Cry Wolf

He smiled slightly, a smile that for its strange perfection made the nerves tingle along the back of her neck.

"Oh, I am working on it, Laurel," he said softly, his green eyes shining as if he had sole possession of a wonderful secret. "Rest assured, I will have enough evidence to get a conviction. More than enough."

He let that promise ring in the air for a moment, then changed directions so smoothly and quickly, Laurel thought it was a wonder she didn't lose her balance. "Are you coming to the di

"No," she said, appalled that he might think she would even consider it. "After all that's happened recently, I'm sure you understand that I'm not feeling up to it."

"Of course," he murmured, reaching into an inside jacket pocket to extract a long, slim cigar. He trimmed the end with a pocket-size device, snipping it cleanly and efficiently. "I understand completely. You've lost your sister. The best suspect we have is your lover-"

"What about Baldwin?" Laurel snapped, an odd, niggling feeling of panic fluttering in her stomach. "What about-"

"He isn't intelligent enough," Danjermond said sharply, cutting her off with his look as much as his words. His eyes were as bright and fervid as gemstones beneath the dark slash of his brows. "He's a petty con man with delusions of grandeur. Do you really believe he could have committed crime after crime without implicating himself?"

"I think there's enough evidence to suspect him-"

"Then you haven't been paying attention, Laurel." He shook his head almost imperceptibly, his eyes never letting go of hers. "You disappoint me," he whispered.

Slowly, almost sensuously, he slipped the tip of the cigar between his lips. Laurel watched, feeling oddly mesmerized, vaguely nervous. He dipped a hand into his pants pocket and came out not with the wafer-thin gold lighter, but with a book of matches.

A bloodred book of matches.

Laurel caught only glimpses of black lacework script beneath his meticulously manicured fingers as he went about the ritual of lighting the cigar, but somehow, she didn't really need to see the name of the bar. Her heart pounded in her throat, in her head. Nausea swirled through her, and she curled her fingers tighter over the edge of the car door.

"This killer is brilliant, Laurel," he said softly, smoothly. "Brilliant, careful, strong. Strength is essential for success in his avocation. Strength of mind, strength of will."

Laurel said nothing. Her eyes were glued to the matchbook. Already her brain had hit the denial stage. It couldn't be. There was an explanation. He'd taken it from the purse Ke

Or he was a killer and he wanted her to know it.

Danjermond puffed absently on his cigar, turning the folder of matches over in his fingers like a magician warming up for a sleight of hand routine.

"Le Mascarade," he murmured. "Where no one is quite what they seem. We all wear masks, don't we, Laurel?" he asked, lifting a brow. "The trick is finding out what lies behind them."

He slipped the matchbook back into his pocket and strolled away, cherry-scented smoke curling in his wake like mystical ribbons.