MAGGIE couldn’t wait to peel off her smelly clothes. Everyone in the lobby had confirmed her suspicions—she reeked. The brave souls who rode up with her in the elevator looked as though they had held their breath for all twenty-three floors.

Ford had dropped her and Nick at the door, then drove home to explain to his wife why he smelled like garbage on his day off. Nick’s room was in the south tower of the hotel complex, explaining why they hadn’t run into each other before. Which meant both banks of elevators would need disinfecting.

The three of them had spent hours digging through Dumpsters and looking for discarded containers on window ledges, fire escapes and flower boxes. Maggie hadn’t even noticed the thick, gray thunderheads that had rolled in until the rain came in sheets, forcing them to take shelter. She would have continued if she had been alone.

Detective Ford had assured her that Stucky would, indeed, be considered a suspect in Rita’s murder, despite their not finding the missing kidney. Maggie couldn’t understand why Stucky would deviate from his game. Could someone have placed the container in his refrigerator without knowing what was inside? Maggie didn’t even want to think about it. The fact was, there was nothing more she could do.

As soon as she came into her room, she noticed the phone’s message light flashing. Who could be calling? There was only one message, and it was, indeed, marked urgent.

“This is Anita Glasco calling for Assistant Director Cunningham. He needs to see you in his office tomorrow morning at nine. Please call me back if you won’t be able to make it. Thank you and have a safe trip home, Maggie.”

Maggie smiled at Anita’s soothing voice, though the message itself set her on edge. It was Cunningham’s way of seeing to it that she returned immediately. He knew she would never blow off a request to meet with him. She wondered what he already knew about Rita’s murder, or if he had even considered looking into it. After all, Delaney had probably made it sound as though she was losing her mind.

She checked her wristwatch and scraped something dry and crusty from its face. She still had about six hours before her rescheduled flight. It was the last one to D.C. tonight. If she was to make the appointment with Cunningham, she couldn’t afford another delay. But how could she leave Kansas City knowing Stucky was here? Maybe looking for his next victim this very minute.

She made sure the door was locked. She added the chain and rammed the desk chair under the knob, kicking the legs until it was secure. Then she stripped down to her underwear and tossed her smelly clothes into one of the dry-cleaning bags in the closet.

She brought her Smith & Wesson with her to the bathroom, leaving it on the counter. She left the door open, slipped out of her bra and panties, then crawled into the shower.

The water beat and massaged her skin. She turned the temperature as hot as she could stand it. She wanted to be rid not only of the smells, but of that crawly feeling just under her skin. That infestation of maggots that invaded her system every time she knew Stucky was nearby.

When she stepped out of the shower, she wiped at the foggy mirror. The brown eyes stared back at her with that damn vulnerability so close to the surface. And the scars were still there, too. Her body was becoming a scrapbook.

The scar began just beneath her breast. With her fingertip, she forced herself to touch it. To trace its puckered line down her abdomen.

“I could gut you in seconds,” she remembered him telling her—no, promising, not telling. By then, she had resigned herself to death. He had already forced her to watch while he bludgeoned and gutted two women. He had threatened that if Maggie closed her eyes he would simply bring out another woman and start all over. And he had been true to his word.

There was still no escaping those images and sounds: bloodied breasts, the crack of bones, the thud of baseball bat against skull. There had been so much blood from knives sinking into flesh, into abdomens and vaginas. No place was sacred for Stucky. He carved and sliced, encouraged by the screams.

After making her feel the splatters of blood, the pieces of bone and brain, hear the mind-shattering cries for help and smacks of bloodied flesh, what more could he have done to her? Death would have been a relief. So he left her with a constant reminder of himself, a scar.

Maggie snatched a T-shirt and wrestled into it, anxious to cover herself despite her skin being damp. She marched to the dresser and pulled out clean underwear and khakis. Her hair was still dripping as she rummaged through the service butler, relieved to find two new miniatures of Scotch. Thank God for the hotel staff’s efficiency.

A soft tap on the door startled her. Before pulling the chair away, she checked the peephole. Nick’s hair was damp. He wore clean jeans and a crisp shirt.

She returned the chair to the desk and slipped the revolver into her waistband. It wasn’t until she opened the door and his eyes slid down her body that she realized she had nothing on underneath the T-shirt that clung to her damp body.

“That was fast,” she said, ignoring the flutter this man seemed to activate on sight.

“I was anxious to crawl out of those clothes. I think I might need to throw out my shoes. There’s gunk on them that I don’t even want to know about.”

They stared at each other. She felt hot and damp. She told herself it was from her shower and the extra-hot water she had used.

“I thought maybe we could get something to eat or drink,” he said. “You do still have time before your flight?”

“I should…um…put something else on.”

His eyes wouldn’t let her go. Suddenly it unnerved her how much she wanted to touch him. She needed to close the door, pull herself together. Instead, she heard herself saying, “Why don’t you come in?”

He hesitated, enough so that she could have taken back the invitation. Instead, she retreated to the dresser, pulling things out at random, pretending to be searching while giving herself any excuse not to look up at him.

He came in and closed the door behind him.

“We seem to spend a lot of time in hotel rooms.”

She glanced at him, immediately annoyed that the reminder brought a flush to her cheeks. In a small hotel room in Platte City, Nebraska, they had come dangerously close to making love. Five months later, she could still feel the same rush of heat.

She pulled out a white crew-neck sweater, the cotton knit cool but bulky and comfortable. She snatched a bra from the drawer as well.

“I’ll just be a minute,” she said as she disappeared into the bathroom.

She changed quickly, avoiding any extra touches. She reached to remove her gun, hesitated, and left it in her waistband, pulling the loose sweater down and checking in the mirror to make sure it couldn’t be seen. She knew she’d have to grab her badge on the way out.

Nick was at the window and watched as she tugged on socks and slipped on shoes.

“Ready?” she asked as she headed for the door. She almost tripped over the room-service tray on the floor outside. She stared down at the single dinner plate covered by a silver insulator. The two empty glasses and accompanying silverware sparkled on a crisp white napkin.

“Did you order something from room service?” she turned to ask, but Nick was already by her side.

“No. And I didn’t hear a knock, either.”

He stepped over the tray and out into the hallway to look in both directions. Maggie listened. There were no slamming doors, no footsteps, no wisping elevators.

“Probably just a mistake,” Nick said, but she could hear his tension.

Maggie kneeled next to the tray. Her pulse quickened. Carefully, she slipped the linen napkin out from under the silverware. She unfolded it, then used it to lift the handle of the metal insulator. Immediately the smell filled the hall.

“Jesus,” Nick said, jerking back a step.

In the middle of the shiny dinner plate lay a bloody glob Maggie knew was Rita’s missing kidney.