Shame

at cards. But his bluff had been called, and he was holding a bust hand.
    “I really can’t comment on ongoing investigations, Ms. Line.”
    Elizabeth stood up. “Thank you, then.”
    The sheriff gave Hardy a quick, surprised look. He had expected her to wheedle and cajole, then accept whatever bone he chose to throw her. He couldn’t afford to have her leave without knowing what she intended to do. His look prompted the subordinate to speak.
    “What are your plans?” the sergeant asked.
    “This is a breaking story,” she said. “I have a lot of history invested in the original Shame murders, which is why I consider this
my
story. Since you’re not prepared to help me at this time, I’ll have to proceed on my own.”
    There was another moment of brief eye contact between the two men. They’re wondering how to handle me, Elizabeth thought. They’re not sure whether to use soft words or a club. Or both.
    Sergeant Hardy straightened his tie. He looked and acted more Madison Avenue than cop, had nicely styled salt-and-pepper hair and a mellifluous voice. “You must realize that any premature release of information could ruin our investigation. The potential for panic is catastrophic.”
    “Let me in then,” Elizabeth said. “You’ll get my silence in return for giving me the inside track.”
    Her threat was implicit. If they didn’t involve her in the case, they had no hold on her silence. The men exchanged glances again.
    “It won’t be a one-way street,” she said. “I can help you.”
    “How?” This time the sheriff did his own talking.
    “If this is a copycat killer,” she said, “no one knows more about the original homicides than I do.”
    Elizabeth could feel them wavering, but she also knew how very conservative law enforcement was. They protected their closed doors and resisted letting strangers into their inner circle. Especially women.
    “I’d like to hear about the death of Teresa Sanders,” she said.
    The men reacted uncomfortably, moving in their seats, saying nothing.
    “In particular, I’m interested in knowing about the crime scene.”
    Elizabeth could see she had pushed too hard. The men folded their arms, held them tight to their chests. The doors were closing on her.
    She had to say something and took a chance: “Were there any balloons at the crime scene?”
    Both men tried not to react. Both men did.
    “Balloons?” the sheriff asked.
    “Yes.”
    “That’s an odd question,” he said. “Yes.”
    It was her turn to stonewall. She had considered the possibilities and thrown out the most likely.
    The sheriff tried to draw her out. “If you have any information about this homicide...”
    “Am I in?” she asked.
    After a long moment’s hesitation, the sheriff said, “We’ll cooperate with you.”
    His remark was open to interpretation, but Elizabeth decided to take him at his word.
    “Kathy Franklin was strangled while a flotilla of hot-air balloons sailed over her head. At her outdoor memorial service, balloons were released. Your copycat would have known that.”
    The sheriff and the sergeant looked at each other for the briefest moment. There was something furtive about their glance, something guilty.
    “Mrs. Sanders’s autopsy will be performed in the morning,” the sheriff said, “but there was a preliminary examination of her body this afternoon.”
    His unsaid “and” hung in the air. The sheriff sighed, shook his head, then met Elizabeth’s eyes.
    “There were balloons found in her vagina. Seventeen of them. All different colors.”

5

    O NCE MORE UNTO the breach, thought Elizabeth. She felt like Daniel going into the lions’ den, only without Daniel’s faith. As the detectives entered the room, she reminded herself to smile, though she figured that tactic worked about as well on cops as it did on lions.
    The Sheriff’s Department homicide detail was located in a building several blocks away from the administrators in Ridgehaven. Everyone seemed to like that arrangement.
    Elizabeth’s participation in the new Shame murders had been shoved down the throat of Lieutenant Jacob Borman. The Shame murders were considered so hot that all three homicide teams, each with four sheriff’s homicide investigators and one sheriff’s homicide sergeant, were working them.
    Lieutenant Borman and Elizabeth sat at opposite ends of the Central Intelligence Division conference room. As the sixteen homicide detectives trickled inside, the first thing they