MAGGIE had never seen two men put away more ribs than her FBI buddies. Their compulsion to compete with each other was ridiculous. Maggie recognized it was no longer for her benefit, but was now extended to their new friends. Detectives Ford and Milhaven encouraged Turner and Delaney like spectators at a major sporting event. Ford had even placed five dollars on the table for the first man who would clean his plate.

Maggie sat back, sipped her Scotch and tried to find something more interesting to watch through the dimly lit restaurant. She half expected to see Nick Morrelli walk in, and then realized she had no idea what she would do if he were to show up. Ford had told Maggie after class that he and Nick had gone to the University of Nebraska together. He said he had left a message at the hotel’s front desk for Nick to join them at dinner. It was ridiculous, but just knowing that he was at the conference had stirred up all those feelings she had tucked away since the last time she had seen him.

That was over five months ago. She and Nick had spent exactly one week together, hunting a religious psychopath who had murdered four little boys. Two men had been captured and were awaiting trial, neither of whom Maggie was convinced was the real killer. Despite all the circumstantial evidence, Maggie still believed the real killer was a charismatic priest named Father Michael Keller. Only, Keller had disappeared somewhere in South America, and no one, not even the Church, seemed to know what had happened to him.

Maggie knew Keller had been the one who had visited Albert Stucky in a Florida prison. Several guards had later identified him from a photograph. And though she had no proof, she also knew it had been Keller who had given Stucky the daggerlike crucifix he had used to cut himself free of his restraints and stab a transport guard.

She was about to order another Scotch when Ford waved down the waitress for the check. Neither detective had allowed any of the FBI agents to pay. Maggie insisted on at least leaving the tip.

The night was clear but crisp enough to provoke a shiver. Before they got to the parking lot, they noticed a gathering in the alley. One cop stood in front of a Dumpster and attempted to keep a small crowd of onlookers at a distance.

“What’s the problem here, Cooper?” Ford knew the officer.

The officer glanced at Maggie and Turner.

“It’s okay,” Ford reassured him. “They’re FBI. Here for the conference.”

Officer Cooper pointed to the Dumpster behind him.

“Dishwasher at the bistro took out the trash about a half hour ago. Noticed a hand sticking up out of the pile. Freaked. Called it in, but not before he announced it to the whole goddamn world.”

Maggie felt the familiar knot in her stomach. The first thing she noticed was a red umbrella, its handle looped over the edge of the Dumpster as if the owner hadn’t meant for it to be mistaken for trash. Or had it purposely been left as evidence?

“Officer Cooper.” She waited for his attention. “You might mention to the detectives when they arrive that there’s an umbrella here. It probably should be bagged and taken in for fingerprints.”

“Will do.”

Without disturbing anything, Maggie could see the woman was naked and lying on her back. Immediately, she knew the scene had been tampered with. Officer Cooper said the dishwasher had noticed only a hand sticking up out of the pile, yet the woman’s entire torso was exposed. Vegetable peels had been tossed onto her face. Her head was turned to the side, her brilliant red hair littered with leftovers.

Maggie could see the woman’s mouth, partially opened. Then she noticed a dot, a beauty mark above the upper lip. The knot in her stomach tightened. She reached in.

“O’Dell, what the hell are you doing?” Turner scolded her.

Gently, she swiped at a potato peel and a clump of pasta stuck to the woman’s face.

“It’s Rita,” she said, wishing she had been wrong.

“Rita? Rita who?”

Maggie glanced at Turner and watched the recognition register on his face.

“Shit! You’re right.”

“You guys know her?” Ford asked as he looked over the top.

“She’s a waitress from the bar and grill down the street,” Maggie explained as she continued to examine Rita’s body.

Her throat had been slashed, so deep it had nearly decapitated her. The rest of her body had few bruises and no punctures except for her wrists, which showed ligature marks. Whatever the method of capture, the struggle had been minimal, suggesting that hopefully death had come quickly. Maggie found herself relieved and at the same time disparaged to be relieved by such a thing.

Then she saw the bloody incision in Rita’s side underneath a mass of spaghetti. She shoved herself away from the Dumpster, rushing a safe distance away before she wrapped her arms around herself to stop the wave of panic.

“O’Dell, you okay?” Turner was at her side. His large hand touched her shoulder, startling her.

“Stucky did this,” she said.

“O’Dell, come on now.”

“I thought I saw him when we were in the bar and grill last night.”

“As I remember, we all had plenty to drink.”

“No, you don’t understand. Stucky must have seen her. He must have noticed us talking, joking with her. He chose her because of me.”

“O’Dell, we’re in Kansas City. You’re not even on the conference roster. Stucky couldn’t possibly know you’re here.”

“I know you and Delaney think I’m losing it. But this is exactly Stucky’s M.O. We should start looking for a container, a take-out container, before someone else finds it.”

“Look, O’Dell. You’re just on edge.”

“It’s him, Turner. I know it. And whatever he sliced out of her is going to show up at some outdoor café table. Maybe even in front of this restaurant.”

“O’Dell, slow down,” he whispered. “I know you’re feeling like you need to be checking over your shoulder, thinking—”

“Damn it, Turner. This isn’t my imagination.”

He went to touch her shoulder again, and this time she jerked back just as she noticed a dark figure across the alley.

“O’Dell, relax.”

The man stood at the edge of the crowd, a crowd that had doubled in only a few minutes. He was too far away, and it was too dark for her to be certain, but he wore a black leather jacket.

“There’s a man in the crowd,” she whispered, “tall, thin, dark, sharp features. It could be Stucky. My God, he’s even carrying what looks like a take-out container.”

“As are a whole bunch of others. This is a restaurant district.”

She started around him, but Turner grabbed her arm.

“Stay put and stay cool,” he said with an exaggerated sigh.

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m gonna talk to the man. Ask a few questions.”

“If it’s Stucky—”

“If it’s Stucky, I’ll recognize the bastard. If it’s not, you’re picking up the dinner tab tomorrow night.”

She reached inside her jacket and kept her hand on her gun. All other motion stood still as she concentrated on the man in the leather jacket. Could it really be Stucky? Could the bastard be so arrogant to kill in a city crawling with law enforcement officers from across the country, then stand back and watch? Yes, Stucky would love the challenge. He’d love to be able to thumb his nose at them all.

Turner didn’t reach the crowd before the man turned to leave.

“Hey, wait a minute.” Turner yelled. “I want to talk to you.”

The man bolted and so did Turner. Delaney started to ask Maggie something, but she didn’t wait to hear. She raced across the parking lot, gun drawn, its nose to the ground. The crowd scattered out of her way with gasps and one scream.

All Maggie could think was this time Stucky would not escape.