Magic Lantern. Alex Archer

a detective on the New York City Police Department and a guy who had ended up being a big part of her life—on and off. There was a definite attraction between them, and they’d been the “plus ones” for each other several times as well as going out on legitimate dates. However, the only permanent thing they had between them so far was friendship.

       The caller ID picture showed Bart in his shirt and tie, which was how Annja usually saw him. He wore his dark hair cut short and was square jawed, the kind of guy women would want to have children with.

       “Hey, Bart.”

       “Hey. Not calling too late, am I? Wherever you are.” He sounded distant and a trifle off his game.

       “London. Only a five-hour time difference.”

       “It’s midnight there.”

       Annja looked at the time on the computer. “Yes. But I’m not asleep. Still working on New York time at the moment.”

       “Morning’s going to come early.”

       “Morning is six hours away no matter how you look at it. I go to sleep and I’m awake six hours later. I don’t have to be up till eight. I’ve still got a couple hours.” Annja waited. Bart McGilley wasn’t one to call frivolously.

       Bart hesitated. “Maybe I should call at another time.”

       “You’ve got me now.”

       “Yeah.”

       Annja waited.

       “We caught a bad one tonight. I don’t really want to get into it. I just wanted to hear a friendly voice.”

       “Sure.”

       “So what are you doing in London?”

       Obviously the Mr. Hyde story wasn’t going to fly. That would have reminded Bart of his own problems as well as put him into worry mode. Instead, Annja talked about phantasmagorists, magic lanterns and what little she knew of Étienne Robertson.

       Mostly, Bart listened. She’d seen him like this before and knew that he appreciated her talking about something, anything, while he sorted himself out. Chances were, she’d never know what he’d gotten into unless she went back and researched the news. Usually, she chose not to do that.

       Finally, Bart thanked her and said he had to go. “You should be careful while you’re over there. There’s some creep in the city calling himself Mr. Hyde who’s killing women. I was watching CNN while you were talking.”

       “Yeah, I heard about that.”

       “Well, be careful. According to the news release, he just killed his fourth victim tonight.”

      5

      The streets were packed near the East End alley where the fourth Mr. Hyde murder had taken place. Annja instructed the cabdriver to get as close as he could, then paid him and walked the rest of the way.

       She didn’t like being at a crime scene. Several of the digs she’d been on had been crime scenes, as well. But there wasn’t the immediacy of present-day death.

       A logjam of onlookers, police and emergency teams filled the narrow street. Flashes went off from cell phones and pocket cameras. A cold breeze, shot through with patchy fog, blew in from the Thames. The blue lights of the police cars whipped across the apartment buildings and stirred the shadows.

       Despite the number of people, Annja got close enough to see a middle-age woman sprawled half on the curb and half in the street between parked cars. Blood darkened the sides of the cars. Bloody handprints streaked the back windshield of one.

       “She fought him.” A woman in her late forties or early fifties stood in front of Annja in a faded house robe with a grape Popsicle in one hand, talking to an older man. “’Course, didn’t do her no good. Poor thing couldn’t get away from that madman.”

       Annja nudged closer. “Excuse me.”

       The woman looked back at her.

       “Did you see what happened?”

       Her eyes narrowed. “You’re American?”

       “Yes.”

       “Thought so. I recognize the accent. And yes, I did see what happened. I called in the bobbies. My name is Jane. Jane Morris.”

       “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Morris.”

       “Are you a reporter?”

       “Something like that.”

       Jane regarded her suspiciously. “I don’t see no notepad.”

       “I’ve got a very good memory.”

       “No camera, neither.”

       Annja nodded toward the policemen as they started out into the bystanders. “Anyone who’s taken a picture is likely to have their phone or camera removed as part of an effort to collect evidence.”

       The woman watched as the police officers gathered the cell phones and cameras. Of course, the law enforcement officers didn’t get them all because the crowd started dispersing. The ones who had their grisly souvenirs were intent on keeping them. They’d pop up on Facebook, blogs and Twitter within minutes if they hadn’t already.

       “This is my first murder,” Jane said in a low, confiding voice.

       “Could you tell me what you saw?”

       The woman pointed the Popsicle at the murder victim. “I saw that poor thing fighting with a proper big bloke. He was huge. Like some kind of gorilla. Shoulders out to here.” She placed her hands about three feet apart and the Popsicle dripped on the neck of the man ahead of her.

       The man cursed and shot her a nasty look. He took a step away.

       “Sorry, love.” Jane licked the Popsicle momentarily dry. “She hardly had time to cry help. I was standing up there.” She pointed at a balcony on the third floor of the nearby building. “I called the police immediately.” She shook her head sadly. “But I knew it was too late.”

       “The man got away?”

       “Of course he did. A man who can stomp in a woman’s head like he’s stepping on a peanut? No one around him is going to stop him. We don’t carry guns like you Yanks.”

       “Do you know who the woman was?”

       Jane shook her head. “Looked like she was a waitress, from the way she was dressed.”

       Feeling ghoulish, Annja surreptitiously took out her sat-phone and brought up her Twitter account. Keeping the phone hidden from the police, she scrolled through the news and didn’t have to go far before she found the first tweets about the dead woman.

       Audrey McClintok. A twenty-seven-year-old waitress at a diner.

       Annja put her phone back in the pocket of her Windbreaker. So far, none of the victims had anything in common except for being women. The ability of the man to kill and disappear was chilling.

       “Well, now here’s something.” Jane sucked on her Popsicle.

       Two uniformed policemen pushed through the crowd, backing people off and heading straight for them. Probably wanted to talk to Jane, since she’d reported the murder, Annja thought.

       They stopped in front of Annja. The oldest of the two was grizzled, and his bleak eyes indicated he’d seen too much over the years. “Ms. Creed.”

       She nodded.

       “DCI Westcox would like a word with you, miss.”

       “Now?” The last thing Annja wanted to do was get involved in the murder investigation.

       “Yes, miss. Now.”

       The two policemen had flanked her and she got the distinct impression turning down