Washington traffic could tear at the nerves- especially when you'd woken up sluggish, primed yourself with coffee, then handled back-to-back appointments. Tess inched along behind a Pinto with a faulty exhaust, and simmered through another red light. Beside her a man in a big blue GMC revved his engine. It disappointed him when she didn't bother to glance over.

She was worried about Joey Higgins. Two months of therapy and she wasn't any closer to the real problem, or more accurately, the real answer. A fourteen-year-old boy shouldn't be clinically depressed, but out playing third base. Today she'd felt he'd been on the verge of really opening up to her. On the verge, Tess thought with a sigh. But he hadn't yet crossed the line. Building his confidence, his self-esteem, was like building the pyramids. Step by agonizing step. If she could just get to the point where she had his full trust...

She fought her way across town while concern for a sullen young boy with bitterness in his eyes weighed on her. There were so many other things. Too many other things.

Tess knew she didn't have to sacrifice her lunch hour and hand deliver the profile to Captain Harris. She had been under no obligation to work on it until two A.M. either, but found it impossible not to.

Something pushed at her-instinct, hunch, superstition, she couldn't have said which. All she knew was that she was involved with the faceless killer as deeply as with any of her patients. The police needed whatever assistance she could give to help them understand him, and needed to understand him in order to catch him. He had to be caught so he could be helped.

As she pulled into the station's lot she took a quick scan. No Mustang. But then, she reminded herself as she stepped out of her car, that wasn't why she'd come. Then again, she wasn't sure why she'd agreed to go out with Ben Paris, since she considered him arrogant and difficult, and her workload was jamming up with the extra time she was taking on the homicides. She knew if she put in a couple of hours that evening, she could have things running fairly smoothly again. Several times that day she had thought about phoning him and begging off.

What's more, dating wasn't something Tess approached with much enthusiasm. The single's scene was a tough, nasty circle that usually left everyone involved frustrated or frazzled. She was automatically put off by the slick here-I-am, aren't-you-lucky type. Frank. Nor did she have any illusions about the fanatically casual, let's-not-talk-commitment sort. Like the public defender she'd seen occasionally last spring.

It wasn't that men didn't interest her, it was simply that most of the men she'd met couldn't hold her interest. When your expectations were high, disappointment came easily. All in all it was easier to stay home with an old movie or a fat briefcase.

But she wasn't going to beg off. Tess told herself it would be rude to break a date on such short notice-even a date she knew had been made on impulse by both parties. She'd go, enjoy the play, then say good night. She'd work over the weekend.

When she walked into Homicide she took a quick look at who was sitting at a desk, who was walking from place to place. Someone had his head stuck in a small, scarred refrigerator, but when he straightened, he was a stranger.

Ben wasn't there, but she saw a variety of styles in the cops who were. Suits and ties, jeans and sweaters, boots and sneakers. The one thing that seemed universal was the shoulder holster. It seemed to her to fall far short of the glamor of the sword.

A glance at Harris's office showed her it was empty.

"Dr. Court?"

She stopped and looked over at a man just rising from a typewriter. "Yes."

"I'm Detective Roderick. If you're looking for Captain Harris, he's in a meeting with the chief."

"I see." He was the suit-and-tie sort, she observed. Though his jacket was slung over the back of his chair, his tie was neat and straight. She decided Ben would never wear one. "Is he expected back?"

"Yes. If you'd like to wait, he shouldn't be too much longer." He grinned, remembering the day before. "I can get you some coffee."

"Ah..." She looked at her watch. Her next patient was due in forty minutes. It would take her half of that to get back to her office. "No, thanks. I don't have much time myself. I have a report for the captain."

"The profile. You can give it to me." When he saw her hesitation, he went on, "I'm assigned to the case, Dr. Court."

"Sorry. I'd appreciate it if you could see Captain Harris gets this as soon as he comes in." Unzipping her briefcase, Tess drew out the file. "If he has any questions, he can reach me in my office until five, then at home until seven. I don't suppose you can tell me if there's been any progress?"

"I wish I could. At this point we're going back over the same ground, hoping we missed something the first half-a-dozen times."

Tess glanced at the file and wondered if he could really understand the man she'd written about. Could anyone? Dissatisfied, she nodded and handed over the file. It looked harmless, but so did a bomb at rest. "Thank you."

A lady, he thought. You began to miss seeing the real thing in this line of work. "Sure. You have a message for the captain?"

"No. Everything's in the file. Thanks again, Detective."

Lowenstein waited until Tess was out of earshot. "That the psychiatrist?"

Roderick ran the folder through his fingers before he set it on his desk. "Yeah. Brought in the profile for Harris."

"Looks like Harper's Bazaar? Lowenstein murmured. "Classy, though I heard she left with Paris last night." With a chuckle she gave Roderick a pat on the arm. "She raise your blood pressure, Lou?"

Embarrassed, he shrugged. "I was thinking of something else."

Lowenstein stuck her tongue in her cheek. "Sure. Well, I hope she knows her stuff. Better than a Ouija board, I guess." She flung her bag over her shoulder. "Bigsby and I are going to interview some of the regulars at Doug's. Keep the home fires burning."

"Bring back a lead, Maggie." Roderick dropped back in his chair. "Or we might just have to haul out the Ouija board."

Tess had turned the second corner when she heard someone cursing. When she looked back, she saw Ben giving a vending machine a hefty kick.

"Sonofabitch."

"Ben." Ed put a hand on his shoulder. "That's stuff's poison to your system. Forget it. Your body'll thank you."

"I've got fifty cents in there." Putting his hands on either side of the machine, Ben shook it and swore again. "Fifty fucking cents is robbery in the first place for a skinny piece of chocolate and a few nuts."

"You oughta try raisins," Ed suggested. "Natural sugar. Full of iron."

Ben gritted his teeth. "I hate raisins, nothing but dried grapes."

"Detective Paris." Unable to resist, Tess had backtracked down the corridor. "Do you always have fights with inanimate objects?"

He turned his head but didn't loosen his grip on the machine. "When they hassle me." He gave the machine another violent shake, but he looked at her.

She wasn't wet today, he noticed. And she'd pinned her hair up and back in a cool, sleek style that made him think of elegant pastries under crystal. Maybe she thought it was professional, but it made his mouth water.

"You look good, Doc."

"Thank you. Hello, Detective Jackson."

"Ma'am." He put a hand back on Ben's shoulder. "I can't tell you how embarrassed I am for my partner."

"That's perfectly all right. I'm used to behavioral problems."

"Shit." Ben gave the machine one last shove, then turned away from it. The first chance he got he was going to pick the lock. "Were you looking for me?"

Tess thought of her scan of the parking lot, then the squad room. She decided on tact rather than truth. "No, I brought in the profile for Captain Harris."

"You work fast."

"If I'd had more to work with, it would've taken longer." With a movement of her shoulders, she expressed both acceptance and dissatisfaction. "I don't know how much help I've been. I'd like to do more."

"Our job," Ben reminded her.

"Hi, guys." Lowenstein passed by and stuck change in the vending machine. In fact she wanted a closer look at the psychiatrist more than she wanted candy. She would have bet a week's pay the rose-colored suit was silk.

"That sucker's defective," Ben told her, but when she pulled the handle, two candy bars dropped into the tray.

"Two for one," Lowenstein said, plopping both in her bag. "See you later."

"Wait a minute-"

"You don't want to make a scene in front of Dr. Court," Ed reminded him.

"Lowenstein's got my property."

"You're better off. Sugar'll kill you."

"This is all fascinating," Tess said dryly as she watched Ben glare at Lowenstein's back. "But I'm pressed for time. I want you to know that I had a suggestion. It's included in my report to the captain."

Ben stuck his hands in his pockets and looked back at her. "Which is?"

"You need a priest."

"We've gone that route, Doctor. Ed and I've interviewed a dozen of them."

"With experience in psychiatry," Tess finished. "I've given you what I can, but I'm not qualified to probe deeply into the religious angle. And that, in my judgment, is the key." Her glance skimmed over Ed, but she knew whose opinion she had to sway. "I could research Catholicism, but it would take time. I don't think any of us wants to waste that. I know of a doctor at Catholic University, Monsignor Logan. He has an excellent reputation in the Church and in psychiatric medicine. I want to consult with him."

"The more people we consult with," Ben put in, "the more chance there is of a leak. We can't let the specifics get to the press."

"And if you don't try something else, your investigation's going to stay right where it is. Stagnant." She saw the annoyance and rolled over it. "I could go to the mayor, put on the pressure, but that's not the way I want to handle it. I want you to back me on this, Ben."

He rocked back on his heels. Another shrink, he thought. And a priest at that. But as much as he hated to admit it, the investigation was stagnant. If she wanted to pull a rabbit out of her hat, they might as well look it over. "I'll talk to the captain."

The smile came easily after victory. "Thanks." She pulled out her wallet and dropped change into the machine behind him. After brief consideration, she pulled a handle. With a quiet plop a Hershey bar dropped into the tray. "Here you go." Solemn-eyed, she handed it to Ben. "You really broke my heart. Nice to see you again, Detective Jackson."

"My pleasure, ma'am." A grin split his face as he watched her walk away. "Handles herself real well, doesn't she?"

Scowling, Ben tossed the candy bar from hand to hand. "Oh, yeah," he murmured. "Like a pro."

***

It wasn't like her to fuss about clothes. The truth was, her wardrobe had been meticulously chosen, down to the last cashmere sweater and linen blazer, for the specific reason that Tess didn't have the patience to debate each morning about what to wear. For the most part she stuck with classic styles and blendable colors because they looked best on her and it made it simple to put her hand in her closet and draw out the next thing in line on harried mornings.

But she wasn't dressing for the office. As Tess shoved the third dress back on the hanger, she reminded herself she wasn't dressing for Prince Charming either. At twenty-nine she knew there were no princes, nor did a rational woman want an ivory tower. An uncomplicated date with an attractive man who made you think on your feet was a different matter, and Ben Paris certainly made her think.

A glance at her watch warned her she was doing so much thinking she was going to be late. Standing in a brief flesh-colored teddy, she took out a black silk dress and gave it a critical study. Simple but elegant. A wise choice, she decided, and she didn't have time to fool around anymore. She slipped it on and did up the range of buttons that ran from waist to neck.

Another long survey in the cheval glass brought a nod of approval. Yes, she thought, this was better than the ice blue she'd started with or the raspberry georgette she'd just rejected. She settled on her mother's diamond studs and the thin gold bracelet her grandfather had given her when she'd earned her degree. She debated about sweeping her hair up, but the knock on the door decided for her. It had to stay down.

She hadn't expected he could look elegant. But when she opened the door, his steel-gray suit and salmon-colored shirt proved her wrong. Still, she'd been right about the tie. His collar was open. She started to smile at him, then saw the clutch of violets in his hand. It wasn't like her to be tossed so off balance, but when she looked back up at him, she felt like a teenager with her first handful of wilted flowers.

"Peace offering," Ben told her, feeling every bit as unsettled and out of character as Tess. He shouldn't have been, he told himself, since he was used to making grandiose or impulsive gestures with the women he dated. It was his way. Tracking down a nosegay of violets in October hadn't seemed a foolish thing to do until he'd stood there, offering them.

"They're lovely. Thank you." Regaining her balance, she smiled at him, accepting the flowers as she stood back to let him in. The scent reminded her of the spring that was so far on the other side of winter. "I'll get a vase."

As she walked into the kitchen, Ben looked around. He saw the Matisse print, the Turkish rugs, the neat petit point pillows. Soft, pretty colors, and old distinguished wood. It was a room that spoke of quiet, generational wealth.

What the hell are you doing here? he asked himself. Her grandfather's a senator. Yours was a butcher. She grew up with servants, and your mother still scrubs her own John. She graduated with honors from Smith, and you crammed your way through two years of college before the Academy.

Oh, he'd researched her all right. That was also his way. And he was dead sure they'd run out of conversation after fifteen minutes.

When she came back in, she carried the violets in a small Wedgwood vase. "I'll offer you a drink, but I don't have any Stolichnaya."

"It's all right." He made the decision without weighing pros and cons. He'd learned to trust his instincts. While she set the violets in the center of a table, he walked to her and took her hair in his hand.

She turned slowly, no jerking, no surprise, and met the long silent look with one of her own.

She smelled of Paris. He remembered the five days he'd spent there in his twenties, going on a shoestring and optimism. He'd fallen in love with it-the look, the smells, the air. Every year he promised himself he'd go back and find whatever it was he'd been looking for.

"I like it better down," he said at length, and let his fingers linger a moment longer. "When you had it up this afternoon, you looked remote, inaccessible."

Tension snapped into her, the ripe man-woman tension she hadn't felt with anyone in years-hadn't wanted to. She still didn't want to. "Professional," she corrected, and took an easy step back. "Would you like that drink?"

He thought about making a long, thin slice through her control. What would it be like? But if he did, he might find his aim off and slice his own. "We'll get one at the theater. There's enough time before the curtain." 111 get my coat.

***

He seemed as familiar with the staff at the Roof Terrace as he'd been with those in the smoky little bar the night before. Tess watched the way he spoke to this one, greeted that one, the ease, the casual intimacy. So he wasn't a loner, she concluded, except when he chose to be.

She admired someone who could be at ease with people, without worrying about impressions, opinions. To be that way you first had to be at ease with yourself. Somehow, as content as she was with her life-style, she'd never quite gotten there.

Ben picked up his glass, stretched out his legs, and stared back at her. "Got me figured out yet?"

"Not completely." She picked up an almond from the bowl on the table and chewed it thoughtfully. "But I think you do. If more people understood themselves the way you do, I'd have to look for a different line of work."

"And you're very good at what you do." He watched her choose another almond with long, slim fingers. An antique pearl gleamed dully on her right hand. "Class valedictorian," he began, and watched her hand stop. "A private practice that's growing too fast for you to keep up with it. You just turned down an offer to join the psychiatric staff at Bethesda Naval, but you work once a week in the Donnerly Clinic in South East for no fee."

His mild rundown annoyed her. Tess was accustomed to knowing more about the people she associated with than they knew of her. "Do you always do background checks on a date, Detective?"

"Habit," he said easily. "You spoke about curiosity yourself last night. Senator Jonathan Writemore's your maternal grandfather, a little left of center, outspoken, charismatic, and tough as nails."

"He'll be pleased you said so."

"You lost your parents when you were fourteen. I'm sorry." He lifted his drink again. "It's always hard to lose family." i

She caught the tone, the empathy that told her he'd lost someone too. "My grandfather made a difference. I may not have recovered without him. How did you find out so much?"

"Cops don't reveal a source. I read your profile."

She stiffened a bit, expecting criticism. "And?"

"You feel our man's intelligent."

"Yes. Cunning. He leaves what he chooses behind, but no trail."

After a moment Ben nodded. "What you said made sense. I'm interested in how you came to the conclusions."

Tess took a sip of her drink before answering. She wouldn't ask herself why it was important she make him understand. It simply was. "I take facts, the pattern he leaves behind. You can see it's almost identical each time, he doesn't vary. I suppose in your business you call it an M.O."

He smiled a little as he nodded. "Yeah."

"The pattern forms a picture, a psychological picture. You're trained to look for clues, evidence, motives, and apprehend. I'm trained to look for reasons, causes, then to treat. To treat, Ben," she repeated, meeting his eyes. "Not to judge."

He lifted a brow. "And you think that's what I'm doing?"

"You want him," she said simply.

"Yeah, I want him. Off the streets and in a cage."

He crushed out a cigarette, slowly, methodically. It was a measure of control. But his hands were strong.

"You want him punished. I understand that, even if I don't agree."

"You'd rather open his head and make him all better. Christ." He tossed back his drink. "You don't want to let your heart bleed over a man like this."

"Compassion's part of my business," she said tightly. "He's ill, desperately ill. If you read my profile, and understood it, you'd know what he does, he does in pain."

"He strangles women. If it hurts him to tie a knot around their necks, it doesn't make them any less dead. I've got compassion, Tess, for the families of those women I've had to talk to. I have to look at their faces when they ask me why. I don't have an answer."

"I'm sorry." She reached for his hand without thinking. Her fingers closed over his. "It's a hideous job. One that wakes you up at night. I've had to talk to families-the ones left stunned and bitter after a suicide." She felt his hand tense, and soothed automatically. "When you lie awake at three A.M., you still see the questions in their eyes, and the grief. Ben..." She leaned toward him, needing to draw him closer. "I have to think like a doctor on this. I could give you clinical terms-impulse disorder, functional psychoses. Whatever label we use, it equals illness. This man isn't killing for revenge or for profit, but in despair."

"And I have to think like a cop. It's my job to stop him. That's the bottom line." He was silent a moment, then pushed his drink aside. "We talked about your Monsignor Logan. Harris is checking it out."

"That's good. Thank you."

"Don't. I haven't a lot of faith in the idea."

She drew back with a little sigh. "We don't have any common ground, do we?"

"Maybe not." But he remembered how small and warm her hand had been on his. "Maybe we just haven't found it yet."

"What do you like to do on a Saturday afternoon?" she asked abruptly.

"Sit down with a beer and watch the ball game."

She wrinkled her nose. "That won't work. What about music?"

He grinned. "What about it?"

"What do you like?"

"Depends. I like rock when I'm driving, jazz when I'm drinking, and Mozart on Sunday mornings."

"We're getting closer. How about Jelly Roll Morton?"

Surprised, he grinned again. "Yeah."

"And Springsteen?"

"He caught me with The River."

"Marvin Gaye?"

Ben sat back and took another long look. "Maybe we've got a start." His leg brushed hers under the table. "Wanna go back to my place and listen to my record collection?"

"Detective Paris..." Tess chose one last almond. "Trained psychiatrists don't fall for shopworn lines."

"How about fresh ones?"

"Such as?"

"Have a late supper with me after the theater and we'll see who can remember more old Beatle lyrics."

She flashed him a grin, quick, impulsive, and totally unlike the careful smiles she'd given him before. "You'll lose, and you're on."

"Do you know a guy with two thousand dollars worth of caps on his teeth and a Brooks Brothers suit?"

Her brows drew together. "Is this a quiz?"

"Too late, he's coming over."

"Who... oh, hello, Frank."

"Tess, didn't expect to see you here." He patted the hand of the pencil-slim, exotic woman at his side. "Lorraine, this is Dr. Teresa Court, an associate of mine."

Obviously bored, and earning Tess's sympathy, the woman held out a hand. "So happy to meet you." Her gaze slid easily over Tess and latched on to Ben. "Hello."

His smile was slow, and though his eyes never left her face, he took in every detail. "Hello, I'm Ben."

"Tess, you should've told me you were coming. We'd have made a party of it," Frank said.

Lorraine tilted her head as she looked at Ben. Maybe the night could be salvaged after all, she thought. "There's always after the play," Lorraine said.

"There certainly is," Ben murmured, and earned a swift kick from Tess under the table. His smile never wavered. "But Tess and I have to make an early night of it. Business."

"Sorry, Frank, we'll have to do it another time." Knowing escape was always in doubt, Tess was already up. "See you around the office. Bye, Lorraine."

"Here's your hat, what's your hurry?" Ben mumbled as he followed her out.

"If you knew what I knew, you'd thank me."

"Your, ah, colleague has better taste in women than he does in ties."

"Really?" Tess made a business of brushing her coat smooth as they walked. "I thought she was rather obvious."

"Yeah." Ben cast a look over his shoulder. "Uh-huh. Obvious."

"Some men like cleavage and mink eyelashes, I suppose."

"Some men are animals."

"She was his second choice," Tess heard herself saying. "I turned him down first."

"Is that so?" Intrigued, Ben slowed her down by swinging an arm over her shoulders. "He asked you to the Coward thing and you turned him down?"

"That's right."

"I'm flattered."

She shot him a look. His ego didn't need any help from her. "I only said yes to you because you're not perfect."

"Hmm. When did he ask you?"

"Yesterday afternoon."

"It didn't seem to put his nose out of joint that you turned him down and were here with me."

Uncomfortable, Tess shifted under his arm. "I told him I had a date."

"Oh. You lied."

He said it with such pleasure, she laughed. "I'm not perfect either."

"That makes things easier."

***

The early night ben had spoken of ended at two A.M., when they walked down the corridor to Tess's apartment. "I'm going to hate myself in the morning," Tess said over a yawn. "I haven't even asked you to go to bed yet." The yawn ended on a muffled laugh. "I was thinking about drinking a half bottle of wine and five hours' sleep." She stopped at her door and turned to lean against it. "I didn't expect to have such a good time."

Neither had he. "Why don't we try it again? Maybe we won't." She thought about it for three full seconds. "All right, when?"

"There's a Bogart festival tomorrow night across town."

" The Maltese Falcon?"

"And The Big Sleep."

She smiled, comfortably sleepy. "Okay." When he stepped closer, she waited for him to kiss her. If the idea warmed her, she thought it only natural. The desire to be held and touched was a human one. Her eyes half closed and her heart beat just a little faster.

"You've got to replace this Mickey Mouse lock."

Her lashes fluttered up again. "What?"

"Your door lock, Tess, is a joke." He traced a finger down her nose, pleased to see confusion. "If you're going to live in a building without security, you'd better make sure you've got a dead bolt on your door."

"Dead bolt." With a half laugh she straightened and reached for her keys. "I can't argue with a cop."

"Glad to hear it." He put his hands over hers and kissed her before she'd prepared herself again. Later, when she could think straight, she'd wonder if he'd planned it that way.

It was silly to believe that a kiss as gentle, as easy as this one could send shock waves through the body. Blood didn't really heat and the mind didn't really swim. She knew better, but felt it anyway. Touching nothing but her hands, he took her under.

His mouth was clever, but she'd suspected as much. His lips were warm, soft, and he used his teeth to add a nip of excitement. They scraped over her lip before his tongue slid over hers. She told herself it was the late hour, the wine, the relaxation, but she gave herself to the moment without any of the caution she was prone to.

She was supposed to be cool, a little aloof. He'd expected it. He hadn't expected the heat, the passion, or the sweetness that poured from her into him. He hadn't expected the immediate intimacy of longtime lovers. He knew women well-or thought he had. Tess was a mystery to him that demanded solving.

Desire was familiar to him, something else he'd thought he understood well. But he couldn't remember ever having it ram into him and take his breath away. He wanted her now, instantly, desperately. Ordinarily he'd have followed through. It was natural. For reasons he couldn't begin to understand, he backed away from her.

For a moment they just stared at each other.

"This could be a problem," he managed to say after a few seconds.

"Yeah." She swallowed and concentrated on the cool metal of the keys in her hand.

"Put on the security chain, okay? I'll see you tomorrow."

She missed the keyhole by a quarter inch on the first try and swore as she stuck it in on the second. "Good night, Ben."

"Good night."

He waited until he heard the click of the lock and the rattle of chain before he turned and walked down the hall. A problem, he thought again. One hell of a problem.

***

He'd been walking for hours. When he let himself into his apartment he was almost too tired to stand. In the past few months he found he slept dreamlessly only if he exhausted himself first.

It wasn't necessary to turn on a light; he knew the way. Ignoring the need to rest, he went past his bedroom. Sleep would come only after he'd completed this last duty. The room beyond was always locked. When he opened it he drew in the faint, feminine scent of the fresh flowers he put there daily. The priests robe hung by the closet door. Draped over it, the amice was a slash of white.

Striking a match, he lit the first candle, then another and another, until the shadows waved on the pristine surface of the altar cloth.

There was a picture there in a silver frame of a young woman, blond and smiling. Forever she'd been captured, young, innocent, and happy. Pink roses had been her favorite, and it was their scent that mixed with the burning candles.

In smaller frames were the carefully clipped newspaper prints of three other women. Carla Johnson, Barbara Clayton, Francie Bowers. Folding his hands, he knelt before them.

There were so many others, he thought. So many. He'd only just begun.