Shadow Of The Wolf. Rebecca Flanders

“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 merely for the asking. Sometimes, such notoriety was a pain. More often than not, however, it was incredibly convenient.

      Amy said absently, studying the frames as they moved through the editor, “Anyway, I’m only going for the quote. You know how I hate these Mardi Gras balls. And it’s not like there won’t be a half-dozen other reporters there.”

      “Yeah, but none of them who are on first-name basis with the mayor. And none of them,” Paul added pointedly as he turned for the door, “who have the Werewolf Killer in their pockets.”

      Amy shuddered. “Did anybody ever tell you you have a creepy way of putting things?”

      He shrugged. “Hey, in this business, if you don’t learn to laugh, you spend your life crying.”

      “Boy, that’s the truth,” Amy murmured, focusing on the tape.

      Amy had been a crime reporter for WLAK’s Channel Six Action News for the past four of her twenty-nine years. In that time, she had covered gang slayings, child murders and child murderers, rapes, molestations, abuse, home invasions, drive-by shootings, arson, bombings. Whatever twisted evil lurked in the hearts of men and whatever violent or obscene way they chose to express it, Amy had seen it all. She had quickly learned that to allow herself to become emotionally affected by the stories she covered was a short road to self-destruction, and she was careful to maintain a professional detachment in every situation.

      Until now.

      “Paul?” She glanced up as he opened the door, trying to keep her voice casual. “You don’t think…I mean, Devereaux couldn’t be right, could he? About us—about me—encouraging this guy?”

      Paul scowled sharply in a mixture of annoyance and amusement. “Come on, babe, you know he’s just trying to torment you. If you ask me, he’s just jealous.”

      Amy tried to relax. “Of my good looks, no doubt.”

      “You better believe it. Hey, if I weren’t married…”

      “In your dreams, sweet thing.” Grinning, Amy turned back to the editor. But her amusement faded as she watched the frames scroll by and she said again, “Hey, Paul.”

      He looked back. “I’m on my dinner break,” he reminded her impatiently.

      Amy said thoughtfully, “What was all that garbage about the forensic evidence, anyway? I never heard anyone declare those paw prints a hoax before. And he out-and-out lied about animal hair on the bodies. Until today, no one said anything about teeth and claw marks on the bodies. It was as though he was trying so hard to tell a lie, he tripped all over the truth.”

      “And this is unusual? Devereaux wouldn’t know the truth if it jumped up and bit him on the ankle.”

      “But would we?” she wondered, only half to herself.

      “Huh?”

      “Did you ever hear the phrase, ‘Methinks he doth protest too much’?”

      “Come on, Amy, I’m going into serious sugar deficit here.”

      “It’s just that…maybe I’ve been going about this whole thing the wrong way. Maybe the truth has been staring us in the face the whole time.”

      “What? That the killer really is a werewolf?”

      Amy didn’t smile. “That the police really don’t know what he is.”

      Paul looked confused.

      “Think about it, Paul.” Amy’s expression was serious. “A serial killer in one of the most populous cities in the country evades detection for ten months. Fifteen people dead, and not a single witness. The FBI, local police, all the crime detection capabilities of the modern age are involved, and there’s still not so much as a computer sketch or a psychological profile of this guy. Devereaux aside, you don’t really believe for one minute the police are that incompetent, do you?”

      Paul frowned. “So what are you saying? That they’re covering up something? Hardly a new theory, Ace.”

      “Exactly.” Amy chewed a thumbnail thoughtfully. “Police and corruption. We’ve all been pursuing that angle. It’s politically motivated because all the victims are homeless and the police are heartless. The evidence is being tainted because the police are careless. Competition between law enforcement agencies is hampering the investigation. But, Paul—” she lifted eyes to him that were dark with worry “—what if the simple truth is that the police are doing their best, and they still can’t find him?”

      Paul regarded her gravely. “Now, that,” he told her, “is damn scary.”

      “Yeah.” She released a breath. “No kidding.”

      They looked at each other for another long moment. Finally, Paul said, “I, uh, wouldn’t mention this theory of yours to anybody just yet.”

      “Right.”

      He turned toward the door again, then looked back. “I’d rather it be a real werewolf,” he said.

      Amy smiled, though the expression was faint and empty of humor. “Yeah. I know what you mean.”

      “On the other hand, it’s not as though something like this has never happened before.”

      Amy, who had started to turn back to the editor, glanced at him in confusion. “What?”

      “That a serial killer eludes detection for months on end in one of the most populated cities in the country,” he explained. “No witnesses, no clean suspects, nothing.”

      Amy was interested. “Oh, yeah? When was this?”

      “London, 1888,” he told her. “They called him Jack the Ripper.”

      “Great,” she muttered, pushing back her smooth blond hair with her hand. “I think I’ll put that in my story tonight. Citizens of New Orleans, there’s hope—London survived Jack the Ripper, we can survive the Werewolf Killer.”

      He shrugged. “As long as we aren’t prostitutes or street people, that is. Say, do you have a date for that wingding tonight?”

      “Don’t need one. This is business, not pleasure.”

      “My tennis partner is getting a divorce, you know, and I’ll bet he’s available on short notice.”

      Amy should have seen that one coming. Paul was always trying to fix her up, and his wife was no better. What was it about happily married people that made them incapable of letting their friends be happily single?

      She said, “When he actually gets a divorce, let me know. Meanwhile, the party’s black-tie.”

      “Oh.”

      Paul sounded disappointed, and Amy guessed his friend did not have his own tux.

      Then he cheered. “Anyway, Cindy says for you to come to dinner next week.”

      “Is the tennis partner going to be there?”

      “I guess not, if you’re going to take that attitude.”

      “I’ll call Cindy.”

      Still Paul hesitated. “You don’t,