Cassidy and the Princess. Patricia Potter

tried not to panic. She was strong, stronger than a stranger would suppose, especially with her short height and slender body. Her legs and arms were all muscle. If she could get in position, she could kick where it would hurt.

      But now she just tried to breathe. She was dragged a few feet, around the corner of the building, behind a Dumpster. She smelled rotten food. She also smelled something else—a sweet, cloying odor.

      He pulled her down, and his arm slipped. She twisted, screaming as she did before he fell on her, putting a knife to her throat. “Another sound and I’ll kill you.”

      In the shadows, she saw he wore a ski mask. He had broad shoulders. He looked, in fact, like a lineman on a football team. She saw the bulk and the mask. It was too dark to see the eyes.

      Don’t panic. Wait for your chance. Yet her heart was beating so loud he must hear it. He liked fear. She could sense it. Let him think you are terrified. Not that she wasn’t.

      The knife stayed at her neck as his other hand tore at her track pants. She had tied the drawstrings into a knot since the pants were loose, and he was having trouble untying them. With a curse he pulled, but they did not give. He took the knife away from her throat and shifted his weight. In that moment, her right leg was free and she thrust it into his crotch, and screamed again. He doubled over, and she sought to scramble away.

      One of his hands grabbed for her, and in trying to avoid it, she grabbed his mask and pulled it off. He was close, but the shadows shielded much of his face. All she wanted was to get away, as far and as quickly as possible.

      His hand came up. Empty. He must have dropped his knife when she kicked him. She heard a noise from around the corner, a shout, and then saw his fist come at her.

      Everything went dark.

      “Hoppy, there’s been another one.”

      Cassidy MacKay turned away from the files that had kept him at the office tonight instead of in front of the television, watching Monday night football. Manny, his partner, had just put down his telephone.

      Cassidy flinched at the nickname. Manny had started calling him “Hoppy” for Hopalong Cassidy. Cassidy’s glare and refusal to answer kept anyone else from following suit, but Manny had an advantage no one else did. He’d saved Cassidy’s life.

      He took his feet off the desk and turned in his swivel chair. “The Rose Killer?”

      “Yeah, but this time he didn’t succeed in killing his victim,” Manny said.

      Cassidy whirled his chair all the way around. “She’s alive?”

      “Yep. She’s at the hospital.’

      Cassidy erupted from the chair. “How bad is she?”

      “The beat guys said she was lucky. A concussion, a few cuts, abrasions.”

      “Rape?”

      “No, apparently she fought like hell. She screamed, and a security guard heard her.”

      Cassidy didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath. Now it exploded from his lungs.

      “She’s unconscious,” Manny continued. “Could be for another few hours, even a day or more, according to her doctors.”

      “He’s never left one alive before,” Cassidy said slowly. “Are you sure it’s him?”

      “There was a battered rose. Not as perfect as the others. It looked as if someone had rolled on it, but it’s our guy. It had the ribbon.”

      “Hot damn. He finally made a mistake.” Cassidy jumped from the swivel chair. “What are we waiting for? City Hospital?”

      “Yep. But I don’t think for long. Her mother wants to transfer her to St. Agnes.”

      “Mother? St. Agnes? She’s not a pro?”

      Manny grinned. “She’s a pro all right, but not the kind you’re thinking of. She’s here for that figure skating competition.”

      Cassidy’s brows knitted together in puzzlement.

      “Ah, Hoppy, don’t you ever read the newspapers?”

      “Not if I can help it.” It was a lie and they both knew it. Cassidy was a news junky, although he was also one of its most vocal critics.

      “She’s a figure skater, apparently a champion in pairs. She and her partner could win the Olympic Gold Medal.”

      Cassidy groaned. “Tell me you’re baiting me.”

      “Nope. She’s a pure unvarnished princess, according to the newspapers.

      “Since when do you read about figure skating?”

      “Since we have a kid who wants to be a skater. She and my wife watch every time there’s a competition on television.”

      “A damn good reason not to get married,” Cassidy said. “Give me a beer and a football game.”

      Manny grinned. “That good-ole-boy act might play with others, not me. I happen to know you go to the opera.”

      “Spread it around and I’ll ask for another partner.”

      “No one else would have you.”

      “True,” Cassidy said good-naturedly as he increased the length of his stride.

      “Hey, Hoppy, slow up. I’m a short, fat guy.”

      Cassidy grinned at that. Manny was Lebanese, and he was a short guy. Thick, too. But it was mostly muscle. Cassidy had no complaints with either his speed or ability, nor with his street smarts. Manny was, quite simply, the best partner he’d ever had.

      He did not slow his stride, however. He’d been after the Rose Killer for eight months. Four prostitutes had been killed, a rose left at their side. Cassidy took it as a personal insult that the perp continued to kill at will. He had an insidious thought: now that someone other than a prostitute had been targeted, maybe he could finally get the resources he needed.

      He slowed his stride until Manny could match it. “Tell me more about her,” he said.

      “She’s beautiful,” Manny said. “I’ve watched her skate. She’s a true athlete.”

      That was the supreme compliment for Manny. He was a frustrated athlete who’d been too short to play either basketball or football beyond junior high school.

      “How in the hell did he get to her if she’s…a princess?” It had taken him a second to say the word. He’d never known a princess, even a media-created one, and he wasn’t sure how helpful one might be. But the prospect of getting a killer off the streets produced pure adrenaline in him. Up to now, he and Manny had come to a complete standstill in the case.

      It had started seven months ago when they’d found the first body. A second, two months later; a third, another two months later; the fourth, two months later. This attempt was only a month since the last murder. All were killed on a Wednesday night. All were raped before being stabbed, but there had been no DNA, which led police to conclude the killer used both condoms and gloves. He never left clues, only a single red rose. The newspapers knew that. What they didn’t know was that the rose was always wrapped with a white satin ribbon tied into a neat bow.

      Now they might have a witness who could tell them something about the killer. And, according to the beat cop, they might have to crawl over a mother to get to her.

      They reached the parking lot and their unmarked car. “I’ll drive,” Cassidy said.

      “I could have guessed that,” Manny said, fastening his seat belt and saying a Hail Mary, his usual practice when Cassidy drove.

      Cassidy ignored it as usual. “What else do you know?”

      “She apparently went for a walk outside the Municipal Auditorium.”

      “At