Facetime
By Martin Ross
Category: X-Files/The Closer Crossover
Rating: R for language, sexual content, violent images.
Spoilers: Sanguinarium
Summary: LAPD Deputy Chief Brenda Johnson may finally have met her match in a 
fugitive sorcerer and an agent named Mulder.
Disclaimer: Thanks to Chris Carter and James Duff for creating two of TV’s quirkiest 
sleuths.

Residence of Dr. Robert Hartman
Beverly Hills, California
11:23 a.m.

“Jesus H. Marimba,” Provenza breathed as he frowned down at the body sprawled on 
the pool deck, and then at the serene face on the skull that presumably matched the 
body sprawled on the pool deck.

The white-haired detective then glanced irritably up at the young cameraman trained 
on his every move.

“Damn it, Buzz,” Lt. Provenza growled as he glared at a clearly amused Lt. Flynn five 
yards away. “Take two.”

“We have to keep rolling -- Chief Pope says,” Priority Homicide’s official 
documentarian apologized, his eye glued to the viewfinder.

“Like freakin’ MTV. I don’t know why we couldn’t have waited for Tao. I mean…Aw, 
crap. The victim -- or victims -- is -- or are -- a male -- or males,” Provenza 
informed the camera, then sighed in exasperation. “The M.E. hasn’t arrived on the 
scene yet, so we haven’t yet been able to, ah, definitively ascertain whether this 
body--” he gestured -- “belongs to this head. However, CSU has bagged and tagged 
a wallet taken from the, ah, body that contains a California driver’s license belonging 
to one Dr. Robert Hartman, who resides at this address. Said license appears to 
match the, um, the aforementioned head, but we’ll need the M.E. to verify that the 
head belongs to the body.”
 
Flynn, struggling to maintain a deadpan expression, nodded at the body. Provenza 
shot daggers.

“There appear to be no other wounds on the body, or the head, aside from the body 
being decapitated and the head being, um, uh, disembodied?”

Flynn doubled over, shaking silently, face scarlet.

“Cut, dammit!” Provenza snapped. 

“Hey, Geraldo,” Lt. Flynn wheezed. “I know a good agent, you need one.”

“Hey, Flynn, shove it up your…”

“And a good morning to you, Lieutenant.” Provenza and Flynn turned in unison as 
Los Angeles Deputy Police Chief Brenda Leigh Johnson approached the taped-off 
crime scene, trailed by Sgt. Gabriel. The chief eyed the body, then the head. “Oh, 
my. And who do we have here, Lt. Flynn?”

“Dr. Robert Hartman. Boob jobs and asslifts.” Flynn looked up from his notebook and 
registered the tight-lipped expression beneath superior’s sunglasses. “Uh, cosmetic 
surgeon, Beverly Hills. Does a lot of celebs, society wives. I think he did the tits on—
”   

“Thank you, Lt. Flynn,” Brenda chirped. “Lt. Tao had a chance to go over the scene 
yet?”

“Ah, he’s on a Homeland Security bioterrorism training exercise today, Chief,” 
Gabriel murmured. The sergeant had struck the deal that had kept the squad intact 
but on periodic loan to DHS.

“Dress slacks, shirt buttoned to the neck.” The transplanted Georgian nodded toward 
the expansive mansion beyond the Olympic-scaled pool. “Anyone been inside yet, 
Lieutenant?”

“Sanchez’s in there with the CSU guys.”

The deputy chief squinted at the open patio doors. “Sgt. Gabriel? Thank you, 
gentlemen -- carry on.”

“Detective Sanchez?” Brenda called as she edged past a tech printing the patio door 
handles. Hartman’s den was immaculate, masculine and leathery and lined with thick 
volumes. The CSU crew strove not to look up as the infamous head of the Priority 
Homicide Squad prowled deeper into the plastic surgeon’s home. “Detective 
Sanchez?”

“Right here, Chief,” Sanchez called from the front of the house. Gabriel hustled after 
the deputy chief.

They found the compact detective in the marbled foyer, examining the front door 
jamb with gloved fingers. “No sign of forced entry, Chief.”

“I assumed so, Detective,” Brenda murmured, scanning the small room. The foyer 
opened both into a spacious living room and a darkly paneled dining room. A broad, 
carpeted staircase beckoned to the right of the Olympian dining table. Sanchez and 
Gabriel exchanged resigned glances as their boss beelined for the staircase.

Brenda used her pen to lift the tail of a cerulean blue Daniel de Fasson tie draped 
over the newel post. “Must’ve just came home – barely had time to get his tie off.”

“Maybe the killer was waiting for him to get home,” Gabriel suggested. “Doc invited 
him in, they went out to the pool, had a fight…”

“And the killer pulled out his handy machete and sliced his head off?” Sanchez 
grunted.

Brenda turned and peered into the dining room. A pair of French doors lie beyond 
the table, and she spotted brick and stainless steel beyond the doors.

“Or,” Brenda breathed, striding past the staircase, “or the killer came around the 
back way.” She threw open the French doors. “This is one of those, oh, 
whadoyoucallits…?”

“Grilling patio,” Gabriel murmured, admiring a gleaming commercial barbecue and 
the arsenal of grilling tools hanging beside it. “My uncle, the dentist, he has one of 
these. Not nearly as nice as this, though.”

Brenda stepped out onto the flagstones and slapped the high brick wall surrounding 
them. “Nice private place to meet somebody, you don’t want the neighbors to see.”

“What?” Gabriel called over a growing mechanical roar.

“I said—” Brenda stopped, eyes widening. “What’s that sound, Sergeant?”

“Sounds like a mower,” Gabriel half-shouted.

“A what?”

“A lawn mower, Chief. I think it’s a lawn mower. Maybe next door.”

Brenda rushed back through the house. Sgt. Gabriel shrugged as Sanchez looked up, 
and gave pursuit.

**

“Sir!” Brenda called as she stumbled over the immaculately tonsured turf next door. 
“I need to talk to you!” The landscaper, hardwired into an iPod, looked up briefly, 
then returned to his mowing.

Brenda stepped up her pace. “Sir, stop that! This is a police investigation! Y’all have 
to stop that!”

The compact, mustachioed man continued to plow a shallow furrow in the emerald 
lawn.

“Pare que, o voy a tirar su culo en la cárcel!” Sanchez shouted behind Brenda. 

The man slowed, looked around, but did not stop. “El jefe dice que hay que hacer 
hoy!” he grunted loudly.

“‘The boss says I have to do it today.’”

“Lord,” Brenda gasped as the phrase simultaneously translated itself. Then she 
jumped again as she detected the black-suited stranger behind her shoulder.

Sanchez gave chase. “Hey! No me importa. Se trata de una investigación de 
asesinato.”

“‘I don’t care. This is a murder investigation,’” the helpful interpreter provided. 
Brenda edged away from him.

“‘Esa no es mi preocupación,’” the gardener called out, staring straight ahead at the 
vast expanse of unshorn grass.

“‘It is not my concern,’” the stranger murmured into Brenda’s ear. She batted at 
him.

“Excuse me,” she snapped. “Who would you happen to be?”

“Si yo llamo de INS, sera!” 

The mower halted and its operator disengaged the engine.

“Special Agent Fox Mulder, FBI,” the newcomer supplied. “Your guy said it will be his 
concern if he calls the INS--“

“INS, yes, I got that,” Brenda said through her teeth. She beamed at the young 
Latino cop. “Thank you, Detective Sanchez.” The smile vanished as she returned to 
Mulder. “Agent, while I truly do appreciate your spirit of interagency cooperation, I 
can assure you that I am quite fluent in Spanish. Now, may I ask why you’re 
tromping all over my crime scene?”

Mulder grinned, jerking his head toward the house next door. “I thought the crime 
scene was over there. I mean, that’s where your men currently are swapping 
headless guy puns with the CSU techs.”  

Brenda’s eyes narrowed as her lips twisted into a forced smile. “Sgt. Gabriel, could 
you please remind Lts. Provenza and Flynn that this is a high-profile murder 
investigation, and that the media and especially Asst. Chief Pope may not share their 
sparkling re-par-tay? Thank you, Sergeant. Detective Sanchez, could you please ask 
this gentleman…”

Sanchez nodded stolidly. 

Brenda turned to the gardener, who stood by with bored anticipation. “Un momento, 
por favor?” The man shrugged. Brenda nodded curtly. 

“Now, Agent Mulder, you were about to tell me about your jurisdictional interest in 
this case?”

“We -- my partner, Agent Scully and I -- believe your victim to be the suspect in a 
series of fairly grisly murders about 12 years ago, in Chicago. The suspected 
murderer, Dr. Jack Franklyn, also was a cosmetic surgeon.”

Brenda frowned. “And you’re telling me this man came to L.A. and eventually put out 
a shingle as one of Hollywood’s highest-profiled nip-and-tuck specialists?”

Mulder paused. “The Chicago case dead-ended, well, based on some fairly compelling 
evidence…”

“Evidence of what, Agent?”

“Evidence of our chief suspect‘s demise,” Mulder said hastily. He turned. “By the 
way, barn door’s open.”

The landscaper’s eyes and right hand moved immediately to his jeans. His fingers 
froze, and the dark brown eyes rose guiltily.

Brenda glanced appraisingly at Mulder, then smiled sweetly at the lawnmower man. 
“Well, it appears as though we have conquered a major cultural barrier here.”

“OK, OK,” the man sighed with a Latin-tinged California accent. “My name is Rey 
Menendez. I heard what happened to that man next door, an’ I guess I didn’t wanna 
get messed up in it. I was born East L.A., but I got cousins, comprende?”

“I do, sir, and I see no need to delve into your family affairs,” Brenda said softly. 
“But we do have a murder investigation here, and anything you can tell us would be 
greatly appreciated.”

“In other words,” Sanchez rumbled, “the sooner you talk, the sooner you walk. 
Comprende, amigo?”

“Si, yes,” the gardener nodded somberly. “I was getting my mower off the truck -- 
like I said, the owner here, he’s having some kinda party out here tomorrow. Well, I 
hear this yelling from next door -- the dead man, he’s fighting with this chica--“

“Latino?” Sanchez demanded.

“No, man, blonde babe, muy caliente, you know? She had these wraparound shades, 
but I know I seen her before, like at the movies. But around here, that ain’t no big 
thing. Comprende?”

“Yes,” Brenda murmured troublingly.

Priority Homicide Squad
Los Angeles Police Department
Park Center, Los Angeles
3:54 p.m.

“Shit, shit, shit,” Erin Linscott sobbed, a pinkie perched under her lower lid to 
prevent disfiguring liner leakage. The actress beamed tearful gratitude as Sgt. 
Gabriel nudged the box of Kleenex across the interview table. “I told Bobby he 
needed to hire some security, a little muscle. He was in US just last week.”

Brenda perked. “Excuse me.”

“The magazine. It was a huge spread, all about how many careers Bobby’s saved 
while he does all that work with burned kids.” The pinkie trapped a small, salty 
reservoir -- the two-time Golden Globe nominee quickly swabbed it away. Brenda 
noticed the artful curve of her button nose -- a curve that hadn’t existed when 
Linscott had filmed Sophomore Summer seven years ago. Her chest also had gained 
breadth and definition since that classic had been released. Brenda took a flyer ar 
how she and “Bobby” had met.

“I’m sure he was just a fine man,” Brenda murmured sympathetically. Will -- Chief 
Pope -- had given her the speech about the sensitivity of Dr. Hartman’s homicide and 
its implications for Hartman’s largely A List clients. 

“Thanks -- he was,” Linscott said, sniffling. She smiled poignantly -- the signature 
smile that had branded her “the Julia Roberts for a new generation” and catapulted 
her beyond Meg Ryan’s aging charms. “You’re a very nice lady, not what I would 
have expected from a cop.”

“Why, thank you,” Brenda beamed, dripping magnolias.

“With that voice and bod, you could get into movies, or at least TV. Shit, half the 
girls I know would kill for those lips. Collagen?”

“They are my own,” Brenda cooed.

“Wow. If you just had a little work done on--” Linscott halted, looking away from the 
center of Brenda’s face. The deputy chief absently touched the tip of her nose, and 
Brenda imagined she could hear Flynn’s laughter from the Tech Room, where several 
of the squad were watching the interview with Hartman’s bereaved girlfriend. Gabriel 
bit his cheek, while Mulder, behind Linscott’s shoulder at Will’s insistence, appeared 
oblivious to the exchange. Linscott’s attorney sat stoically, like an Armani-draped 
lawn ornament.

Brenda’s smile faltered. “So, ah, Ms. Linscott? When did you last see Dr. Hartman?”

The starlet paled. “Two nights ago -- we went to a premiere, Jake Gyllenhaal’s new 
thing, then Lucques on Melrose.”

“Then back to Dr. Hartman’s place?” Brenda inquired casually. The attorney came to 
life, and she raised a hand. “I don’t mean to be intrusive -- it’s just the doctor’s 
cleaning woman was in yesterday, and we’ll want to eliminate any prints of friends or 
acquaintances we find in his home.”

Surprisingly, Linscott was smiling coyly. “You don’t read the trades or the tabs, do 
you?”

“I’m usually pretty busy,” Brenda flustered, not wanting to sound elitist.

“Uh, Chief, Ms. Linscott’s straight-edge,” Sgt. Gabriel said.

“Excuse me?”

“No booze, no tobacco, no drugs -- not even coffee,” Agent Mulder interjected. “And 
absolutely no sex. Straight edge started in the hardcore punk culture in the ‘80s -- 
it’s been revived by alternative rockers and entertainers into the organic/natural 
foods movement.”

Linscott grimaced. “You make it sound like a cult, like Scientology or something. Oh, 
Jesus, don’t tell anybody I said that, or I’d never work with Cruise or Travolta or 
diCaprio again. Not that I have, actually. My mother -- she used to manage me -- 
told me sex would ‘drain my focus’ on the set, and then I started hanging out with 
Woody Harrelson…”

“All right,” Brenda interrupted, glaring balefully at Mulder. “So you claim not to have 
been on Dr. Hartman’s premises since two nights ago.”

“I’ve been busy -- we’re shooting an indie, great story about lesbian colonists in New 
England who were tried as witches. Real Oscar stuff.”

“Reason I ask,” Brenda persisted, “is we have a witness who claims to have seen a 
woman matching your description engaged in animated discussion with Dr. Hartman 
shortly before his decapitated body was discovered by a neighbor.”

Linscott gasped. The attorney clasped her arm.

“This interview is concluded,” he purred. “I will note your insensitive and derogatory 
manner with your superiors.”

“How sweet,” Brenda smiled. The attorney gathered his case and his client and 
exited with well-crafted dignity.

“She seemed surprised,” Sgt. Gabriel suggested a beat later.

“She’s an actress, Sergeant,” Brenda retorted.

“You don’t get out to the movies much, do you, Deputy Chief?” Mulder asked, 
grinning. Brenda spun on him.

“You know, Agent, you never did explain to me just how an apparently deceased 
suspect could remain a viable suspect? I’ve had some small experience in forensic 
pathology, and that just doesn’t seem to track. Would you care to amplify?”

Mulder sighed and perched on the edge of the interview table. “Agents Scully and I 
investigated the murder of a patient at the cosmetic surgery unit of Greenwood 
Memorial Hospital in Chicago. The murder was particularly gruesome -- the patient’s 
physician used a liposuction wand to extract much of the victim’s internal organs.”

“My God,” Brenda whispered. “And this was Dr. Hartman? This Dr. Franklyn you 
referred to?”

“No,” Mulder drawled. “An associate of Dr. Franklyn’s, a Dr. Lloyd.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand…”

“The lipo-cide was the first in a series of deaths that occurred at the hospital, Several 
of these deaths occurred under highly unusual, improbable circumstances. Agent 
Scully and I managed to intercede in the last murder attempt. A set of surgical 
instruments was found in the intestinal tract of the intended victim. Our investigation 
revealed several of the doctors in her unit were involved in ritualistic practices. The 
black arts, to be precise.”

Brenda’s jaw dropped. “What are you trying to tell me, Agent Mulder? That Dr. 
Hartman is some kind of cult leader or warlock or something.”

“Actually, a male witch is still called a witch, not a warlock--”

“Thank you for the comparative religions class, Agent Mulder.” Brenda murmured. 
“And you believe our victim is this witch doctor Franklyn?”

“There’ve been a couple of strange murders in Southern California over the last few 
months -- murders with vaguely medical overtones and with links to Dr. Hartman’s 
practice. And Dr. Hartman’s arrival in Los Angeles coincides roughly with Dr. 
Franklyn’s abrupt disappearance in Chicago.”

Brenda nodded, her expression incredulous, and turned. “Sgt. Gabriel, find out if 
Det. Daniels has managed to locate the deceased’s partner, Dr. Callan?”

Mulder adjusted his rump uncomfortably. “Ah, Deputy Chief?”

“Yes?” The single word was imbued with simultaneous dread and menace.

“My partner, Agent Scully, managed to run down Dr. Callan at L.A. Memorial right 
before Ms. Linscott got here. She’s already headed over.”

Brenda was silent for a moment, before her eyes turned glacial and a copperhead 
smile spread across her features. “Well, Agent Mulder. I appreciate your wanting to 
save us the inconvenience of chasing all over town after Dr. Callan. But we have an 
active, local homicide here -- not some. . .some witch hunt. So if you’d like to try 
another end run around my squad, we’ll see what you’re A.D. thinks of your little 
fairy tale. Have I made myself clear, Agent Mulder?”

He swallowed. “Yes, ma’am.”

The copperhead smile vanished. “Excellent. You don’t mind if Sgt. Gabriel drives, do 
you?”

Los Angeles Memorial Hospital
4:56 p.m.

The FBI’s end run had been blocked at the gate: They found Agent Scully -- a small, 
ultra-serious counterpoint to Mulder’s flaky persona -- checking her phone mail in 
the L.A. Memorial burn ward waiting area. Scully pocketed the phone as her partner 
approached, cops in tow.

“Skin grafts,” she sighed. “He’s been in there the last two hours.”

Mulder blinked. “I guess everyone grieves in their own way.”

“It’s actually fairly admirable,” Scully suggested. “Callan’s colleagues say he was 
pretty broken up about Hartman’s murder, but insisted on operating on the kid in 
there. I guess Callan did most of the pro bono surgery for the partnership. Hartman 
loved the Hollywood scene. Weird -- if it is him, you wouldn’t think he’d want to 
maintain such a high profile.”

Scully’s observation was designed to discourage, but Mulder wasn’t so easily 
daunted. “He’s demonstrated his arrogance and ego to us. Given his ‘abilities,’ I’m 
sure he feels a growing omnipotence. Flaunting his power and success is probably a 
big part of his trip.”

“What abilities?” Brenda inquired. Mulder spun. “See? Pretty unnerving, isn’t it? What 
abilities?”

“It’s complicated,” Scully began.

Brenda squinted and rubbed her temples. “Well, gimme a try. I finished high school, 
you know.”

“As well as graduating Langley and passing the Atlanta and D.C. police exams,” 
Mulder grinned. “We’re not being condescending -- this is just a very convoluted 
case with some unorthodox dimensions.”

“Yes.” Brenda stretched the word by a syllable. “You mentioned that Dr. Hartman 
was a witch.”

Scully exhaled loudly. “That was an oversimplification,” Mulder said. “Based on the 
circumstances of the Chicago murders and certain, ah, symbols we found on the 
hospital premises, we believe Hartman, AKA Franklyn, was a black magician. A very 
adept practitioner of the dark arts.”

Brenda listened silently, then smiled and nodded. “Now there -- was that so difficult? 
I’ll simply ask Sgt. Gabriel here to deputize David Copperfield, and we’ll have this 
whole thing wrapped up by suppertime.”

Sgt. Gabriel tapped his boss’ shoulder. “I think the operation’s over, Chief.”

A distinguished, if homely, man in scrubs emerged as the double doors of the 
surgery suite whooshed open. Brenda adjusted her purse on her shoulder and edged 
past Mulder and Scully.

“Good job, Mulder,” Scully breathed. 

**

“Dr. Callan?” Brenda called, her heels clicking on the gleaming hospital tile.

Darrel Callan looked up blearily. “I assume you’re the police, about Bob.”

“Deputy Chief Brenda Johnson,” she announced briskly.

“How’d the operation go?” Gabriel asked quickly. Caulking the gaps in his chief’s 
interpersonal skills set had become an important duty as otherwise assigned.

Callan glanced back. “According to form. That’s the easy part -- now, we have to see 
if the grafts take. And any 10-year-old who’s sustained this kind of trauma is looking 
forward to decades of counseling.”

“Speaking of trauma,” Brenda interjected gently, “I’m sure you’ve been informed of 
the extreme circumstances of your partner’s death.”

Callan nodded. “I’ve been in surgery since about 11 or so, but your Detective Flynn 
notified our office nurse, and she text-ed me.”

“Yes,” Mulder said. “We’ve been trying to reach you.”

The plastic surgeon straightened with a severe smile. “Agent, let me tell you 
something about the medical profession. We see death on a daily basis -- maybe not 
in my practice, but here, in the trenches -- and we soon learn that if death isn’t final, 
it is at least irrevocable. Now, that boy in there has been waiting in intense, nearly 
untreatable pain for some glimmer of hope. He and his parents. Bob, sadly, is 
beyond pain. Triage, people -- that’s what it’s about.”

“I hear you do a lot of pro bono work, Doctor,” Scully said.

Callan glanced at the redhead. “Dr. Hartman is -- was -- an accomplished aesthetic 
surgeon. He accomplished sheer magic with a scalpel -- his work was as seamless as 
God’s own. I’m no slouch myself, but I have an aptitude perhaps better suited to the 
clinical setting. Bob and I are blessed with the resources, the wherewithal, to offer 
our skills to those who most acutely need them.”

“Your skills, don’t you mean?” Brenda asked sweetly. “What I hear, Dr. Hartman was 
more accustomed to the club scene than the burn ward.”

Callan nodded knowingly. “OK, I see where this is going. Look, Bob was the big 
moneymaker for the practice -- Bob. Let me tell you up front -- with Bob’s death, 
yes, I inherit controlling interest in the practice. But not Bob’s skills or reputation. 
Less revenue, less pro bono. Besides, Detective Flynn said Bob’s death was violent, 
as you characterized it, extreme. A crime of passion, it would seem. I know of only 
one person who elicited much passion in Bob.”

“Erin Linscott?”

“I doubt that New Age wraith would have had the strength or stomach to do what 
was done to Bob. However, wherever there’s a hot young Hollywood starlet, there’s 
usually some young piece of beefcake driven by testosterone and temperament. You 
might look there. Now, I want to start making arrangements for Bob’s internment. If 
you have any further questions, I’m confident my attorney can address them.”

“Thank you,” Brenda told Callan’s back as he headed resolutely down the corridor.

“He makes a good point,” Sgt. Gabriel conceded. “Hartman’s the one in the tabloids, 
the one on Entertainment Tonight.”

“And the one with a partner who’s more interested in healing scarred kids than 
realigning the noses of the rich and famous,” Mulder suggested. “As commendable as 
Callan’s altruism is, it has to be a drain on the practice’s ‘resources.’”

“Hartman was ready to give Callan the old heave-ho,” Brenda murmured, tasting the 
idea. “Callan does a pre-emptive strike, makes it look like a crime passionel. Or he 
goes to Hartman’s to save his skin, so to speak, and tempers flare. Sergeant, we 
need to see if Hartman had the clout to cut Callan loose.”

“Could’ve been a hit, too,” Sgt. Gabriel offered. “The assistant M.E. at the scene said 
Hartman may have been beheaded with a single blow. Sounds like a pro trying to 
look like a meth head gone wild.”

“Superhuman, almost supernatural strength,” Mulder noted.

Brenda regarded the agent with disbelief, then turned on her heel. “C’mon, Darren. 
I’ll give you a ride back to the sstation on my broom.”

Howard-Johnson residence
Los Angeles
6:38 p.m.

“Uh, oh,” Special Agent “Fritz” Howard breathed as he pulled his key from the front 
door and the scent of herbs and rich gravy hit his trained nostrils. He lowered his 
briefcase and peered into the dining nook. The glow of candles illuminated the aged 
wood of the table.

“Oh, boy,” he sighed.

“Hi, there, Fritzie,” Brenda beamed as she emerged from the kitchen with a steaming 
casserole. She was wearing an apron over the only dress Fritz had ever given a 
nickname -- an unspeakable nickname.

Now, he was truly frightened.

Brenda crooked an arm around his neck and pulled him down for a kiss that might 
have brought life back to the dead. The deputy chief leaned back, sighed 
contentedly. “How was your day, Baby?”

“OK,” Fritz said, extracting himself. “What’s up?”

Brenda blinked. “Fritz, whatever do you mean?”

“What do you have? Rachel Ray hidden in the kitchen? You’re wearing your fu--, 
your hey sailor dress, and you’re pouring on the Steel Magnolias routine a little 
thicker than usual.”

Brenda’s nostrils flared. Then she composed herself with an injured smile. “I just 
thought you might enjoy a little spoiling tonight, a little special treatment.”

Fritz smiled. “Brenda. C’mon.”

She stared at her fiancé for a moment and frowned. “Oh, all right. You have pretty 
good pull with the L.A. field office, don’t you?”

“I guess. Wait a minute. Is this about that Mulder guy you asked me to check out?”

“He is absolutely, totally certifiable,” Brenda pleaded. “You have to do something, 
Fritz.”

“Wow, this guy must be a real flake, if you’re--”

Brenda’s nostrils returned to full aperture. “And just what is that supposed to 
mean?”

Fritz backpedaled. “Hey. All I’m saying is, you’re a big girl -- I mean, you have a 
very strong force of will. Very.

“You are not helping yourself,” Brenda said through her teeth.

“Look, I’m not questioning your take on Mulder. He definitely seems a few grains 
short of a bowl. He and his partner, who seems solid enough, are basically their own 
two-person department within the Bureau. The X-Files, whatever that means. I 
couldn’t find out much, but apparently, they investigate freaky stuff -- paranormal 
occurrences, crimes with some kind of scientific angle, supposed ritualistic or 
government conspiracies.”

“Oh, my God.”

“He’s also one of the FBI’s top profilers -- he’s cleared dozens of serial cases. He 
might actually be useful. At the very least, he seems to be harmless -- a slightly 
obsessive goofball. And Mulder doesn’t seem to care much for authority -- you give 
him a chance, and you two actually might hit it off.”

Brenda’s lips tightened. “So you don’t intend to help me.”

“You don’t need help -- at least in the professional sense. Wait. Scratch that. C’mon, 
Brenda, where you going?”

Brenda stopped ion the bedroom doorway. “Gonna get this damned dress off. It’s 
killin’ me, and you sure as hell ain’t gonna get the opportunity.”

Residence of Dr. Robert Hartman
Beverly Hills
9:12 a.m.

“You weren’t in yet, and he said it was real important,” Provenza explained as 
Brenda strode purposefully up the late Robert Hartman’s paved drive, Sgt. Gabriel 
again in tow. 

“I told y’all I had a dental appointment,” the deputy chief huffed, brushing past the 
white-haired detective. She sailed through the open front door. “Agent Mulder? 
Agent Mulder! Where the hell are you?”

“In here -- the kitchen.”

“Criminy dutch,” Brenda muttered as she stalked through the luxurious home. She 
found the agent poring with gloved fingers through a series of bottles lined up on a 
marble prep table. Scully was comparing bottles with a book spread open on the 
counter. Mulder looked up.

“Chief Johnson,” the agent grinned. “There’s something I wanted you to see.”

“Y’all going to fix me breakfast?”

Mulder chuckled and plucked a bottle from the table and jiggled its chopped yellow 
contents.

“Basil.” Brenda paused. “I thought basil was green.”

“Goldenseal. It’s most commonly used to make yellow or orange dye, but it’s also 
celebrated in some circles as an herb used for healing and to attract money.”

“That’s fascinating,” Brenda drawled.

“So far, Dr. Hartman’s spice cabinet appears to contain goldenseal, alder bark, 
patchouli, myrrh, and what’s the rosemary, Scully?”

“It would appear to be blessed thistle,” his partner reported dispassionately.

“Great for hex breaking,” Mulder told the deputy chief. “All these herbs and 
botanicals are used by neopaganists and other practitioners of the dark arts. And get 
this.”

Brenda followed Mulder to the breakfast nook, where he indicated a large wooden 
bowl full of white crystals.

“Salt?” Brenda queried. “So the good doctor had a thing for margaritas.”

“Coarse salt. It’s a little less conspicuous than an altar pentacle for cleaning tools 
and other mystical knick-knacks.”

“I’m partial to anchovies on my pizza,” Brenda responded dryly. “Different strokes.”

Mulder sighed, shaking his head. “Scully, keep inventorying. Chief, would you 
accompany me to the dining room?”

“Do I have any choice?”

Mulder stopped before an antique sideboard. A large black platter trimmed in gold 
hung above the piece. The agent peered at his reflection in the platter, brushing a 
lock from his forehead.

“Pretty,” Brenda said, tersely.

“And functional, if you’re a functioning sorcerer. See that pattern at noon, 3, 6, and 
9? The circle flanked by two crescents. That’s the Lunar Triple Goddess, which 
represents the three aspects of the moon -- waxing, waning, and full. Another 
common neopagan symbol. This is a black mirror -- what’s called a scrying object. 
You look into it, and eventually, an image appears that can be viewed directly or its 
meaning interpreted by a trained practitioner. I could go on and on, but the fact is, 
this house is full of subtly hidden manifestations of pagan belief and practice.

Brenda was silent for a moment. “Obviously, Agent Mulder, you haven’t been in L.A. 
nearly long enough.”

“If Dr. Hartman were a run-of-the-mill Hollywood whack job, you think he’d go this 
far to hide it? I thought whackjobbery was kind of a badge of honor out here.”

“I’m beginning to think so,” Brenda mumbled.

“The point is, isn’t it straining coincidence that Dr. Hartman follows the same pagan 
practices Dr. Franklyn employed to commit several murders?”

“You’ll have to pardon me, Agent Mulder, but I’m still at something of a loss about 
the specific circumstances of your Chicago homicides. And what led you to Dr. 
Hartman?”

Mulder paused. “Well, as I told you earlier, you’ve had a couple of suspicious area 
deaths. The teenager in Encino who was found in a ditch without his kidneys?”

“Satanists,” Brenda suggested, not mentioning the crucial fact that the boy’s body 
revealed no incisions or scars.

“What about that woman in Belair? The realtor who went in for an appendectomy 
and who wound up with a lungful of locusts?”

Brenda formulated a response, then reconsidered and formulated three more. 
Finally, she slung her bag over her shoulder.

“I have some real police work to do, Agent Mulder,” she stammered, bumping into a 
dining room chair. “I’ll leave you and Agent Buffy to pursue these ‘leads.’”

Mulder stood with mute amusement as Brenda barked a series of orders at her 
underlings. The mansion’s front door clattered.

“Hey, Scully,” he called into the kitchen. “Chief Johnson just gave me a great idea for 
a new role-playing game…”

Priority Homicide Squad
Los Angeles Police Department
Park Center, Los Angeles
3:54 p.m.

“All right, what’ve we got?” snapped Brenda, who was flanked by a long double white 
board painstakingly filled with photos, documents, and sticky notes outlining 
timetables and trivia about all the persona involved in the life and untimely death of 
Dr. Robert Hartman.

The deputy chief had returned to Parker Center under a black cloud, and her 
detectives came to rapid attention as she entered the squadroom. Now, the 
members of the LAPD’s crack Priority Homicide Squad glanced uneasily at each 
other.

“Um,” Lt. Flynn finally articulated. “Turns out the good doctor had a gambling jones. 
Haunted the poker parlors every Thursday night.”

Brenda was intrigued. “Was he in deep?”

“Actually, Chief, he’d been warned off at a couple of joints. They couldn’t prove 
anything, but he cleaned up on every table he played.”

“Maybe his sportsmanship came into question,” Brenda muttered. “Check to see if 
there’ve been any particularly disgruntled playmates. Lt. Provenza? Any unhappy 
patients?”

Provenza, who’d volunteered to take the list of starlets, debutantes, and models, 
pushed his bag of Fritos aside. “You’da thought this guy was Dr. Schweitzer or 
something. A medical miracle worker, according to the brain trust. Gotta say, he 
sure does some fine work…”

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Brenda sang. “Detective Daniels, any leads on the angry ex 
front?”

The young detective consulted her notes. “Linscott dated that Australian action guy, 
Troy Patersen, for a while last year, but things just kind of fizzled out, and he’s with 
some British supermodel now. A few other guys, but everybody checks out for the 
time of the murder.”

“Lt. Tao? What did Dr. Morales come up with?”

Tao’s glasses fell onto his nose as he rose for his customary discourse. “As the M.E. 
thought, cause of death was a simultaneously severing of the carotid and jugular 
arteries. One clean stroke with what appears to be a single-edged, rough-edged 
blade.”

“Serrated?”

“No -- it would appear the blade was recently sharpened, but not professionally. The 
wound itself contained traces of dirt and chlorophyll. Now, the lab hasn’t processed 
any of the blood found near the body yet, but…”

“Just a second, please.”

The squad looked up as one. Mulder was framed in the squadroom doorway, arms 
crossed, wearing a frown.

“Lt. Tao, right? Did you say chlorophyll?”

Tao looked to Brenda. The deputy chief nodded curtly, in resignation.

“Yes, um, the wound contained traces of chlorophyll, as well as metal particles,” Tao 
explained. “The particles were only a few microns—”

“Particles?” Mulder queried.

“Yes. Particles. Traces.”

“Traces?” Mulder murmured.

“Traces, yeah. I dunno. Like filings, I guess?”

“Metal filings?”

“Agent Mulder,” Brenda implored. “Before poor Detective Tao exhausts the entire 
Roget’s Thesaurus, could I please ask why these, these…filings…are such a source of 
fascination for you?”

“Filings and chlorophyll,” Mulder amended.

“Of course, chlorophyll,” Deputy Chief Johnson breathed. “Chlorophyll and metal 
filings.” Brenda froze; her eyes widened as she bit her lips. “Oh, my goodness. Lt. 
Flynn.”

Flynn’s mug stopped halfway to his mouth. “Chief?”

“I need you to secure the lawn next door to the Hartman house.”

The lieutenant frowned. “The lawn? Wait a minute. The lawn next to the victim’s 
house?”

“The lawn, Lieutenant, the lawn. I need you to put up a perimeter around the entire 
lot. Nobody else gets in.” Brenda looked up at Flynn. “Lieutenant, shoo. Shoo now. 
And take Detective Tao with you. I want you to check for blood, skin, whatever, 
behind the neighbor’s house.”

Tao’s glasses dropped from his forehead onto his nose. “You know how big that lawn 
is, Chief?”

“Detective Tao, all I need you to do is test a patch about 20 feet long and, oh, 
maybe six feet wide.” Brenda pivoted toward Provenza, who glanced guiltily up from 
his Far Side desk calendar – his 2005 Far Side desk calendar. “Lt. Provenza, I need 
you to locate the landscaping service that was, uh, servicing the Hartman home at 
the time of the murder. Though I don’t hold out a lot of hope that you will. I’m 
guessing our landscaper has gone to ground, you should pardon the pun. Well, get 
dialin’, Lt. Provenza, please. Time’s wasting.” 

“Ok, whoa” Sgt. Gabriel blinked. “I’m lost. Totally. You think the lawnmower guy 
killed Hartman.”

“Heat of the moment?” Mulder suggested. “An impulse kill? If so, he was pretty quick 
on his feet.”

“Chief,” Detective Daniels demanded.

Brenda ran a hand through her hair. “Rey Menendez or whatever his name turns out 
to be must’ve been staking out, or stalking Dr. Hartman, but Dr. Hartman caught on, 
confronted him?”

“Must’ve had a replacement mower blade handy,” Mulder explained. “Just sharpened, 
thus the filings. Used blade, thus the chlorophyll. Like a machete.”

“But with the cops working the protest down the block, he couldn’t risk making a 
hasty exit,” Daniels contributed. “So he decided to stay at the scene and bluff it out. 
There’s always a lawn service working somewhere out there.”

It dawned on Sgt. Gabriel. “So you’re saying he put the murder weapon on his 
mower and—”

“And ditched the evidence in full view of the LAPD,” Brenda fretted. “Yes, I suppose 
that’s what I’m saying, Sergeant.”

“Don’t feel bad,” Mulder commiserated. “I should’ve suspected something was up 
when ‘Menendez’ was so worried about us siccing the INS on him. If he was a real 
illegal, he’d probably have known Immigration and Naturalization had become 
Immigrations and Customs Enforcement, ICE. We all kind of dropped the ball, Chief.”

Brenda smiled sourly and crooked her head coquettishly. “Well, thank you -- that is 
sooo sweet, Agent Mulder. C’mon, Sgt. Gabriel, let’s roll.”

Residence of Yves Faison
Beverly Hills
11:05 a.m.

“You hear me just fine,” the indignant landscaper snapped. “Not your grass. Mine.”

Yuki Matsuhari, CEO and president of Beverly Gardens Landscape (indeed the firm’s 
sole executive officer), had ignored the LAPD crime scene perimeter next door and 
had proceeded to buzz (and mulch) the crucial turf. This time, no interpreter had 
been necessary -- the sight of Flynn and Tao charging across the lawn, arms flailing, 
had struck a universal chord with the homeowner’s regular landscaper. 

Lt. Flynn stepped toward Matsuhari, who grasped the handle of his mower 
territorially. “Listen, buddy…”

“Lieutenant, if I may,” Brenda Leigh cooed. “Sir, I’m sure you would want to 
cooperate with the Los Angeles Police Department. That…grass…in your possession 
may be evidence in a murder case.”

Matsuhari crossed his arms. “Compost. My tomatoes. My grass. Mr. Faison say I can 
take away. Good organic content -- I fertilize myself.”

“Jesus,” Flynn breathed as Brenda tried to avoid the potential implications of the 
gardener’s proud revelation. She raised a calming hand and bolstered her smile.

“Mr. Matsuhari, I regret to inform you that the gentleman next door was murdered.”

Matsuhari’s brow rose. “No shit?”

“No sh--…I mean, no, sir. We’re currently investigating the poor man’s death. That’s 
why it’s imperative we take custody of this grass.” She glanced back at the half-ton 
pickup in the drive. “Every bag of it.”

Matsuhari frowned, considering.

“Sir,” Mulder interjected from behind Brenda’s shoulder. Again, she jumped. “I’m 
with the FBI. I’m sure the Bureau would be happy to compensate you with the 
composting material of your choice in exchange for you surrendering the clippings in 
question.”

Matsuhari looked at the phalanx of cops around him. “Deal.”

Flynn moved toward the truck. 

“Not so fast, ‘buddy,’” Matsuhari shouted. “You get grass when I see my compost.”

Priority Homicide Squad
Los Angeles Police Department
Park Center, Los Angeles
5:14 p.m.

“Jason Peavey?” Brenda inquired as she entered Interview Room 1. She glanced at 
the paler and far less buff man beside the thirtysomething landscaper. “And you 
would be Jason Peavey’s attorney, I presume.”

“My client was enjoying a fishing weekend in San Jose when the Coast Guard 
swarmed his vessel,” the lawyer huffed.

“How very frightening that must have been for your client,” Brenda purred, arching a 
conspiratorial brow at the burly Peavey, whose gaze had been fixed several inches 
below the deputy chief’s chin. Peavey smirked; she’d surmised from his bored 
expression that he had little use for his attorney.

“Let’s see how sarcastic you are when we challenge your seizure of Mr. Peavey’s 
property,” the lawyer sneered.

Brenda blinked. “Your client’s property was at the scene of a homicide yesterday, 
without your client.” She turned to Peavey. “Do you have an employee named 
Menendez, Rey Menendez?”

Peavey frowned. “Nah. It’s just me and my cousin, and he was with me in San Jo--”

“Jason,” the attorney prompted. Peavey exhaled, annoyed. Brenda smiled knowingly 
as she straightened in her chair. “We’ve got a half-dozen witnesses, including the 
dockmaster, who can vouch for my client’s whereabouts the last three days.” 

Brenda nodded. “Mm. Well, then, maybe somebody stole your client’s truck.”

“Obviously,” the lawyer faltered.

“Except, shoot, we found it parked in your client’s driveway, wiped clean of 
fingerprints. And the keys were inside his condo, on the kitchen counter, also wiped 
clean. In all my years in law enforcement, I swear that is the most considerate car 
thief I’ve ever heard of.” Brenda leaned across the table. “That what you think, Mr. 
Peavey? That you’ve been the unfortunate victim of a gentleman car thief?” She 
cocked her head. “Or is it possible instead that you’ve been taken advantage of? 
That you’re the victim?”

“Address your questions to me, Chief,” the lawyer asserted weakly.

Brenda obliged, with a sunny smile. “Reason I ask is, we -- I mean that editorially, of 
course -- found something kind of curious when we inspected the undercarriage of 
your mower. I’m sure an educated gentleman such as yourself knows about 
centrifugal force.”

She waited. The attorney stared stonily for a moment, then coughed.

“Oh, my.” Brenda turned back to Peavey, who looked up quickly. “Well, my daddy 
used to take me on the Tilt-a-Whirl at the county fair -- scared me something awful, 
but then Daddy had trouble distinguishing sheer terror from squeals of delight. 
Anyway, that car would keep whirlin’ and whirlin’ and whirlin’, and I’d be squashed 
up against the seat like a tick on a huntin’ dog.” The chief’s already viscous southern 
patois thickened as she reminisced. “I’m sorry. My point is, that was centrifugal 
force. That’s what we think happened with your lawn mower.

“See, we think your gentleman car thief was considerate enough to clean the blood 
and tissue off your lawn mower blade after using it to nearly decapitate a man.” The 
magnolias in her voice turned to steel. “This fellow’s pretty bright -- he knew the 
police were on the way, so he put the murder weapon on your mower and used our 
murder victim’s lawn to wipe away his sins, so to speak.

“But our friend apparently failed his physics courses, because he just forgot all about 
centrifugal force. When that blade started whirlin’ and whirlin’, it spattered eensy, 
teensy, microscopic bits of blood and DNA and brains inside the undercarriage. My, 
your attorney appears a might green about the gills. I’m sure we could round up a 
glass of water…”

The lawyer shook his head vigorously. Brenda nodded hers with equal vigor, and 
turned back to Peavey.

“So in short, your gentleman car thief has implicated you in a homicide. That 
scarcely makes up for the fact that he apparently fed your cats and took your 
newspapers and mail inside while you were down the coast trolling for…marlin. This 
man must be the most courteous murderer in the annals of crime. Either that, or you 
know this man. We got two different sets of fingerprints off your cat’s food dish. 
Guess when we run those prints down, we’ll just ask our killer if he knows good old 
Jason Peavey.”

“Jason, no--” the lawyer advised. 

“That’s right, Jason.” Brenda’s voice once again was redolent of honeysuckles. “You 
listen to your attorney. He’s represented some very important folks over the years -- 
you’re lucky to have him. What, do you do his lawn? He must be very committed to 
you…”

“Hey,” the attorney protested weakly.

Jason blinked, and Brenda knew she’d guessed correctly. The landscaper fell back in 
his chair and exhaled loudly.

“Guy’s kind of an asshole, anyway,” Peavey muttered. “Jay Pirelli -- he’s an actor. 
Commercials, ‘Third Doctor in Background’ on Grey’s Anatomy, that kind of shit. We 
play Texas hold ‘em every Thursday night, and when I’m out of town, I let him take 
the truck out, do some mowing and shit to help him out. For a split, of course. In 
exchange, he keeps Guenther fed and keeps the neighborhood methheads from 
knowing I’m gone. Shit, you say he killed somebody?”

Brenda’s expression was unreadable.

Jason paused. “One of my clients?”

The deputy chief shoved a legal pad toward him. “Name, address, phone number, 
anything else you can come up with.” Brenda shoved her chair back, and left the 
landscaper to confer with his still-ochre attorney.

Tao was waiting in the corridor, fidgeting, tapping a manila folder against his palm. 
“Chief, lab results just came back. They’re still analyzing the clippings, but there are 
a few traces of what might be blood on the mower undercarriage. They have to do 
some more tests, but if they can separate…”

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Brenda sang, turning happily on her heel.

Sierra Hills Productions
Burbank
9:23 a.m.

“No, no, NO!” the director, a Francis Ford Coppola look-alike (save for his bleached 
hair) shouted. “You’re a freaking fireman, not a Gap model! Quit pouting, asshole.” 
He took a calming breath and a gulp of Evian. “All right, all right, everybody, take 
five. Then maybe we can get this cinematic masterpiece in the can. You think?”

The pouting fireman lowered his hose, which had been trained on a bikinied blonde 
in an Adirondack chair holding a bag of Ultra Caliente Habanero Snak Puffs. The 
young actor, cheesily dashing with sharp Mediterranean features, tried to chat up his 
co-star, who quickly retreated to the makeup table. He shrugged, then spotted the 
two old dudes approaching him. 

“Jay Pirelli?” The younger of the two asked. He looked like a slickly-dressed extra 
from The Sopranos, as did his more rumpled white-haired buddy, but Jay was up on 
his gambling obligations, so he smiled dazzlingly. 

Then, the slick-dressed one came up with a wallet, and before Jay could see the first 
flash of badge, he swung the Adirondack chair at the cops. It caught the white-
haired one in the gut, eliciting a stream of words Jay recognized from that gangsta 
flick where he’d played “White Prison Guard.” Gaffers and technicians scattered as he 
sprinted for the soundstage fire exit. Flynn and Provenza trampled the bikini blonde’s 
fabricated “back yard” in pursuit, sidearms now drawn.

The exit door slammed into brick as Pirelli blinked against the harsh sun. It had been 
somewhere around 10 takes to induce the director’s near-aneurysm, and he hadn’t 
seen daylight for a few hours. His car was a block away, but Jay was buoyed by the 
advanced age of his pursuers and his daily regimen at one of the cheaper Gold’s 
Gym knockoffs.

“Mr. Pirelli?”

The voice was feminine, throaty, but full of steel. Like Hilary Swank or Sandra 
Bullock in one of those cheesy action movies. His eyes adjusted to the light, and he 
spotted the short redhead attempting to block the alleyway. Jay could hear the old 
cops cursing behind him, and the redhead went for what he assumed to be a gun. 
The actor had been an extra in the Longest Yard remake, and he crouched and 
charged the short chick.

Then the lights momentarily went out. Jay came to to a field of blue sky, a startlingly 
black gunbarrel, and a furious face framed in red. Agent Dana Scully rolled him onto 
his belly, roughly.

“Shit, Flynn,” he heard the white-haired cop grunt. “I think I may be in love.” 

Priority Homicide Squad
Los Angeles Police Department
Park Center, Los Angeles
12:12 p.m.

“Well, Mr. Pirelli, or should I say Mr. Menendez?” Brenda beamed as she settled 
across from the actor. “I have to say, you were most convincing yesterday morning.”

Pirelli smiled lazily despite his circumstances. “Hey, thanks. I play better Latino than 
Italian. I even did a terrorist on 24 last season. No lines, but hey…”

“New face must be opening a lot of doors for you,” the deputy chief purred. “I saw 
your headshot before Dr. Hartman straightened that nose for you. Just another mug 
in the crowd back then, huh?”

Pirelli leaned forward. “You gotta go ethnic today. And I don’t mean Italian -- thanks 
to those Defamation League assholes, most of the good Mafia gigs have dried up, 
and ‘sides, it’s all about the gangstas now. After Doc Hartman fixed me up, the roles 
started rolling in -- I even lined up a semi-regular gig in a network version of one of 
those Mexican telenovella things.”

“Sounds expensive, a nose job like that from a high roller like Robert Hartman.”

“We were in the same poker game lots, and he took an interest,” Pirelli said. “Doc 
hardly ever lost a pot, but one night, I guess his luck went south, ‘cause by 
midnight, he was into me five large. I’m sure he was good for it, but he knew I 
needed a professional jumpstart, so he offered to front the five grand as a down 
payment on a new nose.”

“Can’t repossess a nose, can you, though?” Brenda inquired. “Your agent says the 
offers haven’t been rolling in so much the last couple months.”

The actor slumped back in his chair. “OK, I was a little slow coming up with the rest 
of his fee. How was I gonna pay him off if I couldn’t get any parts?”

“You saying Dr. Hartman somehow blackballed you?”

“All I know is, one minute I’m up to my ass in primo roles -- TV, movies. Then, 
Hartman starts putting on the screws for his money, and I’m hustling commercials 
for local check cashing joints. So I decide to see if I can find something to relieve the 
pressure. Capisce?”

“Don’t you mean comprende?” Sanchez asked from his post on the interview room 
wall.

“Hey, nothing personal, man,” Pirelli squeaked. “’Sides, I fooled you, right? I don’t 
play into stereotypes, you know?”

“Gracias,” Sanchez replied. “So you decided to blackmail Hartman into letting up on 
you?”

“He’s rich, these Beverly Hills docs can write scrip for anything, and he’s got a 
gambling jones and a thing for the ladies. Though why he’d pick the Ice Queen…”

“Ice Queen?” Brenda inquired. “Ms. Linscott? She seemed like a perfectly nice young 
lady.”

“With that 26-year-old virgin act? You ask me, Little Miss Straight Edge is a world-
class P.T.” Pirelli grinned at Sanchez. “You know what I mean, right, amigo?”

“Wouldn’t know, paisan,” Sanchez grunted.

“I figure if I can catch them in the act, prove Erin’s had her cherry popped, it might 
be worth the balance of my bill to him to keep it on the down-low. So I staked out 
his place last couple weeks.”

“Find anything good?” Brenda asked, a prurient glint in her eye.

Pirelli sucked at a tooth for a moment, evaluating his options.

The glint extinguished. “’Cause, Mr. Pirelli, you tried to eliminate key evidence in a 
homicide -- a murder weapon you brought to the scene. Now, I don’t really see you 
for the part of killer, mainly cause I just don’t believe you got what Detective 
Sanchez here might call the cojones for what happened to Dr. Hartman. But unless 
you can offer me another scenario, I don’t see a happy ending for you, Mr. Pirelli.”

“All right, all right,” Pirelli puffed. “I took some pictures, last Wednesday and again 
the other night, at Hartman’s place. He had Erin and some other people over -- I 
recognized an actor Erin did an indie with last year, and a couple of studio guys. 
Some of the others, I don’t know -- maybe some of Hartman’s doctor buddies. But it 
was strictly low-key: Three or four of them parked down the street and went to the 
back of the house. And there weren’t any lights on or music playing -- it wasn’t a 
party.”

“What do you think it was?” 

“This town, I was thinking an orgy, maybe? ‘Cept a couple of these people would put 
the brakes on an orgy at the Los Angeles Zoo monkey house. So I grab my Nikon, 
and sneak around the bushes, hoping I can catch Erin doing a studio VP or Hartman 
doing a collie or something?”

“And were there any unusual husbandry practices going on?” Brenda pursued.

“I got too weirded-out before I could see anything good. I finally found a window 
around the side where I could see what was going on. There were candles all over 
the dining room -- on the floor, the tables, everywhere. Everybody was in a circle 
around Hartman, and Erin was staring at some kind of screen on the wall.”

“Screen?”

“Screen, TV, I dunno. It was round, with like gold trim.”

Brenda’s nails grasped the table as she recalled Mulder’s tour of the dining room. The 
agent had asked to monitor the interview with Pirelli in the Tech Room; she expected 
him to come busting through the door any second.

“You positive it was a screen?” she asked, swallowing.

“They were watching some kind of weird shit -- sci-fi, horror. Crappy special effects -
- face on the screen looked like something out of Star Wars. Nothing I could sell to 
Hartman or the tabloids.”

Brenda looked up at Sanchez, who frowned in confusion. She turned back to Pirelli. 
“OK. Let’s talk about Dr. Hartman’s murder. You borrowed your buddy’s truck to 
stake out his place from next door.”

“Nobody pays attention to the lawn guy,” Pirelli explained. “I’d found out the 
neighbor was out of town, so I set up on the back lawn.”

“You said you saw a woman arguing with Dr. Hartman. Was that the truth?”

“I, uh, I made that up. I thought I’d throw you off -- point you toward Erin. I’d been 
hauling crap around, trimming hedges, trying to sell the performance, you know. 
Then I look over and see the doc’s legs sticking out from behind one of his pool 
chairs. Then I see what looks like blood. So I go over, and, Jesus, I thought I was 
gonna puke, except I did a Crossing Jordan and I knew you guys could trace my 
DNA. I mean, shit, they lopped the guy’s head off. Who does that?

“And then, then I see the mower blade, all covered in blood. They must’ve got it off 
the truck -- somebody knew I’d been scoping things out and tried to frame me. I’m 
about to get the fuck out of Dodge when I hear sirens, and I know I’m trapped. So 
my actor’s instinct kicks in--”

Sanchez snorted.

“-- and I pull the blade off Jason’s mower, replace it with the bloody one, and try to 
clean it off on the neighbor’s lawn. I’m sorry about lying to you guys, but I didn’t 
know what else to do. I couldn’t have done something like that, lady. Like you said, 
I’m an actor -- I don’t have the balls.”

Brenda nodded as she rose. “Well, why don’t you just hold on to whatever you’ve got 
down there for a few minutes, OK? Detective Sanchez?”

Brenda jumped as she opened Mulder appeared in the open doorway. The deputy 
chief shoved the door shut with her derriere. “Agent Mulder, would you please, 
please stop…skulking? I assume you heard all that?”

“Franklyn’d definitely started a new coven out here,” Mulder concluded. “But made 
up of, what, an A-minus-list actress and some other Hollywood types?”

“One of whom might’ve offed him,” Sanchez noted.

Mulder shook his head. “The Franklyn who engineered those murders in Chicago was 
a powerful, accomplished magician. The gambling, the partying, dating young 
starlets? It’s bush league. It doesn’t seem like him. Neither do those two homicides -
- the ones that led us to ‘Hartman.’ Too conspicuous, too risky.”

“So, what?” Brenda challenged. “Now you DON’T think Hartman was Franklyn?”

Mulder sighed. “I think Hartman WAS Franklyn. I think someone may have made a 
deal with the devil. Or two.”

**

“Of course, I want to help any way I can,” Darrell Callan told Mulder tersely as he 
took his seat in the Priority Homicide Tech Room. “But outside the practice, Bob and 
I lived quite separate lives. As I’m sure you’ve discovered. I socialized with Bob and 
Erin some, as a couple, but we scarcely traveled in the same circles/”

The agent smiled as Buzz tinkered with the interview room audio. On the monitor 
before him, a grainy Brenda was oozing small talk and compliments as Erin Linscott 
and her attorney settled in across the table. Provenza watched Mulder cautiously -- 
he’d been briefed on what had sounded like the most hair-brained, insane scheme 
he’d seen his erratically brilliant boss perpetrate. Even Deputy Chief Johnson had 
seemed tentative as she’d given him his sketchy marching orders.

“Interesting turn of phrase -- circles,” Mulder murmured. “Hartman wasn’t always 
the party boy, was he? According to some of his former associates, he was 
something of a sociable recluse when he first came to L.A. Quiet, professional, 
discreetly charitable, He earned a solid standing in the community and the 
profession, re-established the kind of lifestyle he’d been used to in Chicago, but he 
stayed under the radar. He didn’t want to draw unnecessary attention to himself.”

“What are you trying to tell me?” the homely cosmetic surgeon demanded.

“On the other hand, Dr. Darrell Callan has been a fixture on the L.A. scene for 
years,” Mulder continued. “You’re a gifted surgeon, but you’ve had something of a 
checkered past, haven’t you? The horses, a DUI and a coke bust that both went 
away with a little influence, the women…”

Callan sipped the coffee Provenza had supplied, staring calmly at Mulder. “Is that 
what this is about? All right, yes, I’ve had my problems. I’m not proud of that, but 
I’ve managed to gain control of myself, find a measure of discipline.”

“While good Dr. Hartman has adopted a lifestyle that might make Lindsay Lohan 
flinch. Weird role reversal, huh?”

A retort formed on Callan’s thin lips. “Uh, Agent, she’s starting,” Buzz announced, 
and the physician turned abruptly from Mulder.

“Ms. Linscott,” Brenda’s voice crackled through the speakers. “You are aware that 
your boyfriend was engaged in some rather…unorthodox religious practices?”

Silence filled the interview room. 

“This is Hollywood, Deputy Chief,” her attorney chuckled. “Whether Dr. Hartman 
read L. Ron Hubbard or practiced Kabbala would seem irrelevant to this case. I hope 
you’re not planning to intrude into my client’s privacy rights.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Counselor,” Brenda purred. “However -- and this is 
unfortunate -- someone else already has committed a fairly grievance invasion of Dr. 
Hartman’s and Ms. Linscott’s privacy.”

Brenda pushed a manila envelope across the table. Erin glanced at her attorney, and 
he nodded warily. The actress emptied its contents -- a series of photos printed from 
Jay Pirelli’s SmartCard -- onto the table. Even over the video monitor, Provenza 
could make out the somber faces eerily illuminated in the glow of dozens of candles, 
especially Erin Linscott’s normally perky countenance.

“OK,” Erin uttered finally, with a slight edge of defiance. “Like Ted said, this is 
Hollywood. I’m sure some Southern Baptist police chief wouldn’t understand, but I’m 
open to a wide variety of ideas and beliefs. Bob had gotten interested in Wicca, in 
pagan beliefs, so I went along for kicks. Just kicks. I’d kind of appreciate it if we 
could keep this out of the media -- it might offend some of the Presbyterians in my 
fan base -- but there’s nothing illegal about exercising my religious freedoms.”

“Not a blessed thing,” Brenda assured her. “But this old Southern Baptist gal has a 
feeling -- call it a divination, if you’d like -- that Dr. Hartman’s little old church 
meetings might be connected to his murder.”

Mulder glanced at Callan, whose eyes were fixed on the monitor. “Beats the old 
‘What’s your sign’ approach, huh? Don’t make disciples like they used to, do they? 
He must have seemed like an ideal recruit at the time -- weak, hedonistic, greedy. 
You had to start fresh, and you were already aware of the logistical advantages of 
the medical community for your ‘needs.’ I’m sure your new partner took to it, 
especially after his practice -- his medical practice -- bloomed and he started scoring 
with the ladies and the ponies.”

Callan turned with a disdainful expression. “You think I was involved in Bob’s childish 
nonsense?”

“I think you created a monster -- literally. Your partner was a pawn, though I’m sure 
once you convinced him of your abilities, he was more than willing to accept your 
deal. He’d have even greater fame and fortune, and the looks Nature had cheated 
him out of. And most people would jump at the chance for a fresh start, even if their 
appetites and weaknesses.”

The doctor turned to Provenza, who was deep into a bag of microwave popcorn. 
“This man’s clearly insane. Do you and your chief really want to be associated with 
this?”

The lieutenant shrugged and chewed thoughtfully.

“This no sex thing,” Brenda continued. Four sets of male eyes returned to the screen. 
“It’s not just some trendy Hollywood thing.”

“It’s not a trend -- it’s a lifestyle,” Erin snapped. “But if you mean is some new thing, 
then no. I’ve been acting since I was 10, and Mom and Dad didn’t want me to fuck 
anything up by getting knocked up or an STD or something.”

“That was the key,” Mulder announced, causing a kernel to pop from between 
Provenza’s fingers. “You’d decided to start fresh, too. You had a new life in Paradise 
and a new outlet for your power. The folks at the L.A. Memorial Burn Ward call your 
work with those kids nothing short of miraculous, and they’re right, aren’t they? You 
learned to curb your appetite, even as you whetted your partner’s. He became 
obsessed with the powers you’d helped him discover. That realtor who wound up 
with a chestful of locusts? The kidneyless kid they found in a ditch? My guess is, they 
were sacrificed to strengthen his power.”

“So,” Brenda drawled. “You’ll pardon me if this sounds a mite personal, but Ms. 
Linscott, would you be happen to be a virgin?”

“Hey,” the attorney protested. But Erin merely grinned.

“Maybe the only one in L.A.,” the actress laughed.

“I was wondering why -- and I hope you guys will pardon me -- a party-hearty 
pussyhound like your partner would hook up with a clean-living, straight-edge 
celibate like Linscott,” Mulder said. “But I think she was exactly what he wanted, 
what he needed. A true, dyed-in-the-wool virgin. It must’ve been like discovering a 
unicorn in the wild. The teenager and the realtor were appetizers -- your partner 
figured if he could offer Erin up, he’d gain untold abilities.

“I don’t know how you found out what he had in mind for her, but it was the last 
straw. A couple of freak deaths in California are filler on Headline News; the murder 
of an up-and-coming actress is round-the-clock coverage on CNN and MSNBC. You 
could’ve lost everything. Sooner or later, we’d make the link to Greenwood 
Memorial.”

“I think I’m done here,” Callan muttered, though his eyes remained fixed on Erin 
Linscott’s image. “This is total gibberish.”

“I convinced Chief Johnson to authorize DNA tests on the victim.”

Callan snorted. “On Bob? I wouldn’t think identification would be a major problem.”

“I think you know what I was looking for, Doctor,” Mulder chided. “I had the lab pull 
two samples. One from the victim’s cheek, which was confirmed as Robert Hartman’s 
DNA.”

“What a surprise.”

“The other was taken from his bone marrow. I think you know what we found.”

Callan looked up, disdain – and anxiety – etched into his long, vaguely equine face. 
He said nothing. Mulder smiled.

“So, did Dr. Callan ever participate in these little ceremonies?” Brenda inquired.

Erin paused. “A few times. He and Bob got into it more than once over it. It was like 
with their practice – Callan wanted to be the big man, but he just didn’t have the 
charisma, the clout.”

Callan straightened abruptly. “What? That bitch…”

“The trail might’ve ended with your partner if you hadn’t slipped at the hospital 
yesterday,” the agent murmured. “You convinced Callan to switch faces – and places 
– with you in exchanges for your power and protection. But when we showed up 
unannounced to talk to you about the murder, Deputy Chief Johnson got down to 
business before any of the rest of us were introduced. She’s a very assertive 
woman.”

Provenza chortled, nearly choking on a popcorn kernel.

“But you called me ‘Agent.’ For all you knew, I was one of the chief’s detectives. But 
you must’ve been rattled to see me after all these years. Was that it, Dr. Franklyn?”

To Mulder’s surprise, “Callan” -- AKA Hartman, AKA Franklyn – offered no outraged 
denial. Whether or not he and Scully could sell the L.A. D.A. on Franklyn for 
“Hartman”’s murder, the black magician had been unable to alter his own DNA, and 
they’d link him to the Chicago killings. 

“Doctor?” Mulder asked, concerned.

Franklyn/”Callan” had paled, and his face glistened with sweat as he stared at the 
monitor. His jaw, encased in his partner’s former skin, twitched. For a second, 
Mulder feared his ploy had induced a cardiac episode.

The doctor finally turned, eyes wide and haunted.

“I need to get out of here,” he rasped. “Please.”  

Hollywood Marriott
5:34 p.m.

“You didn’t really think it was going to be that easy, did you?” Scully asked, rubbing 
Mulder’s shoulder as she passed the bed. “At best, it was a long shot. At the least, 
I’d say his reaction was confirmation of your theory. If we can get that warrant for 
‘Callan’s DNA, we should have him.”

Mulder laughed sourly, laying back on the hotel mattress. “Given the judge’s reaction 
to our request, I wouldn’t want to bet the farm on getting that warrant. Deputy Chief 
Johnson didn’t exactly speak up in there.”

“Give her some credit, Mulder,” Scully protested, stepping out of her slacks. “She let 
you carry out your bizarre little scheme.”

Johnson’s AV man, Buzz, proved a techno-whiz in incorporating the image a local 
SFX specialist had crafted from the sketch based on Jay Pirelli’s description of the 
face in Hartman/Callan’s scrying mirror into the interview room feed. Mulder had 
picked what he’d felt was the right psychological moment to spring the demon’s 
image on Franklyn. The result had been positive but somewhat short of totally 
satisfying.

Staring at the hotel ceiling, Mulder barely felt the pressure on the mattress next to 
him.

“Mulder!”

The agent blinked, and became aware of the naked redhead straddling his hips.

“There’s one thing bothering me,” he muttered.

Scully rolled off with a sigh. “That’s at least one less than what’s bothering me. 
Maybe Erin Linscott has the right idea with this celibacy thing. Thing of how much 
more work I’d get done, how much more energy I’d have.”

Mulder reached for a breast. “Sorry, Scully. I was just remembering…”

“Mulder, what?” Scully turned his chin. “Oh, shit. Can I surmise that we’re not about 
to partake in crazed expensed hotel sex?”

Her partner grabbed for his jacket on a nearby chair. “I gotta call Deputy Chief 
Johnson.”

Scully reached over the mattress’ edge, searching for her panties. “I surmise 
correctly.”

Priority Homicide Squad
Los Angeles Police Department
Park Center, Los Angeles
8:04 p.m.

She found Mulder alternating between a trio of monitors. Buzz shrugged at the chief.

“Agent Mulder,” Brenda sighed in exasperation, “I thought you’d left for the day. You 
putting together tomorrow’s séance?”

“I think I made a miscalculation, Chief,” the agent mumbled. “I want you to see 
something.”

Brenda stood rooted in the Tech Room doorway for a moment, then waved Buzz 
aside to lean in toward the monitors. She donned her horn-rimmed glasses.

“As you know, your interview tapes are time-stamped,” Mulder said. “The same’s 
true for the webcam video of Dr. Frankl--, Dr. Callan’s reaction to Ms. Linscott’s 
interview. We’ve paused both videos at the same point – right before you ask Ms. 
Linscott about Dr. Callan’s involvement in Hartman’s coven. It struck me as strange 
that a magician so adept would hang out with a bunch of Hollywood wannabes. Ah,  
Chief, I need you to sit in this chair -- the one Franklyn, er, Callan occupied this 
afternoon.” 

Brenda pursed her lips, then sighed and sat.

“Buzz?” Mulder prompted. Buzz looked to Brenda, who nodded in resignation. The tech 
punch dual play buttons: Erin Linscott related “Dr. Callan’s” involvement in “Dr. 
Hartman’s” rituals and noted the surgeons’ ongoing feud.

“Keep your eyes on Linscott,” Mulder instructed.

“What?” Callan sputtered on the other monitor, straightening in his chair. “That bitch!”

Brenda gasped. “Freeze it, Buzz,” Mulder snapped. 

“It has to be a coincidence,” the deputy chief breathed. “It has to be.”

“Run them both back to the beginning of Callan’s outburst. Yeah, there. Play them at 
half-speed.”

“Whaaaaatttt?” Callan shouted on Monitor 1. “Thaaaaatttt biiiiiitch!”

On Monitor 2, Erin Linscott’s head snapped up. Her eyes blazed into the interview 
room camera, projecting fury at Brenda -- at Callan. They lingered for a moment, then 
returned to the chief.

“She knew Callan -- Franklyn -- was here, and what he’d said. He wasn’t frightened by 
the subliminal demon image -- Linscott scared him. This was a warning. To keep his 
mouth shut.”

“That’s, that’s just impossible,” Brenda said coldly, standing, backing away from the 
monitor bank.

“I was so intent on getting Franklyn that I ignored the obvious,” Mulder sighed. “After 
seeing this, I went back to Jay Pirelli’s description of ‘Hartman’’s ceremony and the 
photos he’d taken that night. I counted 13 separate individuals in the photos, including 
‘Hartman’ and Linscott. That’s a traditional coven gathering -- I don’t think they were 
missing anyone. Certainly not ‘Callan.’ I think Linscott was lying, trying to divert 
attention much like Franklyn did when he told us about the ‘magic’ the real Dr. Callan 
performed with his patients.

“Then there was Pirelli’s account of the demon’s image in the mirror. He said it was 
Linscott staring into the image. I don’t think she was merely observing it -- I think she 
summoned it. Like I said, I’d ignored a major clue to the true nature of this case. 
Remember my showing you the symbol on the mirror -- the full moon flanked by two 
crescents? That’s the Lunar Triple Goddess symbol. It represents not only the waxing, 
full, and waning phases of the moon, but also the three aspects of womanhood -- 
mother, maiden, and crone.”

“Maiden,” Brenda whispered.

“Or virgin,” Mulder clarified. “Buzz, bring up that video, please. I want you to see this, 
Chief.”

She lowered herself slowly back into the viewing seat as Erin Linscott was replaced by 
a younger, more flamboyant version of herself, strolling up a red carpet in a 
microscopic red dress as crowds cheered around her.

“The 2003 Golden Globes,” Mulder explained. “Linscott took Best Supporting Actress 
for her role as the daughter in Domestic Dispute.”

“Hated that show,” Buzz murmured.

“Amen,” the agent concurred. “There, Buzz. Great. Now zoom in just above the good 
stuff. Yeah, yeah, there!”

Brenda adjusted her glasses and stared at Erin’s bare shoulder blades and sternum.

“The pendant,” Mulder urged. “Look at the design.”

Brenda peered, then stopped breathing.

“Breathe,” Mulder advised as she stared at the three lunar phases etched into the 
platinum teardrop dangling from the actress’ neck. “Looks like Erin kept a few secrets 
from the good witch doctor. Now, who do you think was using who?”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” Brenda murmured, “but you think 
Callan…Franklyn…oh, whoever -- you think he knows all this?”

“I think he knows he’s been outclassed,” Mulder said, pushing his chair back. “And so 
does she. Scully’s already on her way to Franklyn’s place.”

Brenda paused, eyeing first Mulder, then the would-be sorceress on the runway. Then 
she unholstered her cell phone.

Residence of Dr. Darrell Callan
Palm Springs
11:58 p.m.

When they arrived at “Dr. Callan’s” Palm Springs mini estate, Mulder and Scully 
spotted Erin Linscott’s signature black Testarossa in the dead center of Callan’s 
elaborately paved drive. They parked in the street below; Brenda and Flynn pulled in 
a half block down.

“She may look like Lindsay Lohan’s sober twin, but Linscott’s very dangerous,even 
unarmed,” Mulder warned Flynn as he drew his sidearm.

“Shoulda brought my cross,” the lieutenant chuckled, slipping on a Kevlar vest and 
handing another to Deputy Chief Johnson.

As Brenda and Mulder sprinted up the lawn beside the home’s steep driveway, Scully 
and Flynn took the stone perimeter wall in a rear approach. Twenty feet from the 
front veranda, Brenda touched Mulder’s arm and nodded toward the darkness 
beyond the open front doors. They moved to either side, then slipped into the foyer 
with a mutual signal.

The cop and the agent were halfway to the kitchen when they heard it – a low, 
animal moan that nonetheless was all too human. A single shadow danced in the 
flicker of candlelight. The moaning changed pitch, and Brenda momentarily hugged 
the wall beside the arched doorway. She hefted her weapon with a deep breath, and 
charged into the light with Mulder.

“Dear God,” Deputy Chief Johnson cried out, slumping against the brushed steel 
refrigerator. Mulder’s hand twitched on his gun, his feet frozen to the terra cotta 
tiles.

The mass of exposed muscles, tendons, and bone seated at the kitchen table was, 
unfortunately, human. Blood dripped slowly from the skinned man’s left foot, pooling 
in a widening reservoir.

Brenda fumbled her cell phone from her slacks, fingers trembling uncontrollably as 
she punched 9-1-1. Mulder inched toward the grisly apparition.

“Dr. Franklyn?” the agent whispered.

The lidless eyes moved for the first time, conveying nothing as they stared at 
Mulder. Franklyn’s jaw twitched and opened. The agent leaned forward as the 
magician’s blackened tongue slipped between his teeth. Then Mulder spotted the 
opaque obsidian eyes, and fell onto his ass as the eel slid onto the tile between his 
legs, slapping the bloody tiles.

Franklyn was gone before the EMTs arrived. An unfortunate crime scene technician 
found the rest of the late doctor hanging neatly in his bedroom closet.

Vino: A Restaurant
Hollywood
7:25 p.m.

“In ancient Greek culture, virginity denoted strength and independence,” Mulder 
explained as he prodded his duck confit. “Artemis, the Greek virgin goddess of the 
moon and the hunt, protected women in labor, small children, and wild animals. 
Hestia, the goddess of the hearth, never took part in the struggles of men and gods. 
Virgin goddesses were immune to the temptations of Dionysus, the Greek god of 
seduction and wine.”

“That’s so fascinating,” Brenda murmured cheerfully, eyes darting about the now-
hushed tables around them. Fritz had focused on his steak, and his sawing 
intensified. Scully reached for Mojito No. 3.

Erin Linscott had seemingly dropped from the face of the Earth, and with the FBI and 
Homeland Security blanketing every conceivable escape route, Mulder and Scully 
booked a new flight east. The farewell dinner had been Mulder’s idea; Brenda could 
find no plausible escape route.

By the time the entrees had arrived, Mulder already had shared insights on Wiccan 
and Druidic rituals, an amusing anecdote about a Tibetan shaman, and his thoughts 
on the latest Chris Tucker flick. He made no mention of the horror he and the deputy 
chief had shared the previous night.

Brenda nearly swooned with relief as their waiter, yet another tragically flawless 
young actor, materialized at Scully’s shoulder. The agent jumped, hiccupping twice.

“We have a delightful selection of desserts this evening,” the waiter purred, 
brandishing a silver tray. “In addition to our famous black forest torte, the chef has 
prepared a Mexican chocolate soufflé, an apple and goat cheese turnover laced with 
Calvados, and a white chocolate and raspberry trifle. May I tempt you?”

Brenda’s eyes devoured the trayful of confections, then locked on Fritz’s stern 
expression. Her eyes implored him; he shook his head once.

“I can’t,” Brenda whimpered, evoking Tennessee Williams.

“Two of those,” Mulder ordered, pointing to the renowned black forest torte. He 
scooted back. “Gotta find the little fed’s room,” he informed his hosts. “Don’t let 
Scully on top of the table.”

“Well, this was just a…a wonderful idea,” Brenda sang as Mulder disappeared into an 
alcove. “Your partner is just so full of interesting information.”

Scully toasted with her mojito. “Yeah, he’s full of something, all right. Look, I know 
he must seem kind of, well, flaky to you--”

Fritz snorted, then flinched under Brenda’s icy stare.

“Just for that,” the deputy chief informed her fiance with offended dignity as she 
canvassed the room, “I am having what he’s having.”

end


1