Chapter 1

"Police! Stop!"

The narrow alley is dark, damp, and dreary, lined with dumpsters, fire escapes, and shady backdoors.

The stench of garbage fills my nostrils.

A bitter taste leaks into my mouth and I recognize it to be my own sweat.

The rapid pounding of my feet on the pavement, and my heart racing in my chest, drown out the usual noises of the night.

Muscles aching, I race after the hooded man.

There is a fence ahead. He is forced to stop and search for a way through, giving me time to catch up to him.

Endorphin induced exhilaration courses through my veins.

There is nowhere for him to run now.

Drawing my weapon, I take a deep breath and reiterate, "I said, this is the police. Put your hands on your head and slowly turn around."

A moment of hesitation, then he raises his hands to the back of his head. As he begins to turn, the buzzing in my ears starts to fade.

Just as I'm about to see his face, I hear the sirens closing in on us.

*****

The shrill of my cell phone shatters my dreams, startling me awake.

Still on edge from my nightmarish chase, I frantically pick up the phone. "Hello?"

"Time to go, Detective Turner!" Brad's voice booms through the receiver. "A murder has been reported at 86 Spring St. Meet me there in 15 minutes."

The last of my exhaustion slips away as instinct kicks in. I rub the sleep from my eyes, "OK. I'll be there," and end the call before swinging out of bed.

One look at the clock and I know it's going to be a long day. 3am and murder already. What's for breakfast, armed robbery?

In the car, I have time to analyze my dream. Turning on the lights, but leaving the sirens off, I comb through the details of the chase.

It seemed so real. It was as if I could feel every muscle contracting as I ran through the narrow street.

Never before have I experienced such a traumatic collar. I've never even been in such an intense situation.

Not to mention, I have no recollection of having seen that alleyway before.

I should talk to Dr. Lance about this later.

Dr. Lance Parker is the police psychologist. He works with the victims to help them get through traumatic experiences.

Feeling a little giddy at the thought of him, my cheeks become warm and a grin spreads across my face.

He's smart, tall, and handsome. There's been a secret attraction between the two of us for sometime now. We flirt at the office, but neither of us would dare cross the professional line. So we keep our feelings to ourselves, but perhaps discussing this dream with him will give us a reason to be alone in a "professional" manner.

There is plenty of time to think about Lance later; but for now, I should get ready for the real crime scene ahead.

I'm only a few blocks away. On the plus side, at least I didn't have to go far.

When I pull up, my partner, Detective Brad Clemens, is already processing the scene.

Spring street is lined with only a handful of brick, ranch style homes. There are a smattering of sedans, and a few dark, mid-sized suv's parked in the various driveways. All of the lawns are cut to city codes and adorned with strategically placed, neatly trimmed arrangements of bushes and flowers. The same white picket fence seems to line the sidewalks on either side of the street. There are no stray toys, nor forgotten bicycles, anywhere in sight.

Astonished that he was able to get here so fast, I begin to wonder if even went home last night. He works late every night, and he lives on the other side of town. "How did you beat me here?" I ask aloud.

"You have to see this, Lucy." He responds, as if I hadn't spoken.

Who would commit murder in a neighborhood this nice? Surely there are security cameras, or at least an eye witness?

As I approach the scene, I turn my full attention to my partner, "What have you got, Clemens?"

"Looks like someone used a garotte. See the ligature marks around his neck?"

My faith in humanity is practically non existent anymore. The old saying 'You see something new everyday' is not one I appreciate after 5 years as a detective. Sounding in agreeance, I stoop down to further examine the suited, middle aged man, dead in his driveway.

His keys lay on the ground not far from his feet. His tie is barely ruffled. There are only a few strands of hair out of place from his gelled back style.

"Looks like he didn't have a chance to fight back." I state, offhandedly. "Do we know why he was dressed up and leaving the house at this hour?"

"Wife says that he worked in the city and was heading in early to finish up some paperwork."

"Did he have any enemies? Are there any possible leads?"

"No enemies. No leads. For such a quiet neighborhood, no one seems to have seen a thing, and no one has a security camera that looks farther than their own front door."

Of course no one saw anything that would just be too convenient.

"Let's get him out of here. I'll interview the wife back at the station." I suggest.

"I've already built a rapport with her. If you don't mind, I'd like to do the interview."

Relieved, I am grateful to have a partner that knows me so well. Of course I don't mind. I'm no good with grieving wives. I would much rather look for a lead in the case.

"Sounds good. I'll dig into his background and finances, see what I can come up with."

Clemens walks over to escort the widow back to the station. Heading back to my car, I alert the M.E. that he can load up the victim. "We're ready to go, Jimmy."

Heading back to the station, I can't seem to clear my head of my dream from earlier.

Dark, narrow alley.

Tall, hooded suspect.

My heart begins to pound anxiously at just the thought of the chase.

My hands become clammy and I realize how tightly I'm gripping the steering wheel.

Shaking my head a little to regain my focus on the case, I pull into the parking lot behind the police station and head inside.

A few hours later, I have come up with absolutely no reason for anyone to want the victim dead. He has one of the cleanest records I have ever seen. His Finances are in order. He isn't too rich, nor is he falling behind on any bills.

He seems like a perfectly functioning member of society.

The door to the interview room opens, and Detective Clemens escorts the widow to the family waiting area.

Perhaps Brad got some information from the wife that we don't know about.

"How did it go with the wife?"

"As well as it could, I suppose. Did you get anything from his background check?"

"Nothing. He's as clean as a whistle. I don't suppose the wife had any secrets or troubles at home to speak of?"

"No. He was a 'wonderful husband' and they were trying to start a family."

"Great. We're at square one." This has got to be the most frustrating case I've ever been on. "I'll check with Jimmy. Maybe he found something that can help us."

"Sounds good. Let me grab my stuff, I'll come with you. The wife's family is here to pick her up anyway."

The sun is beginning to rise when we exit the building.

The beauty strikes me as odd at such a desolate time.

Riding in silence, I debate whether or not I should confide in Brad. He's always been a good friend, and partner. I just don't know what he'll make of it. He might not want to work with me in the field if he doesn't think I'm in the right mind for it.

No. I'll talk to Lance first and see what he thinks.

When we arrive at the morgue, Jimmy, the M.E., is just finishing his in-processing paperwork and rises from his desk to greet us.

"Detective Clemens, Detective Turner." He acknowledges us. "I was just about to begin the autopsy. I haven't even had time to undress the victim yet, but you are welcome to stay a while and bag the personal effects."

"We haven't gotten information from anywhere else," I admit, "might as well stick around here and hope to find something."

As I unzip the body bag, Jimmy takes note of the victim's clothing for his records.

As Brad and Jimmy deftly undress him, I bag the clothes and set them in an evidence box.

Just as I'm about to place his folded pants in a bag, a piece of paper, sticking awkwardly from his pocket, catches my eye.

Why would a man in a business suit have a piece of paper folded up in his pocket?

With a gloved hand, I gently pull the parchment out, unfold it and read aloud, "Now you see what I can do. Just wait, Lucy, I'm coming for you."

Fear passes through me, unsettling to my core. The note falls to the floor from my trembling hand. This can't have been written for me. Who could possibly be threatening me? And who would know that I would be the one to find the note?

Voice shaking, I ask, "What was the wife's name?" I know that it can't possibly be for her, nor would I want it to be. But I cannot accept the possibility that this threat is actually directed towards me.

Clemens looks pale, practically staring through me. "Sarah."