his cue to get the hell out of there. He picked up his bag and sprinted—as best he could in rubber boots—down the alley.
Celeste Fortune’s shrieks followed him all the way to the street, and as he hurried toward his borrowed car, he heard the wail of a police siren a few blocks over.
Man, she was good.
* * *
“…POLICE AT THIS HOUR are on the scene of a brutal homicide in the Montrose area. Very little information is being released to the public, but we have learned that the victim was a young woman in her late twenties, and neighbors say she lived alone. The similarities to the five grisly murders that occurred here last summer are bound to stir a lot of bad memories for residents in this area. As the viewers will recall, John Allen Stiles, also known as the Casanova Killer, was convicted on five counts of first-degree murder and is now serving consecutive life sentences at Huntsville. But there are some who still maintain his innocence, including a former HPD detective.”
With a shiver, Cassie turned off the TV. She didn’t want to be reminded of those murders. Even in her little hometown, the brutality of the killings had sent shock waves through the community, and people who had never locked their doors before were suddenly installing dead bolts and leaving porch lights on all night.
Cassie fit the profile of the killer’s victims. She was young, single and she lived alone. But she hadn’t gotten caught up in the panic because Houston had seemed a long way off to her then. But now here she was…and another killer was apparently on the loose…
A chill raced up her spine at the sound of yet another siren. Across the room, Mr. Bogart stirred restlessly in his bed, then rolled over and went right back to sleep. Sated from gourmet treats, he seemed none the worse for their earlier adventure.
Cassie couldn’t say the same for herself. She still didn’t know what had possessed her to attack that man in the alley except—even though she was no dog person—she’d never been able to stand animals of any kind being mistreated. And when she’d seen him kick Bogey like that, her reaction had been instinctive.
“Pervert,” she muttered. But what if the guy was worse than that? What if he was the one who had killed that poor woman tonight? Should she call the police?
And tell them what?
She hadn’t gotten a good look at the man’s face, nor did she know which direction he’d fled after he left the alley. A call to the police would accomplish nothing more than to blow her cover. And Celeste’s.
And, anyway, he was probably just some homeless guy going through the Dumpsters.
But…what if he wasn’t?
The sirens grew louder, and reluctantly, Cassie walked over and opened the French doors. Stepping outside, she glanced around. The secluded balcony overlooked a quiet tree-lined street. It reminded her of a Parisian boulevard she’d once seen in a picture.
The small, exclusive hotel was only three stories, and in August, it operated at less than half capacity. When Celeste had made the reservations, she’d had her choice of suites. She’d put Cassie on the third floor, at the far southeast corner where she not only had a view of the street, but also of the narrow alley that provided access to the service entry of the hotel.
The siren sounded as if it was only a block or two from the rear of the hotel, and as Cassie peered over the balcony into the shadows, she spotted someone moving about below her. A tall figure dressed in black…
Casanova!
She instantly chided herself for letting her imagination get the better of her. Hadn’t she just heard on the news that John Allen Stiles was still serving time in Huntsville?
But there were some who believed in his innocence. And another woman had been murdered just a few blocks from where Cassie stood. What if that police detective was right? What if the real Casanova was still out there somewhere? What if she’d come face-to-face with him earlier?
Below, the figure moved out of the shadows and was caught for one brief moment in a glimmer of light from the street. As he turned his head toward the balcony, Cassie caught her breath.
She knew him.
CHAPTER TWO
JACK TRIED TO let himself into his apartment as quietly as he could, but before he could get inside the door across the hall opened, and his neighbor, Cher Maynard, popped her head out.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” she said in that low, husky voice of hers. The woman could read a phone book and make it sound pornographic.
Jack winced, then plastered a smile on his face as he turned. “Yeah? I figured you’d given up on me by now.”
Her gaze slipped over him. “On you? Never.”
He walked over and handed her a set of keys. “Thanks for the use of your car, by the way. You’re a lifesaver.”
“I didn’t exactly do it out of the goodness of my heart, now did I? We have a deal, remember? I scratch your back…you scratch mine.” She stepped back and motioned with her head for him to join her in her apartment.
Jack hesitated, trying to buy himself some time. “Are you sure? It’s late. Maybe we should do this some other time—”
“Oh no you don’t.” She curled a hand around his arm and yanked him inside the apartment, then slammed the door with her foot. Reaching behind her, she turned the dead bolt.
“Look, Cher, it’s been a long day. I’m wiped. If I could just crash for a few hours”
“Now, Jackie, don’t you worry.” Her smile worried him a great deal. “I’ll do all the work. All you have to do is relax and enjoy.”
Easier said than done, Jack thought as he glanced warily around her apartment. The one-bedroom unit was a veritable treasure trove of garage sale and secondhand finds. The red silk pillows and beaded lamp shades were charming, eccentric and a little overpowering, not unlike the woman who lived there.
His gaze moved back to Cher. They’d been neighbors for nearly two years, but her appearance still provoked a double take now and then. Her dark, glossy hair hung to her waist, and her eyes were heavily lined to resemble the seventies version of her famous namesake. She favored rhinestone-studded jeans, cropped tops and four-inch stilettos that put her just a smidgen over Jack’s six feet.
He’d never been sure which had come first, the name or the look. She’d told him once after a few too many margaritas that her real name was Charlene. He couldn’t exactly remember what he’d told her that night.
She walked over now and ran a long, tapered nail down the front of his shirt. “You might want to take that off. Things are apt to get a little messy before we’re through.”
“It’s chilly in here,” he said nervously. “I think I’ll leave it on if you don’t mind.”
She slanted him a look through her false lashes. “What’s the matter, Jackie? You’re not getting cold feet, are you? It’s not like we haven’t done this before.”
She pushed him toward the old, flea market barber’s chair that she’d pulled up next to the kitchen sink. “Have a seat and we’ll get started. Are you sure you don’t want to remove your shirt?”
He sank into the chair and sighed. “Let’s just get this over with.”
“Just what every girl wants to hear.” She whipped out a plastic cape and gave it a good snap.
“So…what exactly are you planning to do?” Jack eyed the bottles and mixing bowls on the counter beside the sink.
Cher tied the cape around him, then patted his shoulder. “All you need to know is that you’re in good hands.”
“Famous last words,” he muttered.
“No