzed his arms and neck were in contrast to the rest

of his torso, which was pasty white beneath a wiry mishmash of dark hairs.

His latest marital disaster had distracted Cox from taking care of himself

and he silently vowed to increase his gym visits in the near future, until he

restored the awesome physique he once carried.

Snapping to, Cox pushed aside his vain musings and took a piss,

splashing the seat with his heavy stream and forgetting to flush. He

returned to the bedroom, where he threw on a rumpled shirt and slacks,

attached his gear to his belt, and put on a tweed jacket. He was in a foul

mood when he snatched his keys and cell phone from the nightstand and

headed out the door.

When Cox radioed in, he learned that the murder he was on his way to

investigate had occurred in the Pleasant Oaks subsection. It was a fairly new

neighborhood in the city of Las Cruces that had been developed less than

five years ago for the more upper crust of local society. A gated community,

it was supposed to be a refuge from the incessant crime infesting the small

California city, but a double homicide in one of the town's more exclusive

areas was going to rip that illusion to shreds.

Cox rolled up on a fairly active scene when he pulled his car to a halt at the

mouth of a cul-de-sac. A cluster of black-and-whites had descended on the

spot and were parked haphazardly in the center of the circular street, their

blue and red lights silently flashing in the darkness. Yellow tape was strung

along the perimeter of the residence involved in the incident all the way to

the sidewalk. Gaggles of neighbors stood clumped to either side of the taped

perimeter, bleary-eyed in their night clothes, gawking at the lifeless body

still crumpled at the top of the driveway. Officers held back the onlookers,

answering a flurry of questions from concerned neighbors who wanted to

discern what had happened.

Approaching the commotion, Cox passed a car parked just in front

of his own. Looking into the blackened interior, he made eye contact with

two clean-cut Caucasian men in suits. They bore placid expressions and

returned his gaze with coldly professional disinterest. Cox debated stopping,

but one of the milling officers called to him, diverting his attention and

compelling him forward.

"Detective Cox?" the burly officer inquired.

"Yeah, you the one that called me in?"

"I'm Royer," the officer responded, extending a hand.

Cox ignored the outstretched hand and stepped closer, showing the

younger man who was boss. "How long you been with the department? I

haven't seen you around too much."

"I got hired on after the academy about six months ago. It's nice meetin'

you. Some of the guys around the station have said good things."

"So what's the status of everything?" Cox asked, ignoring the suck-up

and swiveling his head about.

Blood rushed to Royer's cheeks and his complexion darkened. He took

a moment to swallow the rage that boiled inside. "We got two dead, like I

told you on the phone, one inside and one on the ground. We got a witness,

Harris, who says the one on the driveway got thrown out the second story

window. Looks like he was stabbed first, then thrown."

"I'll tell you what, officer; you should let me draw the conclusions. I'm

the detective, right? Your job is just to tell the facts."

Officer Royer's faced turned all shades of crimson, and he lapsed into

a stony silence. Cox took no notice of the insult his arrogance had wrought

and moved toward the driveway, assuming that Royer was following.

Evidence technicians were snapping pictures of the body when Cox

squatted and gave it a once-over. The corpse was once a young white male,

dressed in tan slacks and a white dress shirt. The body lay face down, the

head crooked at a weird angle. The neck showed heavy swelling and had

some lividity, probably snapped during the fall from the window. A pool of

blood had collected in the torso area and Cox placed his hand on the dead

man's shoulder, giving it an easy push so he could get a look at the abdomen.

"Looks like he took a couple punctures below the chest," he said, craning his

head for Royer's response. That's when he realized no one was there.

Cox removed a pen and leather bound notebook from his breast

pocket and jotted down a few details before moving into the house. Royer

followed as Cox scribbled more observations and proceeded toward the

foot of a staircase. While evidence personnel bustled about, their camera

flashes frequently lighting the room, Cox squatted on his haunches and

studied the decedent by the stairs. Another well-dressed white male, he

noted, this one wearing a tie. His feet were elevated on the steps, head

pressed against the wall at the foot of the landing. "Four shots in the torso,

and then he falls down the staircase," Cox mumbled, his brows furrowing.

"This doesn't make sense. Why would the burglar be shooting a resident

who's going up the stairs? Shouldn't the resident have been coming down

when he heard the break-in? This don't add up." He turned to Royer. "We

got any ID on the victims yet?"

"That's the funny thing," Royer responded hesitantly. "I did a cursory

search of the place, looking for some kind of indicia and can't find nothing.

They may have IDs in their wallets, but I didn't want to disturb the bodies.

Far as the house goes, you'd never know anybody lives here, except for the

few pieces of furniture. There's no pictures, no bills, no books or magazines,

no nothing."

Cox stood up and looked around the living room. He saw that Royer

had a point, although he'd never admit it out loud. Cox had gotten the

same queer feeling when he entered the home, a sense of emptiness, a lack

of occupancy. Scanning the surrounding walls, Cox confirmed the points

Royer had made. No pictures, no decorations, no knick-knacks adorning

the fireplace mantle or end tables. And why were the victims so dressed-up

around midnight? Did they come home late and surprise the intruder?

The homicides looked fairly straightforward, but Cox could see a few loose

ends that needed tying off before he could close the case.

When Cox finished scrawling his latest observations, Royer led him up

to the bedroom where the body had been ejected. Once again Cox noted

the sparseness of the furniture. The room contained a single bed, dresser,

end table, and an overturned tower lamp. Scattered about the hardwood

floor were dishes and a serving tray. From the looks of it, somebody was

eating fried chicken, macaroni and cheese, and a glass of milk when a

struggled ensued.

"Evidence techs been here yet?" Cox asked.

"They took pictures. Other than that, nothing's been touched," Royer

replied.

Cox noticed a bloodied butter knife next to the shattered window,

where the blinds were wildly askew. Stepping carefully toward the object,

he bent forward and studied the piece of silverware. It was a standard

butter knife with a rounded tip, curved upward at the end. The dull blade

was covered with blood.

Cox frowned and straightened, staring through Royer as the cogs in his

mind kicked into gear. Why the hell would a burglar use a butter knife to

attack a victim if the perp was packing a gun? Did he break in and surprise

somebody eating a meal? Maybe they began struggling before the perp

could get the gun out. Why would the victim eat a meal in the bedroom?

Cox looked around. No TV. No phone to talk on. It wasn't right. And how

could the intruder get upstairs to the bedroom while the other victim was

downstairs? It was obvious—from the position of the other body on the

stairs—that the second victim was coming up when he got shot dead. He

must've heard the commotion.

"Where's the gun?" Cox asked.

"Secured in the trunk of my car," Royer replied. "It was a nine

millimeter Glock automatic. The suspect dropped it on the ground when

the witness clobbered him. Harris said the suspect ran at him with the gun

after hauling ass out the front door. You can talk to Harris if you want. We

let him return to his house a couple doors down."

"He said the perp ran at him with the gun?"

"Yeah."

"Did you check the gun? Did it still have rounds?"

"One in the chamber and four in the clip."

"Why didn't the perp shoot Harris? He blows away the guy on the

stairs; why not open up when he sees a witness in the street?"

"You're the detective; I guess you'll figure that out, right?"

Cox shot a look at Royer, angered by the smart-ass remark. He was

ready to chastise the rookie when the window drew his attention. Through

the wrecked blinds, he caught sight of the dark car with the two mysterious

occupants down below, the ones he'd passed earlier. For some reason, the

sight of them made Cox feel uneasy. The strangers remained motionless,

watching the activity of the crime scene with an odd passivity. "Hey, Royer,

take a look at this," Cox said, motioning for the officer to join him. "You

see those guys earlier?"

Royer stepped to the window and parted a portion of the blinds. "Oh

yeah, they rolled up not long after I responded to the scene."

"Did you talk to them? Who are they?"

"I asked what they were doing here, figured they were our boys, but

they told me they're feds."

"Feds? You mean FBI?"

"Yes sir, showed badges and said they were special agents from the

Sacramento office."

"Why do they care about some local homicide? This ain't their

jurisdiction."

Royer stretched his lips and shook his head. "Don't know; they didn't

tell me nothing else. Didn't ask questions. Didn't get out of the car. They

been sitting there like that this whole time. Weird stuff."

The faces of the FBI agents loomed ghostly behind the windshield as they

watched Cox approach. The one in the driver's seat had short-cropped,

rusty colored hair and a long nose over thin, cruel lips. His eyes were dark

and lifeless, like a shark's, studying Cox with cold detachment. The driver's

window made an electric hum, sliding down smoothly when Cox reached

the car.

"Evening, gentlemen," Cox greeted, bending and getting a good look

at the passenger and the car's interior, a reflex from his field training.

"Something I can do for you?"

The driver had a leather wallet in hand and flipped it open, revealing

a badge and ID. "I'm Special Agent Ross with the Federal Bureau of

Investigation. This is my partner, Agent Frazier. We're watching your

response to the crime scene."

"So I noticed. Mind telling me why? This isn't exactly your jurisdiction,

is it? Why does the FBI care about a burglary-homicide in Las Cruces?"

Ross's cold eyes rolled away from Cox and surveyed the activity in

the cul-de-sac before coming back to Cox again. "Are you the detective in

charge?"

"Dale Cox, at your service," Cox replied, feeling a bit unnerved. There

was something scary about Ross.

"We'd like to talk to you about what's going on here. Maybe we can buy

you a cup of coffee somewhere and discuss the case when you wrap your

investigation for the night."

Cox considered the request momentarily, pretending nonchalance,

but feeling a sudden current of excitement coursing through him. "Sure,"

he said, casually, "I wouldn't mind helping the FBI."

"We'll be happy to fill you in about what our interest is," Ross responded,

flashing a fake smile that quickly withered. "The bureau chiefs back in

Washington will be very pleased that your department is cooperative."

"Don't worry about a thing, I'll make sure my superiors fall in line,"

Cox said a bit too eagerly. He was lousy at containing his awe. "I don't

know if it makes a difference, but I attended your academy in Virginia

last year, the one for advanced training of local law enforcement. I got the

certificate mounted on a frame in my office. Finished third in my class."

Ross raised his brows in mock appreciation and turned to his partner,

slowly nodding his approval. "That impresses us a lot," he said, turning his

attention back to Cox. "In a way, that makes you part of the brotherhood."

"That's the way I see it," Cox beamed. "Everybody in law enforcement's

joined in one way or the other. It don't matter what level, we all need to

work together."

"I like that. Glad we're on the same page," Ross said, trying another

phony smile that faded almost instantly. "We'll talk in a bit then.... And

Cox?"

"Yeah."

"Keep this very quiet, even from your coworkers, right?"

"Right, Agent Ross, you can count on me. I'm your man all the way."