Jennifer surged up out of sleep wild-eyed, eyes unseeing and unfocused.  Closing them, she took a deep breath to calm her racing heart.  Feeling as if she had been chased by a pack of wild dogs, and had barely escaped with her life, she gingerly put a hand to her head and stilled.

She rarely had nightmares, but when she did, they were all centered on one man…him.  Sitting up, she furrowed her brow in an attempt to hold onto the wisps of the nightmare but she recalled nothing.  She only knew two things she knew for sure.  Uncle Tommy had not been in the dream, however, there was a deep sense of dread in her heart mixed with shame.  But what for? 

Forcing her thoughts back to the present, Jennifer realized her body was clammy and she could smell herself.   Plus, there was an unrelenting sound that was interfering with remembering…

She shook her head from side to side, blinked and realized suddenly that the TV was blasting.  Focusing, she blinked her eyes and saw that she was fully dressed in the gabardine pants and sparkly shirt she had worn to the casino the night before.  Almost simultaneously, she felt the comfortable weight of her ankle holster.  She reached down pulled up her pant leg and was reassured to see her holster.  She froze when she saw the .38. She took out the compact Bodyguard 380 Smith and Wesson.

Jennifer sniffed it and wrinkled her brow.  There was a faint discharge smell.  Jennifer’s eyes widened.

Impossible.  I’ve only fired my guns on the range…but this isn’t my gun.

Her heart sinking she popped out the magazine.  Inhaling sharply, she saw that three of the six rounds were missing.  Her skin crawled.  Jennifer re-inserted the magazine and put the gun back in the holster.  She unbuckled the holster and set it on the coffee table.  She stared at it as if daring it to move, as if it were a rattler that could strike at any second; and, it was only her gaze that kept it from attacking.

After many tense moments, Jennifer’s vigilance relaxed and her eyes became vacant as she racked her mind for details that were not forthcoming from the night before.

She remembered getting dressed.  She remembered the train ride to the casino.  She remembered cashing in her winning lottery ticket.

Seeking confirmation, Jennifer looked around for her clutch, spotted it on the floor by the front door and retrieved it.  Coming back to the couch, she remembered stuffing the crisp one hundred dollar bills into the small bag.  When Jennifer opened the bag, a rush of relief swelled in her chest as she spied the bills.  But, there were so many of them, way more than she recalled winning from the scratch-off game.  She counted it out and found an additional nine hundred and eighty-three dollars and some loose change.  Stumped by her discovery, she stood up and paced to see if movement might jar her memory.

She knew she had met a guy.  She could smell his cologne; it smelled expensive.  However, she couldn’t remember him.  She had no memory of even meeting him, or of anything after she had cashed in the lotto ticket!  Her memory petered out right after the jolt of excitement of finding a video slot machine to play then, absolutely nothing.

Looking down at the cash in her hands she surmised she must have won more money.  She stared at the money and forced her cop mind to analyze the situation.

Within moments something clicked.  Jennifer stepped over to the coffee table, put the money down, and up-ended her clutch onto the surface.  Somewhere in there would be a clue. 

She found what she was looking for in the form of a crumpled receipt.  Wrinkling her nose, Jennifer knew that crumpled anything did not bode well.  Whoever had collected this piece of paper had been in a rush and hadn’t taken the time to fold the receipt so the corners all met.  Moreover, the little piece of paper was stuck between two hundred dollar bills, not separated and placed in the zippered area of her clutch.

Carefully picking up the paper, she tried to smooth it out using the edge of the table.  Jennifer turned it over; it was for the amount of $32.57 and it only listed ten items.  There was no business name, address or phone number at the top.  It looked as if it came from an adding machine as opposed to a cash register receipt…like in a small Mom and Pop bodega, or a cheap 99 cent store!

Where the hell did I get this?  What did I buy, and where’s the stuff?

Jennifer dropped it and put some distance between herself and the disturbing receipt.  She cocked her head and tried to find a different angle.  After several long minutes, she had exactly the same thing she had before — nothing.

Now would be an extremely convenient time to believe in that thing they call God.  But hey, I’ve got my badge and more cash to add to the bankroll. 

Shaking her head from side to side with her lips pressed into line she knew she was fooling herself.  This was not good and her cop instincts were jangling. 

She needed a shower followed by a very strong cup of black coffee with a splash of Red Bull.  With a nod, she set to work on making it so.

***

Saturday, November 10th, Mid-Afternoon

After a full inspection of her clothes and body, Jennifer found no rips or tears.  The smell of a male’s cologne was her second clue.

Slim pickings.

Something else nudged her mind, while she uninjured, she did feel sore…down there.  It had been over a decade since she’d last had sex.  However, she was pretty sure that the long-forgotten ache was from an activity she had made off-limits for quite some time.

How the hell did I forget I had sex?! 

Jennifer shuddered.  Her mother may have been right after all; she may still be in need of more counseling. 

From 12 to 16 years of age, Jennifer hadn’t gone to school.  She was in and out of a myriad number of secure facilities.  Due to her tender age, she wasn’t prosecuted but she was in constant mandatory counseling and had tutors.  Finishing elementary school and going to middle school were not options. She was given a provisional bill of good mental health the summer before high school with the caveat that if she had any nightmares, or anxiety attacks, she was mandated to return.  Jennifer ignored the cold sweats and the evil dreams.  And ignoring her mother’s pleas, she had poo-poohed going back to Dr. Rhimes.  She had somehow graduated with honors while ignoring the stares from classmates and the lewd come-ons from the bolder insensitive boys.

Immediately after graduation, Jennifer took the test to join the police academy in order to gain the security she knew she needed.  While she did well in all areas, she made it on the force with a score only a smidgen above the lowest cut-off point on the psych evaluation portion.  Two points lower and she wouldn’t have been able to join the NYPD.  For almost 10 years, she managed to keep her nose clean, and her mind steady, because she always had her gun strapped on at all times and was socking money away at an insane rate.  In her first few years on the force, she had even slept with her piece under her pillow.

Maybe I need to talk to someone now that I’m forgetting chunks of time and am bending all sorts of rules…

Biting her lip, she headed for the shower.

***

As the water cascaded over her, she let her mind wander.

How was she able to take the .38 from the scene of the crime and not know it? 

Punching the wet tiles, she growled.  It was evidence.  Any rookie knew that the gun could have led to the murderer.  Yet, somehow Jennifer just took the gun and told no one.

“Damn it!  I’m screwing up my own case and I don’t even remember doing it!”

By her own actions, she could have ruined her only chance at identifying the killer.  But that wasn’t the most pressing problem.

Where the hell are those missing rounds? 

Rubbing her temples, she didn’t follow up that thought with the most obvious scenario.  She refused to go there.  Instead, she turned her mind to the easiest mystery – the question regarding her purchases at the store that couldn’t afford a cash register.  If she could get an itemization of what she purchased, then maybe she could piece more of it together.

She recalled that all the stores in her neighborhood, Prospect Heights, had cash registers.  Therefore, the receipt wasn’t from her surrounding area.  Besides, she rarely frequented bodegas, New York’s version of the corner grocery store, or a 7-Eleven.

An unbidden idea popped into her mind making her instantly uneasy. 

Wonder if there was an attempted robbery and I had to defend myself?  Or, mighta been a sit where I felt threatened?  Shit!  Either way, I woulda pulled my gun without hesitation…

Both scenarios were plausible.  Too plausible.  With a wry grin, she gave a begrudging nod of thanks to all of the shrinks that made sure she knew all of her triggers.

Resting her forehead on the tiles, Jennifer relaxed her rigid internal control and allowed the restrained tears to fall – for her uncle, the unknown people she may, or may not, have hurt in the past twenty-four hours, but mainly she cried for herself as she waded through the unforgettable memory.

***

Fury Abatu watched the host from deep inside Jennifer’s mind.  The demon made sure to stay hidden from detection.  Watching the brutal scene unfold in the host’s mind, the Fury knew it had made a huge blunder in falling asleep after feasting on Derrick Palmer.  This one faux pas could cost the Fury avenging Kyma Barnes’ death, and therefore her soul…if the Jennifer host’s mind cracked under the strain.  The Fury’s powers did not extend to managing maniacal hosts.  Abatu left that to older more ferocious demons such as the yellow-eyed ones…

Sighing, Abatu found yet another oversight; not ensuring that this host’s past was in alignment with its own dark ways.  In the initial mind scan, Abatu saw that Jennifer had killed but the demon was thrown off by cop Jennifer’s rigid self-control.  In its haste for a body, it failed to delve deeply enough to see the murder had been in self-defense.  Clearly, the taint Abatu picked up was the young Jennifer’s guilt at leaving her uncle to die.

Surreptiously checking now, Abatu saw that the true source of the guilt was Jennifer thought she was evil.  The host felt that not trying to save the man who abused her made her just as bad as he was. 

Abatu became uneasy.  The Jennifer was not an ideal host. 

Mulling the situation over, the demon knew it had to find a way for the Jennifer host to accept killing, or else Abatu would lose its very first soul – Kyma – in over 700 years of service to The Dark One.

Clicking its sharp talons, Abatu cackled as the solution flashed through its mind.  It would plant self-defense rationales and images into the host’s memory banks along with the buried memories just in case.  This was the only possible justification this host would accept for killing anyone.  Once this belief was in place, it would make it easier for the demon to do its kill-feeds with minimal mental clean-up work afterwards.

Satisfied with this strategy, Abatu wondered if there were other buried memories that could cause trouble.  A niggling worry wormed its way through the demon.  It feared this host was too mentally damaged for the work it needed the host’s body to do.

With a low growl forming deep in the demon’s throat it was angry at itself but knew that it had done all it could but wondered how it could calm the host’s turbulent mind.  Racking its own brain, the Fury remembered — joy!  This host responded well to pleasure since it had had so little of it in life thus far. 

The Fury threw up an image of Chad standing behind the bar...

Jennifer’s tears eased as she recalled the handsome bartender.  Out of all this mess, he was the one bright spot.  Chad made her smile.  Her smile faltered as another possible consequence slammed into her mind.

What if I didn’t wear protection?  What if I’m pregnant?  Oh, God…

Jennifer’s mind tumbled into a downward spiral threatening to take her sanity with it.

The Fury blew away the tumultuous mental tornadoes in the host’s mind and infused the Jennifer host with a massive sleep spell.

Suddenly groggy, Jennifer turned off the water and stepped out of the shower.  She wrapped up in her terry robe as she yawned and padded heavily into the bedroom where she flung herself onto the bed hoping she would sleep through until Sunday.  She wanted to forget everything and just go straight into work on Monday morning.            Jennifer’s last coherent thought before sleep claimed her was she would call Chad the next day.

***

Saturday, November 10th, Night

The buzzing was bothering her.  She sat up and looked around.  Jennifer was in a bland beige room.  There was the bed she was lying upon, two indescript night tables with lamps on each one — both were off.  And, there was a dresser with a bevel-edged mirror along with a TV on a simple black stand.  The curtains were the elegant tan floral variety seen in low-budget motels.  The carpet was the worst.  It was threadbare in several spots.  The only chair in the room had a rip in the seat right in the middle where some of the stuffing was sticking out.

The buzzing was coming from the bathroom.  Jennifer got up and went to investigate.  She looked down and saw she was fully dressed in her gabardine pants and the sparkly top.  Her feet were clad in the funky boots but they didn’t make a sound.        Jennifer peered into the bathroom.  It was brightly lit and she beheld a sight she would not soon forget; a tall man, a little over six feet, with dark blonde hair and a solid build stood before her. 

He was shaving — the source of the buzzing — but he was shaving his skin off.  It was coming off in narrow sheets.  He was slicing it as thin as good Prosciutto.  Where his eyes should have been were empty sockets with blood dribbling down onto his cheeks.  His fingers were unnaturally clean against his sightless face but his movement belied what her brain knew to be truth.  Too horrified to scream, yet too dumbfounded to move, Jennifer watched as the man turned towards her.  He waved at her with a ghost of a smile playing around his lips.

“I’ll be right in.  I just wanted to freshen up for you,” he said in a refined, modulated tone. 

When he turned towards her, Jennifer could then see what she had missed before — his chest was torn asunder and his stomach cavity was just like his eye sockets…open, empty and oozing blood.  With a full smile this time, the man turned back towards the mirror and began to shave more skin off but from the other side of his face in an attempt to make it even on both sides.

Jennifer woke up screaming clutching her face and stomach.

***

Sunday, November 11th - Morning

Sunday dawned bright and clear but Jennifer didn’t revel in it.  She sat on the floor in a corner of her bedroom, legs drawn to her chest, dark smudges under her eyes and an intolerable pain in her chest.  Only by rocking could she subdue her disconsolate mood.  The remembered nightmare not only fouled her conscious mind it wound its way through her unconsciousness making sleep unsustainable for long periods of time.  Every time she drifted off, the dream returned with a ferocity that threatened to hold Jennifer captive until she asphyxiated.

Her alarm went off for the tenth time.  She blinked rapidly as a shaft of sunlight shot across the room.  Warding off the yellow rays, as if they were her nemesis, Jennifer unfolded herself out of the uncomfortable position, wincing at the pins and needles in her limbs, and headed for the shower.

When she emerged half an hour later, her skin was pruned and a light shimmer of heat floated around her.  Brushing her dark brown curly hair Jennifer stared at her reflection and formulated a plan:  Work.  She would throw herself into solving the Barnes case and stay awake 24/7, if need be.  Coffee and Red Bull would be her bosom buddies. With luck, at night the overload of stimulants would result in a crash that should allow her to enjoy dreamless, albeit, unhealthy sleep for the next few nights.

Jennifer grabbed her work bag and stuffed the money in it.  Next she headed for the closet and hauled out her gear putting on her police issued weapon and holster.  She ignored the feelings of uneasiness when she spied the .38.  Putting away her gun case, she slammed her closet door shut and stalked out of her apartment mouth set in a grim line.  Her work bag swung wildly as she jabbed at the air fake punching it as she jogged down the stairs faster than her norm.

***

Twenty-seven minutes later, she was seated in front of her computer in her cubicle within the confines of the precinct’s bullpen.  Jennifer already felt more composed.  The world made sense from her cheap rolling chair.  Her chair had a broken right armrest.  One of the wheels always got stuck and made skid marks on the tile floor and a protective plastic mat wasn’t in the budget for a low-rung detective like her.  The only thing good about her little spot was her computer.  It was fast, quiet and raring to go just like she was.

At 8:10 on a Sunday morning, the precinct wasn’t a beehive of activity which was the perfect balm for her battered soul.

Peeking out, Abatu saw the noxious clouds of Jennifer’s mood combined with the host’s caffeinated beverages.  Seeing this, the Fury had its own heightened emotion to contend with…worry.  The Jennifer host was not doing well.  The Fury sent Jennifer an image of Chad then bided its time as it withdrew into the background again.

Jennifer rested her chin on her palm as she read a murder report.  Unexpectedly, she thought of Chad and her desire to connect with him right now.  She glanced at her desk phone and ignored the thought.

I need to focus right now.  I’ll call Chad later.

The report was similar to the one she had written up for Kyma Barnes.

“The victim’s right arm broken in three places: the humerus, radius and ulna.  Two clean breaks and one jagged.  The perpetrator seemed to have trouble on the last break; victim must have put up a fight.  Victim’s face was beaten beyond visual recognition and excessive mutilation; both breasts bruised and cut.  After raping victim, vagina also mutilated.  Wounds inflicted prior to death.  Victim suffered extreme pain and blood loss.  Perp left victim to die from injuries, however defecated on her before he left.”

Jennifer sighed and rubbed her eyes trying to get the image out of her head.  Scrolling through more of the report, Jennifer found what she had been seeking.

“Forensics found one strand of hair.  No match from the database.  Am checking international sources to see if perp can be found otherwise, case going into inactive files as there are no other leads at this time.”

Jennifer quickly scrolled up and jotted down the detective’s name — Castleman.  Jennifer noted the precinct was in Jefferson City, Missouri.  “Great!  Just my luck!  Nice and far away.”

Checking the time zone, Jennifer swore.  It was too early to call.  Slamming her fist on her desk, but refused to curse again. Some part of her was pacified because there was a strand of hair in the middle of the country that might tie her case to Castleman’s which would cement her theory of a serial killer.  Realizing nothing much else could be done on that front, Jennifer went back to the list Gerald gave her.  The two days off had given her mind a break from the case in spite of the nightmares and the vast holes in her memory that did not seem to extend to her work memories.

With fresh eyes, she reviewed her notes and looked for other angles to pursue.  Kyma’s friends were a dead end.  Jennifer hoped the strand of hair found at the murder site wouldn’t be.  What if the perp was a client at Kyma’s salon?  Maybe the perp was casing the place so that he could watch Kyma and blend in at the same time?  Jennifer checked the Missouri murder report and didn’t see anything about that hair strand being dyed.

Sucking in a breath and growling, she grabbed her cell and dialed.  It rang twice before a sleepy belligerent voice bellowed into her ear,

“What the hell do you want at eight-fucking-forty-five on a Sunday?”

“Yeah well, this is my way of thanking you for dolling me up the other night.  So, now that pleasantries are out of the way — did my guy ever dye his hair?”

“What guy?  Chad?  No, he’s  a natural blonde,” Babs snorted.

“Uhm, perp?”

“Oh, okay.  Wrong guy.  Lemme see…dye job?  The rape case, right?”

“Yeah, the only one I’ve got…”

“But, I — unlike you — have about seventeen other cases I’m working on.  I gotta sort through all this shit in my head.  Hold on.” 

Jennifer could hear rustling and a computer whirring to life.

“Gonna log in and make sure I’m remembering correctly.”

“I’m in already.  Can I see?”

“Today’s your day off!  What the hell are you doing in – ?  Oops.  Your first solo case!”  Babs laughed.  “Okay, got the file.  Yeah, forgot to put that tidbit in the report.  Didn’t think it was important.  Dye job.  Clairol Professional High Lift Golden Blonde.”

Jennifer whistled.

“Pretty good.  How’d you know that?”

“I follow all blonde colors.  I have to go with the look and shade that is appropriate with my skin color and perceived age.  I’m considering this Honey Blonde shade for my next visit.”  A hint of pride snuck into her voice.

“What? And, get away from the platinum blonde that doesn’t age you a bit?  Whatever for?”

“So you’ve got jokes?  Really?  You don’t wanna go there with me, Holy Holden.  If I could get a hot comb through those naps of yours I’d be one damned lucky bitch.”

Grinning, Jennifer leaned back in her chair and put her hands behind her head.

“See how easy it is to push your buttons, Strickland?  That’s nothing but music to each and every one of my Revlon processed hair follicles!  You just may have given me something to go on.  Appreciate the fast check.  Now you may go back to your beauty sleep.”

“Does this mean I’m forgiven?”

“For what?  Oh!  For giving Chad my number?”  Jennifer shrugged and affecting a deep Brooklyn accent said, “Fuhgeddaboudit!”

“Good.  Before I go, I’m gonna put my two cents in.  If you haven’t already, call him.  He’s a keeper.”

Babs clicked off before Jennifer could retort.

With her lips pursed in an aggravated snarl, Jennifer put the phone back in its cradle while shaking her head.

Why am I fighting this?  I want to call him.  Babs wants me to call him, but I’m not picking up the phone.

Following her gut, she refused to touch the phone again.   She shut off all thoughts of his firm chest and strong arms out of her mind.  Jennifer pinched herself.  She came in to channel her energy into work.

Now to figure out where my perp got his hair primped and preened.

Clapping her hands and rubbing them together, Jennifer’s mind began to turn on this next piece to be unraveled.  Shoving to the back of her mind her list of reasons to hate metrosexuals. 

Well, maybe except one…

She smiled as thoughts of Chad in various stages of undress raced across her mind’s eye.

Dang it!  WORK!

Jennifer returned to Castleman’s report and re-read it again to make sure she hadn’t miss anything before she called him.

***

“Detective Castleman here.”

“’Morning!  Detective Holden, from New York, here.  Wanted to check a detail from one of your inactive cases from two years ago.  The rape/mutilation case?”

“Damn shame ‘bout that girl.  Wasn’t but twenty-four, or twenty-five years ole.  Ain’t no way to die.  Damn shame.”

Hearing the pain in his voice, Jennifer paused and changed her tack.  “Did you know the girl?”

“Well, we ain’t a big place like New Yawk.  We’re just over forty-three thousand.  But, in my job, I kinda touch a lot of folks.  I knew the girl’s family.  She went to school with my daughter.  We even went to the funeral.  Casket was closed.  She was too messed up.  Bloody shame.”

She could hear him blowing his nose.

“Castleman, I’m sorry.  I know how tough it is for this kinda shit to touch your life personally.”

It took a moment for his composure to return. “Yeah, thanks.  How can I help, Detective Holden?  Anything I can do to put that bastard away, I’ll do.  It hurt real bad when I couldn’t find nothin’.  It made me feel like I let my own girl down.”

Thanking Lady Luck, Jennifer made her request. “I caught a case that may be linked to yours.  My victim’s a bit older, late twenties, but fits the MO of your perp.  There’s mutilation like yours, but no defecation.  The thing is we’ve got a match on the hair.  My victim had a strand of hair that matched the strand in your case.”

“Same perp.”

“Exactly what I’m thinking.”

“You ID him?”

“Just like you — bupkis.  Didn’t see it in your notes, but did you find him in international?”

“Nothing.”

“So, we’ve got a ghost?”

“Seems like.  Wondered if it’s a wig.  That was my theory.”

“Pretty sure it’s human hair.  My forensics person is a fanatical fashionista.  She’s already ID’d the dye color; something from Clairol in the blonde family.”

He guffawed.  “It is New Yawk.  You guys would probably be more up on that kinda stuff than us down here.  We don’t get that many runway shows flocking to us.”

The two detectives shared a moment of camaraderie.

“Castleman, maybe it could be a human hair wig?”

“Dunno.  Maybe.”

Jennifer sighed.  “Okay.  Anything else come to mind that might help us to catch this guy?”

“Kinda remember he’s got an unusual foot size.  His shoe imprint was left in the snow near the body.  We measured it as an 11 narrow, uh double narrow, AA I think.”

She heard papers rustling, him grunting and a chair protesting being moved.

“Okay, no — 11 C.  Musta thought of my little wife’s foot.  She’s a double-narrow and wears a 6 and a half AA.  This guy’s got a longish foot but its skinny, you know?”

“I’m picturing it.  Any idea of his height?  We know he had to be on the big side because of the injuries our victims sustained.”

“From his foot imprint, Billy Sherm, our forensics guy, surmised, at least,…uh…six foot one.  He can’t be sure without more data.”

Jennifer noted it down.  “This is more than I had.  Thanks!  Take my number and let me know if you remember anything else, all right?  I’ll make sure to keep you in the loop.  Fair enough?”

“Sounds good.  Thanks.  And Holden?”

“Yeah?”

“You find this guy and make him pay, hear me?”

Something caught in her throat that made her sit up straighter.  She answered quick.  “Yes, sir.  I will.”

With a harrumph, Castleman hung up.

Jennifer looked at the receiver for a long time wondering how many years Castleman had been on the force.  Even in the short conversation she knew that if she had any issues at all she knew she who she could turn to.

She replaced the phone only to have it ring again.

“Detective Holden.”

“What are you doing there?”

“Feinster, I don’t answer to you.”

“You should answer to somebody.  You’ve been avoiding my calls.”

“What calls?  My phone hasn’t rung.”

She grabbed her cell off her desk and flicked through to her missed calls log.  Sure enough there were eight calls from Betty, two from Babs and one from Chad in the past twenty-four hours.  Closing her eyes, Jennifer willed away the nausea that threatened to swamp her.  She had no recollection of hearing the ring for any of these calls.  Hell, she hadn’t even thought of her phone in the last day.  The low level panic upgraded to dangerous levels of cortisol.

She hunched over the phone put a hand on her forehead.  “Betty, we need to talk.”

“Surely, you don’t expect to do so at work?”

“Aren’t you in today?”

“This is my one day off and I’m not stepping foot in that precinct.  Not all of us are so lucky to score three days in a row.”

Ignoring her jibe Jennifer racked her brain.

“You live in…”

“Queens — Bellerose Park, to be precise.”

Hearing the smirk Jennifer immediately got mad.  “Fuck off.  I can’t remember every damn thing.”

“I see your two days off put you in grand humor…”

“How the hell do I get there?”

“I didn’t ask you over.”

“Cut the crap.  Train?”

“You’re not driving?”

“I don’t own a vehicle.  Isn’t that something you should remember?”

“Oops.  Thought you did.”

“Your turn to eat crow.  Train?”

“Railroad.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me!”

“It’s not that bad; only a thirty-five minute ride.  I’ll pick you up at the station.  Just text me your arrival time and I’ll come get you.  Seeing its only 9:30 in the morning we can have lunch.  Sound like a plan?”

In response, Jennifer grunted.

“Plan accepted.  Lovely.  See you later.”

Jennifer slammed the phone down and could have sworn she heard laughter before the connection was cut.  Gritting her teeth, Jennifer’s next move was to look up the top men’s hair salons in the New York City area. 

She checked TimeOut magazine and found several but none in Brooklyn.  Widening her search, she found Body by Brooklyn in Clinton Hill on Park and Washington.  No hair care, but a load of spa services and sauna crap.  She added it to her list.  Gerald hadn’t mentioned this one.  She wondered if Kyma had a bad girl streak and stepped out on her devoted puppy dog.  Maybe Kyma could have met the perp at a spa; a good cover for her normal routine.  Even if Gerald was a needy wuss, which she thought he was, Kyma probably could hide a tryst if the meetings happened in a spa setting.

In the next hour she found the High Horse Salon in Williamsburg, The Heights Salon of Brooklyn — Kyma’s former salon in Brooklyn Heights — Cocoro Hair in Carroll Gardens, Boy Luv Girl in also in the Heights and about 5 others.  Her head reeled from the sheer number of salons all around her that she had never seen nor bothered to visit.  Jennifer flopped back in her flimsy seat and clicked open a new tab to check the railroad schedule.

She’d never make the 10:42 and planned on the next one an hour later.  She sent Betty a text with her arrival time and made wrote some additional notes about her salon findings.  The best, most sought after salons were in the City, but there were some reputable ones with good followings in Brooklyn, especially in the Williamsburg area.  With no clue as to her perp’s origins, it was hard to get a feel for where he’d go.  Sighing she knew what she had to do.  Check them all.  With the meager description she had, Jennifer doubted she’d get anywhere.  But, it was a start.

“Shit!  I forgot to put the query into the database!”  She muttered to herself.  She had been so busy researching the salons entering the query into the international database had slipped her mind.  She thought about it and shook her head.  After all this time, a few more hours wouldn’t matter.  She would enter the query first thing in the morning.

Abatu sprung to the forefront.  It wanted to press the host to enter the killer’s information right now.  It wanted to put as many feelers out for the man as quickly as possible.  However, the demon was reticent.  It did not want to provoke the host into any abnormal rages, or clue the host to its presence.  With the Jennifer host’s current fragile grip on reality any slight misstep could cause the host’s mind to slide into instability.  With a grunt, Abatu remained in the background and watched.

With a purposeful stride, Jennifer headed off to the lockers pocketing her list and was mentally plotting the route to Kyma’s salon.  She wanted to try there first.  Maybe, just maybe she’d get lucky and get another break in the case.

***

Next Chapter: Chapter 11