Shadow Of The Wolf. Rebecca Flanders

Fortenoy manipulated the controls of the tape editor until the smooth, too-handsome-to-be-true features of Deputy Police Chief Marshall Devereaux came into center frame. She muttered, freezing the tape, “There you are, you smug, self-righteous son of a—”

      “Oh, real helpful, Fortenoy.” Her producer, Janice Waters, paused to look over her shoulder. “Let’s start a war with the police department. Guaranteed to get you lots of publicity. Of course, you won’t be getting any interviews…”

      “Watch this.” Amy let the tape play through.

      “Before we go any further,” the deputy chief said with hands upraised in the manner of a born politician, “I’d first like to express my sincere disappointment with certain members of the media who, although repeatedly cautioned to use discretion regarding certain sensitive aspects of this case, have nonetheless chosen to turn this series of tragic and senseless killings into a virtual circus—”

      “Me!” exclaimed Amy indignantly. “He’s talking about me!”

      “Who else?” said Paul Shelton, her cameraman. “You’re the one, after all, who made the Werewolf Killer what he is today. With a little help from your friends, of course,” he added smugly and perched on the edge of the desk to admire the results of his work as it flickered across the screen.

      Amy frowned. She didn’t like the way that sounded, any more than she had liked it when Marshall Devereaux had said virtually the same thing earlier that day. Of course, from Devereaux she had cause to take offense, while with Paul…well, he was one of her own. He knew, as well as she did, that it was all part of the business.

      “To remind you, once again,” Devereaux was saying on tape, “that disturbed individuals such as this very often thrive on the publicity engendered by their crimes.”

      And that was where Amy came in. She leaned forward to mark the tape. “Excuse me, Deputy Devereaux,” she called out clearly from the back of the room. “Surely you don’t mean to suggest that we should cease our coverage of the activities of this ‘disturbed individual,’ as you call him?”

      Paul swung the camera to Devereaux. She marked a cut. Close-up on Devereaux’s angry face. “What I mean to suggest, young lady—”

      “Young lady!” Her voice was practically a squeal. “He called me young lady!”

      Paul grinned. Janice frowned. The tape rolled on.

      “—is that without the insistence of certain members of the press upon turning an otherwise unremarkable series of killings…”

      Chaos erupted from the pressroom, but it was, once again, Amy’s voice that rose above the fray. It was sweet and polite, laced with Southern sugar—a tone those who knew her well did their best to avoid. “Could you describe to us, sir, what you would consider a remarkable series of killings?”

      Janice exclaimed in amazement, “What an absolute jerk!”

      Paul’s grin broadened as he watched the action unfold on the screen. “Nail him, babe!”

      “Now, this is a perfect example of how my words are twisted every time I come before you people,” returned Devereaux angrily.

      “You people!” Janice was practically chortling with delight. “That man is going to hang himself by his own—”

      Amy held up a hand for attention as Devereaux went on, “What we have is a sick, deranged individual preying on the weak and helpless among us, who, for some reason that’s totally inexplicable to me, has been glorified by the media into what very nearly approximates a cult hero.”

      “Well, I resent that,” muttered Paul.

      “Cut it,” Janice told Amy, but Amy had already marked it for editing.

      “The press has all but convinced the public there is a real werewolf out there, a man who changes into a beast during the full moon and tears people’s throats out. But worse, there is a strong possibility you’ve actually convinced the killer of it, as well. And that’s all we need, isn’t it? A deranged killer who’s convinced of his own invincibility?”

      “Well, I never,” murmured Paul, feigning insult.

      Amy ignored him.

      Devereaux continued, “You might recall that it wasn’t until the media started bandying about the term werewolf killer that this maniac actually began leaving evidence suggestive of a wolf at the scene—”

      “Now that’s a downright lie!” exclaimed Janice indignantly. “There was animal hair on the first body!”

      Amy simply frowned at the screen.

      “Those ridiculous paw prints, which our forensics people had no difficulty dismissing as a hoax, the widely publicized claw and teeth marks…”

      “We didn’t widely publicize them,” complained Paul, disgruntled.

      “Not to mention the fact that the number of killings has actually increased with each successive cycle, as though the killer is becoming emboldened by his own success. I attribute this directly to what I can only call the media’s exploitation of a tragic situation. Let me be clear on one thing, people—I will not have panic in the streets.”

      “Might not the quickest way to avoid that,” Amy spoke up on tape again, “be to make an arrest in the case?”

      Devereaux’s contempt for her, and the press, in general, was clear through the tape. “That, of course, is at the top of our list of things to do.”

      “Oh, great,” groaned Janice. “The man is dog food.”

      Someone else called out, “Do you have an update on the progress in the case?”

      But Amy overrode him. “Is it true the FBI has been called in?”

      Devereaux glared at her. “It is customary for the FBI to take on a consulting role in all cases of this sort. We’re working closely with federal investigators and expect a break in the case very soon.”

      Amy had the last word. “Hopefully, before the next full moon.”

      Devereaux looked at her long and hard, and then turned his gaze to the assemblage in general. “Are there other questions?”

      Amy turned down the volume.

      Janice gave a rueful shake of her head. “I assume he didn’t have anything else important to say?”

      “You heard the best parts.”

      “The man is such a jerk, it’s almost no fun to torment him. Okay, put the best parts together with a nice little narrative, and we’ll run it at six and eleven. What else have you got?”

      “At the moment, nothing. But I’m going to try to get a quote from the mayor tonight. If I can snag it in time for the eleven o’clock show, I’ll let you know.”

      Janice lifted an eyebrow. “The mayor, huh? How do you plan to arrange that?”

      “Simple. He’s going to the Governor’s Ball tonight. So am I.”

      Janice gave her a grinning thumbs-up and left the editing room.

      Paul said, rising, “Governor’s Ball, huh? Boy, I wish my folks had money.”

      “Money,” replied Amy, running the tape backward, “is nothing. Connections, on the other hand, are everything.”

      “So, is your dad going to be there or what?”

      Amy did not look up. “No.”

      Amy’s father, Byron Fortenoy, the internationally renowned cardiac surgeon and researcher, inventor of the synthetic reflux valve that had saved countless thousands of lives, rarely found time in his busy schedule to visit among mere mortals anymore. His name, however, still carried more than enough influence among the New Orleans elite to guarantee his daughter anything from a bank loan to Saints tickets