It was a night for detectives, Sam mused dispiritedly. Where was Columbo when you needed him? Sam had always felt that there was something comforting about Columbo's old trench coat and sad-faced dog look, just like Monk's ever-ready handy wipes. But they were on their own, no help to be had.
Sam, Nic and Alex followed Ripley to the back of an alley on the corner of Baker Street and McCallam. Wearing only a short skirt and a long sleeve blouse, Sam certainly felt the nip in the air. But the chilly night winds were not what had frozen the woman on the ground.
Moonlight filtered down, revealing the body. Sam studied it. This victim was marble hard, and death was death no matter how a person bought or paid for it.
"Yep, it's murder," she said stonily. She didn't need to be Leonardo da Vinci to figure out that the gorgon had struck again. And if they didn't catch him soon, there would be a new exhibit of female stationary gracing the sidewalks of New York. She doubted the Met would approve of the competition.
The woman lay with her skirt hiked up, her face frozen in pain and ecstasy for all time—just a stoned throes away from a big city that didn't care.
Shaking her head, Sam remarked, "The NYPD Supernatural Task Force will be stumped." How could they suspect a mythical monster that hadn't seen the light of day for over eight centuries? Would they realize a gorgon was getting his rocks off by turning women to stone? "Will they even believe us?" she wondered aloud.
She and Nic were between a rock and a hard place, like running a gauntlet blindfolded or walking a tightrope in high heels. She doubted the NYPD Supernatural Task Force would help them; more likely they would just slow things down. Even their best detective, Rockford, with his meticulous files, wouldn't be able to deal with this murder case. And CSI couldn't get blood out of stone.
"I doubt it," Nic replied. His eyes narrowed in rage; nobody deserved to die like this.
"The task force also won't know the weapons to kill a Meduse. They sure can't go after him with Remingtons or Magnums."
"You're right. We shouldn't involve them yet," Nic agreed, sniffing the air and surveying the crime scene.
Picking up the victim's purse, Sam found crackers and a wallet inside, along with other detritus. The lady's name was Harri Kenny. "Human female, five foot seven, one hundred and forty-two pounds and thirty-one years of age. Well, at least we know who killed Kenny. You don't have to be a psych to figure it out. What a tragic end to a life cut short. Dammit! We've got to stop Nero. This woman needs to be avenged," Sam said.
"We will, Sam, we will," Nic vowed. He was closely seconded by Alex, whose usual good spirits had vanished with the night's gruesome discovery.
Ripley had been sniffing the air, and he remarked, "The Meduse doesn't leave any scent. Strange, but I can't get anything from either the victim or this alley."
Sam frowned. A werewolf had a better nose than a bloodhound. "You didn't get a scent at Jessie's place either?"
Ripley shook his head. "The Meduse must have some kind of spell protecting him."
"Probably the de-scenting spell. Costly, very costly. And it only makes things harder for us," Sam complained, shaking her head. She pulled a card out of the dead woman's wallet, noting it was a pass card. "The victim works for Dragnet Industries, a business that goes over to Asia and captures dragons for domestic use here in the U.S.A. She's also a card-carrying witch. The Cagney and Lacy Clan."
"Dragons for domestic use?" Alex asked curiously.
"Yeah. Dragons are used for controlled crop burning in the midwest, and of course nationwide at funeral homes. Cremation."
Nic tapped his foot, his expression grave. "She wasn't exactly born a supernatural, but she did work for a more magical industry and is a witch. She was also blond. I wonder what else about her drew the gorgon?"
"She's got great breasts," Alex volunteered. "So did Jessie."
Sam narrowed her eyes and nodded curtly. "Thank you for telling me. Thank you so much. Now if you come a bit closer, I'll put my fist in your eye."
Nic sighed. His brother had always been a breast man. He himself preferred the total package—a package very much in the shape and size of Sam Hammett.
"I can't believe the gorgon struck again so soon," Ripley muttered, voicing everyone's thoughts.
"Three nights and he's struck again. That's bad news," Nic agreed. Looking back at the sidewalk to where a few Goth-costumed clubbers were walking by, he noted, "It's a pretty public place to be getting his kicks in killing. He must not be afraid of capture at all."
"Or John Q. Public. It appears that Nero's certainly not sitting around fiddling while we roam," Sam added hotly. She summed up her conclusions: "He comes out of nowhere and starts stoning women. This is the second victim we know of in three days. Usually a serial stoner works up to his killing. It usually takes months. Yet we have two occurrences in less than a week. You don't go from crawling to running. No, there must be other bodies that we know nothing about."
Sam glanced at Nic, who was rising from examining the corpse. His stance was taut, his body weight evenly distributed; he stood on the balls of his feet, ready for the rocky path ahead.
"If there were any other murders, we would have heard it through the paranormal pipeline. Petroff has good connections. So do I," Nic remarked as he glanced back down at the victim. "But I tend to agree with you, Sam. This hunter is skilled and unafraid. Maybe he just got to New York and his other kills are elsewhere—maybe the West Coast or Europe."
"You aren't as stupid as you act, Nic," Sam remarked. "Congratulations."
Alex hid his smile behind his hand, while Nic merely stared at her. After a moment he said, "Well, isn't this a Hallmark moment?"
Turning her back on the brothers grim and grimmer, Sam headed back toward the club. Over her shoulder she called, "Just one more thing. I'll check my West Coast contacts tomorrow. Since you guys have friends in Europe, you can check there."
"Where are you going?" Nic called out. He was irritated that the sight of her curvy, swinging hips could almost mesmerize him. She was dynamite in that short blue skirt, dynamite ready to go bang. Which was entirely the wrong train of thought. There was a big, bad monster loose in New York, and he was lusting after a maddening menace with a big mouth.
"I'm going to bed," Sam said. Then she stopped and turned. "But that's not an invitation. Now be sure you dispose of the body properly; NYPD Supernatural just isn't up to it." She started briskly walking, trying to escape the cold night air and the hovering chill of death.
Nic watched Sam go, his insides smoldering. Noticing that his little brother was avidly watching him watch her, he frowned. He shot Alex a hard look. "Don't press your luck, buddy. Just keep your mouth shut."
For once Alex took his eldest brother's advice.
After a moment, glancing back down at the woman in rock, he asked Nic, "What do we do with her?"
"What would one normally do with a stone statue of erotic nature?"
"Take it to a quarry?" his younger brother guessed.
"Nope. To an art gallery specializing in erotic art," Nic explained, and they rolled the corpse in a blanket Ripley had procured.
"Got one in mind?" the werewolf asked.
"Yeah, the McCloud Gallery."
"Ah. I know it. I'll take her," Ripley volunteered.
"Okay, but while you're there, check and see if there's any more life-sized art like this. Maybe someone else has the same idea as me for getting rid of murder victims," Nic advised gravely. He turned. "Alex, you and I have to make those calls pretty soon, what with the time difference in Europe and all."
Alex patted his brother on the shoulder. "You know, Nic, Sam was right. You aren't as dumb as you look."