6

      “According to the computer, Newel’s mother lives in Ohio.” Mick Weinberg slugged down black coffee. “We called the number—it was disconnected. So much for our hookup to Washington’s Find a Person Search database.”

      Squinting behind his glasses. The lieutenant needed bifocals, but had been too busy to make the appointment. He lowered his specs, looked across the table at three of his homicide detectives. A good bunch … a tired bunch.

      Weinberg rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt, loosened his tie. Stuffy without the fan. Moisture had formed in the pits of his muscled arms and on the top of his bald head. He wondered when Myra intended to turn it on.

      He went on, “Nothing comes up by way of a father. So that means someone here who knew Brittany is going to have to make a formal ID. The ex-boyfriend’s our best bet. Rom, you go call—Rom, you with us?”

      Poe yanked open his eyes. “I’m here.”

      The lieutenant pushed Poe’s coffee cup toward his sergeant. “Drink.”

      Poe picked up his mug, sipped, then drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “Is there any milk?”

      Weinberg shouted, his voice carrying easily in the empty restaurant, “Myra, could we get some Mocha Mix? Also maybe a little food? These good public servants need some nutrition.”

      The phantom voice responded, “The steamer’s still heating up.”

      “What about the griddle?” Weinberg called out.

      Myra answered, “If you beg, I suppose I can whip up some deli omelets.”

      Weinberg faced his crew. “Deli omelets okay?”

      “Sounds great.” Jensen suddenly realized he was famished.

      Patricia answered, “I’ll eat anything.”

      Someone started pulling on the locked glass door. Weinberg turned around, yelled, “We’re closed!” Gesticulations. “We open at eleven.” Flashing ten splayed fingers, then the index digit. “Eleven!” Frowned. To himself, the loo muttered, “Can’t they read the damn sign?”

      Poe continued to swallow the sour brew. “Were you talking to me, Lieutenant?”

      “I just assigned you Brittany’s ex-boyfriend, Trent Minors. Take him down to the morgue for a positive ID.”

      “Do you want Brittany ID’d in her current condition?”

      “What condition, Poe? She’s dead.”

      “Lieutenant, she’s monstrous. Half of her has been flayed. Her left eyeball is miss—”

      Abruptly, he stopped talking.

      “What?” Weinberg asked.

      Poe blinked. “Nothing.”

      “Don’t give me that.”

      “A passing thought.”

      “So pass it by me, Poe.”

      “A flash of déjà vu.” Poe hesitated. “When I was a kid, there was this case—a grotesque murder—maybe even more than one, I don’t remember too well. Judging by today’s standards—with guys like Jeffrey Dahmer and John Wayne Gacy—it doesn’t seem extraordinary. But as a kid, I … we were all terrorized. Thought this guy was the bogeyman incarnate. That’s what we called him. The Bogeyman. For a while, the whole thing terrorized the town.”

      “Which town?” Patricia asked.

      “Here. Vegas.”

      Weinberg said, “I don’t remember anything like this.”

      “Probably before your time, sir. Roughly twenty-five years ago.”

      “A good ten years before.”

      Poe said, “Even then I doubt if it infiltrated into the Strip. If the powers that were kept atomic testing under wraps, I don’t imagine a couple of murders would be a problem. But back then, in the ’burbs …” He raised his brow. “It freaked us out.”

      “Do you even remember the specifics?” Jensen remarked.

      Poe suddenly felt a chill. Things that happened in childhood … so much more intense. “There were rumors. Probably apocryphal, but they said that the killer had desecrated the corpses. He had scooped out the eyeballs—”

      “Omelets, anyone?” Myra chirped. In the middle of the table, she plunked down a platter of scrambled eggs filled with pastrami, salami, and smoked turkey. Big chunks of flesh-colored meat gelatinously wrapped in quivering ovum.

      Jensen said, “Ever notice how visceral-looking eggs are?”

      The table groaned.

      Unceremoniously, Myra dropped four plates and silverware onto the table along with a carton of Mocha Mix. She put graceful, blue-veined hands on her hips. She had short nails … immaculately clean. She was in her mid-fifties, hazel eyes with short gray hair cut like Prince Valiant’s. A round, open face which, at the moment, spelled annoyance. She wore a white shirt, gray skirt, and white chef’s apron. Tennis shoes covered her feet. “You have complaints, take it elsewhere.”

      “Looks good to me.” Jensen picked up a spoon and a plate, then heaped eggs on his dish. “Looks wonderful, in fact. Thanks, Myra. I’m starved.”

      The woman smiled warmly. “More coffee, Steve? Orange juice?”

      “Both would hit the spot, thank you.”

      Weinberg passed out the remaining dishes. “Help yourselves.”

      Patricia