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writing-royza · 6 years ago

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Tainted Blood, Tainted Soul - Chapter Ten: Escalating Concerns

A/N: Happy… well, Monday, everyone. Sorry for the delay; apparently getting married makes you crazy amounts of tired. So please belatedly enjoy this chapter!

I do not own FMA.

Chapter Ten - Escalating Concerns

EASTERN MILITARY HEADQUARTERS

1025 HOURS, APRIL 16

"What do you mean, 'he's already here?'" One hand holding the telephone to his ear, the other curled in a fist on top of his desk, Hakuro gritted his teeth, and forced the next word out of his mouth. "…Sir."

"What I mean is that Colonel Mustang and his adjutant should have arrived in East City sometime early this morning, and that they are likely to pay you — as acting head of the garrison — a visit sometime today or tomorrow." Even over several hundred miles' worth of telephone cable, Grumman managed to sound smug and superior, at least to Hakuro's ear. "They're in the middle of an active case that —"

"With all due respect, sir —" And not much of that, really. "— I can take care of any investigation in East City. Surely, the Colonel and his aide are still recovering from their wounds from the battle two weeks ago. They shouldn't be back on active duty, much less —"

"If the doctors cleared them to work and travel, then I believe the doctors," the old man said firmly. "Furthermore, I trust the judgement of both Mustang and Hawkeye, and if they say they feel fit to work, then they are fit to work." His voice took on a hard edge. "I say this not only as a senior officer that knows them both rather well, but as Führer-President. Do I make myself clear, General?"

The subtle emphasis on his rank was enough of a warning flag to bring Hakuro's temper back under firm control. "…Yes… sir." He almost said 'Your Excellency,' but couldn't quite force himself to do that much. "My apologies. Thank you for notifying me, and I'll expect the Colonel sometime soon."

"Good. Whatever information and aid they need, see that they get it. I'll expect a progress report on this in a week."

There was no goodbye, simply the click of the call being terminated. Hakuro replaced the receiver, and sat still behind his desk, working to keep a leash on his anger. Yes, it was loathsome to have to deal with Mustang, especially at the behest of an old fool like Grumman, but it was part of the job. As long as he stayed professional, he could muddle his way through this. Once he was out the other side, things would look better.

This semi-good feeling did not last more than five minutes, when his secretary tapped politely on the door and opened it to announce, "Colonel Mustang and First Lieutenant Hawkeye to see you, sir."

Jaw clenched into what he hoped was an approximation of a courteous smile, Hakuro got to his feet… and hesitated when the younger man stepped inside. Dark sunglasses obscured Mustang's eyes, his Lieutenant's right hand gently touching his left arm, clearly guiding him. A set of file folders were tucked under her left arm.

In a moment of pure shock, Hakuro forgot his dislike for the ambitious upstart, a slightly numbed thought of That's right… he's been blinded…. running through his mind.

Before he could recover his loathing, he came around the front of the desk and indicated one of the visitors' chairs in front of it. "Seat him here, Lieutenant."

It seemed Mustang had different ideas. Halfway across the floor, on some invisible cue to his Lieutenant, both of them stopped and came smartly attention. "I appreciate the concern, General. While Lieutenant Hawkeye is still occasionally needed to help me with more dimly lit rooms, my eyesight is returning." His polite smile took on the kind of edge that generally meant there was some sort of private joke, but he didn't elaborate. "Aside from that, we're both working toward fully active duty as quickly as we can, hence why we're here."

A twinge of annoyance tried to manifest itself as a twitch in his cheek, but Hakuro forced it down under the overarching cover of his professional façade. "Of course. The Führer-President called my office this morning to tell me to expect you, and give me a brief overview of the case you're working." He couldn't quite bring himself to say Grumman's name, not after the old fox had pulled the rug out from under him during the lead-up to the Battle of Central. "That being said, I'd like to hear things from you yourself. At ease, both of you, and sit down."

The three of them settled around the desk, and Mustang began going through a paraphrased breakdown of the crimes being investigated in Central. The gory details that he glossed over were shown rather than told; Hawkeye wordlessly produced the appropriate crime scene photos with flawless timing, passing them to Hakuro across the desk.

He grimaced, feeling his breakfast shift uneasily in his stomach. He gave the photos a perfunctory glance but nothing more, listening until the end of Mustang's little narrative.

"And so, given the information from Second Lieutenant Catalina, you believe this killer came East somehow from Central?" He folded his hands on the desk blotter. "What's to say that the East City killings weren't done by a copycat?"

Lieutenant Hawkeye shifted minutely. "If I may, General, it's our opinion that it would take a seriously disturbed mind to kill in the way the Central City killer does. For there to be two such-minded individuals at the same time…." Her usually stoic features took on a hint of distaste. "Frankly, sir, it doesn't bear thinking about."

He couldn't argue with her there, and so nodded in acknowledgement. "I understand. I can even agree… to a certain extent. But I think we'll need some form of concrete proof before we can paint all these crimes with the same brush. Something aside from the murder method that's common to all scenes."

He was used to reading Mustang's moods and opinions in the younger man's dark eyes, and so the sudden tension in his shoulders meant nothing without further context. It could have been wariness, anger, interest, discomfort….. With those dark glasses on, he had succeeded in both masking whatever injury he had incurred as well as his deeper thoughts.

"With all due respect, General," he said, choosing his words carefully — ah, so the tension signalled wariness, "the only common link between the murders is the method in which they were carried out. The victims all come from different backgrounds, no two look particularly similar, there's no social connection that we can see, the ages very from a child to middle age…." He shrugged expansively. "The only correlation is how they were killed."

Hakuro sat back in his chair, giving the two of them a pointed look. "Then I suppose you'd best figure out some other way they're all related, shouldn't you?" When neither of them answered, he continued. "I think I've heard enough. At the Führer-President's direction, you have free rein to investigate what you need to here in East City. Anything of pertinence will be reported to myself as well as him. Is that clear?"

There was a brief stiffening in Mustang's jaw that might have been him clenching his teeth… or merely swallowing a more blistering retort than the cool, quiet "Yes, sir," that he murmured instead.

"Good." He paused for a moment, then changed tack. "Now, I heard the two of you were injured during the Battle of Central, but I don't believe I know what exactly happened to you. If you're going to be trusted with this case, I'd like to know the extent of your injuries so that I can gauge how much you can handle."

This time, the tension came to Hawkeye's shoulders in time with the faintest sheen of indignance and anger in those usually calm brown eyes. Hakuro had overheard stories from others under his command what an absolute terror the slender sharpshooter could be when her temper was roused, but that didn't scare him.

The expression didn't falter as her gaze met his, though it didn't progress any farther. Mustang's head twitched minutely in his adjutant's direction, before he answered calmly. "As I said, my eyesight was temporarily put out of commission, but it's recovering, and I'm told I should regain full use of my eyes. Aside from a good amount of my back being scraped up by a fall, I'm entirely fine."

Hakuro hadn't taken his eyes from a still watching Hawkeye. "And you, Lieutenant? You're looking paler than I remember."

Her voice was quiet, but clear. "A man involved in the corrupt cabal against Führer-President Bradley attempted to kill me by cutting my throat," she said, her words deliberate. "Fortunately for me, he only nicked one part of my neck, but it was enough that I lost a fair amount of blood. I should fully recover all that I lost within in the next two weeks, but until then, it's nothing that should keep me from working."

For a moment, he sat silent, unsure of what to say in the face of this revelation. He knew what she really meant by 'corrupt cabal,' and had read reports from Major-General Armstrong and her brother as to what they had witnessed… making Hawkeye's subtle message all too clear. This deceptively passive woman would not be killed easily, nor would the usually cocky and smug man beside her.

"Would that every soldier in Amestris had the fortitude you've shown," he said, careful not to add 'because then perhaps I could get rid of you two.' Instead, he shifted in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. "Let's go back to the question of this serial killer you've been chasing. While I can appreciate that you're both well enough to be in the field once more, I'm not sure why you wouldn't simply continue working the murders in Central while a team here in the East investigates whatever happened here. It could save you a lot of time and travel."

Mustang was already shaking his head. "That's true, but information never flows as smoothly between two cities so far apart. Not to mention that my team started with this case in Central, and to try and explain the particulars to another team here in East City would take more time than it's worth. We've left Breda and Fuery to follow up with things in Central, but Lieutenant Hawkeye and myself came here to learn what we could."

The logic was sound, but Hakuro had one more bid to make. "And this is the second time you've investigated serial killings, isn't it? The last was that scarred Ishvalan man that seemed so bent on taking out State Alchemists." He gave the younger man a pointed look. "I don't recall there being an arrest in that case."

Frustratingly, Mustang appeared unruffled. In fact, he smiled. "No arrest, no. But the man you're talking about attacked Führer-President Bradley during the Battle of Central, wounded him badly, but was subsequently killed."

"It's our belief," Hawkeye put in quietly, "that he was leading a band of Ishvalan refugees in actions against the Presidency that day. Major-General Armstrong took it upon herself to deal with the body."

Annoyed, Hakuro held back a resigned sigh. All the cards were on the table now, and his was the losing hand. "I see." He got to his feet, which prompted the others to do the same. "I won't hold you up any longer, since you have work to do. Make sure any reports you file come to me as well; someone as bloodthirsty and dangerous as this man shouldn't be on the streets."

"Our sentiments exactly," Mustang agreed. Both he and Hawkeye saluted dutifully, before moving toward the door. "Thank you for your time, General."

They were most of the way across the room before a sudden idea seized Hakuro. His hand drifted to the paperweight resting atop a stack of reports to his left. "Colonel — just one more thing…."

He waited just until that dark head had turned back in his direction, before plucking the paperweight from its resting place and lobbing it underhand toward the younger man. Mustang twitched visibly in surprise, before his left hand shot out to easily catch the glass dome sailing in his direction.

So, his vision was indeed returning, and with it went the faint, fleeting hope that he could have been run out of the military on a medical discharge. Hakuro forced a thin smile. "Just a test, Colonel, to assess just how on-the-mend you are. You passed admirably."

The answering smile was just as thin, without a trace of humour. "Your concern for my welfare is touching, General." He set the paperweight on top of the filing cabinet next to the door. "We'll be in touch."

The already small smile had faded before the door closed behind them.

STREETS OF EAST CITY

1100 HOURS, APRIL 16

He watched her as she drove, her eyes never leaving the road but to flicker briefly toward the sidewalk or the other lane. Riza's eyebrows were drawn tight, her anger apparent in the set of her jaw and the light in her eyes, in the way her right thumb tapped distractedly on the steering wheel. The car, signed out from the East City motor pool, was otherwise silent.

Finally, he faced forward again, commenting mildly. "You know, driving angry might not be the best idea, but at least when you do it, you look good."

She didn't so much laugh as give a short, slightly humoured outward breath. "That's a very roundabout way of telling me I'm pretty when I'm angry, sir."

"Serves the purpose, though." The car slowed, then stopped at a red light, and he reached over to settle a hand on her knee. "The meeting didn't go that badly, did it? I thought that, given Hakuro's opinion of me, it would've been a lot worse."

Riza didn't take her eyes from the light, or her hands from the wheel. "Yes, I think the fact that we're both still very obviously recovering threw him off-balance. He only questioned our fitness to investigate and be in the field, instead of our ability to do our jobs in general."

He shrugged, taking back his hand as the light changed and the car started forward again. "Exactly. And if he hadn't tried to test me at the end, I would have counted it as some sort of progress."

"That's most of what's getting under my skin," she answered, the words suddenly clipped by annoyance. "He just had to push it that little bit further, couldn't just take our word that we're really on the mend…. The questioning, I can handle. That's part of the job; you and I have both done it before. But the casual, off-the-cuff test…. It insinuates he thinks we were lying to achieve our own ends." She paused a moment. "Which, yes, we've both done before, but that doesn't have much bearing on this. Frankly, that so-called 'test' was nothing short of insulting."

"Well, then, best we prove him wrong. Which we've both done before." They began to slow for another red light, and he took the opportunity to slide closer on the bench seat, reaching for his pocket. "In the meantime, we'd best go to ground, get ourselves oriented, and figure out where to proceed from here. And I have just the place; I already left the number with Headquarters."

The car stopped, and she glanced sideways at him. His eyes were still hidden by the dark glasses, but she could sense the mischief lurking there. "You have a place in mind, when we haven't been in the city for months?'

He held up a pair of keys on a metal ring, grinning. "You know, I think I do…."

STREETS OF EAST CITY

11:00 A.M., APRIL 16

The man paced along, hands in the pockets of his dark suit, the brim of his hat tugged low and his head ducked to hide his face from any observant passersby. He was more recognizable here, but the danger of being seen did not overly disturb him. He could deal with anyone that realized who he was.

What disturbed him was that he had watched Mustang and Hawkeye emerge from the front entrance of Eastern Headquarters, not saying much, and head toward the motor pool. In Central, Mustang had kept one hand on his adjutant's shoulder or arm at all times, needing her to guide his blind steps. Now, he walked under his own power, hands at his sides, moving gently as he walked. The conclusion was obvious.

He could see again.

The man tried to tell himself that it didn't matter. Just because that arrogant fool could see again didn't mean anything for him; he had his own defenses in place, at least during the night. He took the risk of looking up, to where a perfectly blue spring sky stretched overhead, broken only by rare, wispy clouds. It was an effort, to hide his face in the daylight, as he had with Hawkeye at the cemetery. He had to be careful not to waste his energy like that, to conserve it for the proper time.

Perhaps he ought to find out where they were operating out of while here in the East, and try to get a glance at whatever notes they had. Simply to make sure they weren't getting too close to him yet, and to check on Hawkeye's progress. She would be ready soon, and then….

He licked his lips, ducking his head once more. The taste of her rose like a ghost in his mouth, a memory of the blood, of the faint smoky aftertaste that lingered on the tongue. He was surprised – pleasantly so – to find that dwelling on these thoughts of her caused the hunger to swell. Much as an ordinary human might hear their stomach rumble as the scents of a meal, the man heard a snarling in his mind, like a ravening wolf.

He hadn't thought he would need to eat again so soon; then again, the two hobos had not been as filling as he might have liked. Theoretically, he could wait until after nightfall, but to take a new victim in broad daylight like this…. The thrill it would give him would be immeasurable.

Walking leisurely, he made his way out of the bustling commercial area into a less-populated residential district. Here, there were the sounds of small children playing in backyards, the occasional bark of a dog, the far off purr of a car engine. Laundry flapped on lines behind houses, a telephone rang in the interior of one on a corner.

The man turned down streets at random, looking for all the world like an ordinary gentleman out for a midday stroll. When he came to a corner shaded by an old, drooping oak tree, he paused in the shade cast by the wide boughs, and listened.

The nearest house had left a window open to admit the fresh spring air, and radio music floated out into the sunshine. His ears picked out a woman's soft humming blending with the music, and the soft sssssswick… sssssswick… sssssswick of a broom moving across a hardwood floor. No other sounds emanated from inside; it would do.

Approaching the front door, he knocked, taking a moment to straighten his tie and smooth the fabric of his suit jacket. The woman who answered was plump and pretty, light brown hair falling in curls to her shoulders and held back with a brightly patterned kerchief. She wiped her hands on her pale green apron, smiling politely at the stranger on her front steps.

"Yes? Can I help you?"

The man returned her smile with some well-feigned surprise, reaching up to pluck his hat from his head. "…I'm terribly sorry… I must have the wrong address. I was supposed to meet a realtor about buying a house in the neighbourhood, and he told me to come to 187 Plum Street for a viewing."

Now looking puzzled, though still with a plastic version of her former smile pasted to her face, the woman hesitated before saying, "Well, this is 187 Plum Street, but the house isn't for sale. In fact, I don't know of any houses on our street that are…. Perhaps it was a different street that sounds similar?"

"That's what I'm beginning to wonder…." He looked around the deserted avenue, allegedly perplexed but actually checking for witnesses. Not a soul moved in the pristine front yards of the neighbourhoods, or twitched aside curtains in neighbourly nosiness. He looked back to the woman. "I'm rather embarrassed. I hate to impose, but… if you have a telephone, would I be able to use it to call the realty firm and get the correct address? I'm sure it wouldn't take more than a minute."

Again the woman hesitated, twisting the hem of her apron between her fingers in uncertainty. Her gaze travelled over him briefly, evaluating. He stood with his hat pressed to his chest, his free hand clearly visible at his side. Apparently seeing nothing suspicious, she stepped to the side and held the door open. "I don't see why not. Please, come in."

Her home was neat and orderly, with all the earmarks of being attended to by a stay-at-home wife with no children in the picture. Not only was there no evidence of toy boxes or child-size shoes, but the house held only adult scents. Children had a tendency to smell of things like storybook paper, crayon wax, and cookies and milk. Like the little Jamieson boy.

He followed the woman to the bright, warm kitchen, where she gestured toward the far wall. "Telephone's over there, sir. Take all the time you need, if it's a local call."

"It is, thank you." Moving toward the device, he pulled out his wallet, looking through it as though for a business card. "You have a lovely home, Ms.…?"

"Angelini. Joanna Angelini." She smiled, turning toward a soup pot that was on the stove, steam curling from the top of it. "And thank you; my husband and I are quite happy with it." Picking up a wooden spoon, she poked it into the pot, stirring the contents as she peered at them through the steam. "I don't believe you told me your name, sir."

"You're right. I didn't."

The way he struck against her caused her to drop the spoon into the soup with a clack. Joanna herself was thrown first against the stove, knocking half the breath from her before she was dragged backward and down. The man twisted as she fell, causing her to land face-first on her kitchen floor.

Surprised, the woman didn't have time for much more than a ragged gasp before his weight descended on her shoulders. The man's teeth sank into the soft flesh of the side of her throat, a low, pleased growl sounding as blood began to seep into his mouth. Her breath still returning, Joanna couldn't manage more than a hoarse whimper. Her legs kicked helplessly, one shoe clattering noisily against the stove.

He could hear her starting to regain her breath, and clamped one hand firmly over her mouth, pulling her head back so he could better access her neck. Joanna whimpered again, but fainter this time. The blood flowed more easily, some spattering to the immaculate tiled floor.

She continued to try and struggle, but the man's strength held her easily in place. Unconcernedly, almost casually, he kept a steady pace, alternately sucking and swallowing, feeling the life-giving blood ooze down his throat. It didn't so much slake a thirst as fill his stomach and ease the hungry rumblings there. Gradually, Joanna Angelini's struggles grew weaker and weaker… until at last she slumped in slow motion to the floor and was still.

A hoarse voice croaked from the kitchen doorway. "Joanna?"

Freeing his teeth from the woman's neck, the man lifted his head and turned. A man stood staring in horror, wrapped in a bathrobe thrown on over pajamas, his hair in pillowed disarray and his eyeglasses sitting crooked on his nose. The eyes behind them were glassy with fever and staring in uncomprehending shock at the man crouched over the lifeless body on the floor.

"What…." He halted, swallowing against the congested rasping in his throat. "What did you do to my wife?"

Getting slowly to his feet, much as though he were trying not to spook a skittish animal, the man ran his tongue over the blood coating his lips. Far from containing it, all the gesture did was spread it around. "I would think it's fairly obvious," he said, voice low. "She was good enough to invite me in, though I'm afraid I may have overstepped her hospitality in taking food without asking."

The husband's wide eyes went from the man's bloody mouth to his still-bleeding wife on the floor. Blood was still draining from the punctures to her neck, forming a pool on the floor. "But — how…."

He was still staring, dumbstruck, when the man lunged. This time, he didn't bother to go for the other's throat. Instead, he struck him on one shoulder, spinning the unprepared victim around to the left. A second later, he caught Joanna's husband by the head in both hands and gave a sharp twist.

There was a sharp crack and Mr. Angelini dropped bonelessly to the floor, mere feet away from his late wife.

The man staggered, stumbling to the little kitchen island to support himself, bent nearly double. The violence had awakened that other hunger, that sexual need, and the force of its suddenness left him breathless. He braced himself on the cool tile counter, taking long, deep breaths, willing the throbbing in his groin to subside. Still, it was a long while before he was able to stand straight and breathe normally.

Stepping over Joanna's body to the stove, he plucked the dish towel hanging from the handle of the over door and using it to dab fastidiously at his lips and chin, removing all traces of blood. He hadn't gone quite as wild in this attack as the others, but then again, he also wasn't quite done.

Standing there, watching the pot on the stove continue to bubble placidly, he leaned forward to peer inside it. Rich broth, vegetables, and chunks of meat bobbed along with the rolling boil, sending a savoury fragrance into the air. The man smirked. Of course: the dutiful wife making chicken soup for her sick husband. How disgustingly domestic.

And if the meat were diseased, he was hesitant to sink his teeth into it. The two hobos and their high blood alcohol levels had been bad enough, and the man respected this body too much to tarnish it unnecessarily with illness. He wasn't even sure what effect human germs would have on him, but he had no desire to find out.

Turning the heat off to the burner under the soup pot, he once again stepped over Joanna's body and then over that of her husband, making his way to the front door. He checked himself over to make sure there was no blood visible on him before stepping outside.

His hand was on the doorknob when a thought clicked into place. He hesitated a moment, an idea forming, then returned to the kitchen. He stepped over Mr. Angelini in crossing to the far wall and picked up the telephone receiver, dialling a single '0' before he brought it to his ear.

"Hello?" he said, pouring panic into his voice when the operator had connected. "I need the police, quickly! There's blood, so much blood, and the Angelinis…. They're… they're…."

"Sir, calm down. I'm connecting you to the military police," the woman on the other end responded, her voice tense. "What address are you calling from?"

"It's 187 Plum Street. Tell them to hurry!" And with that, he hung up and headed out the door.

"Thank you for your help, Mrs. Angelini. I'll let you know if I move to the neighbourhood," he called cheerfully back to the interior of the house and its dead occupants, purely for any unseen spectators. Shutting the door firmly behind him, he started off down the walk and up the street, his hat tugged low to keep his eyes hidden, and his head slightly ducked against any pedestrian he might pass. He had only walked two blocks before he began to hear sirens.

27 WHEELER STREET, EAST CITY

1217 HOURS, APRIL 16

The apartment was littered with taped-up boxes, open boxes, boxes waiting to be folded back into being boxes, and empty boxes waiting to be filled. Setting her military duffel on the floor and the paper bag of groceries on the counter in the kitchen, Riza's eyes roamed around the space. Hayate trotted inside past their feet and began exploring instantly, his nose to the floorboards.

"He does intend to come back for all of this, doesn't he?" she asked, only half sarcastically. "I would have thought Grumman would prefer to take all his belongings to Central in one go and be done with it."

Roy's duffel hit the floor, knocking into a box of heavy-looking leather bound books. "He told me he would have liked to do it that way, but that there was a time crunch between being confirmed as the incoming Führer-President and getting to Central. He took the most important things and boxed up what he could before he left." He grinned at her, his eyes still hidden behind protective sunglasses. "He said that if the head of the country couldn't find a flunky or two to come back here and get the rest of his stuff, what was that country coming to?"

Riza smiled back, beginning to sort through the grocery bag for anything that needed to be refrigerated. "As long as I don't end up being one of said flunkies, I can't fault him for the logic."

She was facing away from Roy when his arms circled her waist in a gentle embrace, his lips pressing a kiss to the back of her neck. Shuddering lightly, she pulled away, but not by much. "Not now," she warned, smiling. "We've got things to do."

"You mean aside from each other?" The fingers of his right hand tugged at the hem of her uniform jacket, trailing the silver edging. "Can't say anything pressing is coming to mind, other than —"

He broke off as she turned in his arms, giving him an admonishing look. It was in strange juxtaposition to the spots of colour high in her cheeks that spoke to her own want. Want she was clearly holding back, with all the force and discipline only Riza Hawkeye was capable of.

"I know that it'll be the first time you've seen me that way in months," she murmured, tone firm, "but we've got new case files to go over for the two murders that happened here, we need to eat, we need to get in touch with our old contacts out here to see if they know anything —"

She stopped when it was apparent that he wasn't listening. Reaching up, she took the sunglasses from his face, revealing the reddened eyes. He looked as though he were going through a particularly nasty bout of seasonal allergies: the eyelids were red and slightly puffy, the whites looking as bloodshot as if he hadn't slept for a week. But the irises were once again a striking near-black, glimmering with humour as he gave her a mischievous wink.

"Doesn't stop you from being a sight for sore eyes."

Riza reached to the side, setting the glasses on the countertop. "I think I'd appreciate the compliment more if it weren't hidden inside a terrible joke."

Sobering, Roy took a half-step back, looking her over carefully. "I'd feel more confident in the compliment if you weren't still pale as a ghost," he admitted. "I couldn't see it through the lens tinting, but you definitely have the look of someone who's lost a lot of blood."

Unconcerned, she turned back toward the grocery bag. "That's hardly a coincidence, seeing as how I did lose a lot of blood."

His hand settled onto her arm. "Yes, you did, but you've had two separate transfusions. You should have regained some of that colour by now." Gently, he turned her toward himself. "Riza, if there was ever a time for you to be honest with me, it's now. You're whiter than white, but are you having any of the other symptoms? Dizziness, fatigue, feeling faint? Any of that?"

She shook her head. "None."

His hands took one of hers, pressing the fingers between his palms with an analytical frown. Across the room, the telephone began to ring, but he ignored it. "You're sure? Because your hands are cold, too."

"My hands are always cold." Pulling free, she headed toward the phone. "Roy, I know you want to help, I know you're concerned. But if you're going to worry this much, it's only going to slow us down. Please; if I tell you I'm fine, you can rest assured I am." Without waiting for an answer, she picked up the receiver. "Hello?"

Forced to wait, he took the refrigerated items from the bag, putting them away as he watched her facial expression change from polite inquiry to professional concentration. "Again already?" A pause. "All right, I understand. We'll be there as soon as we can."

Hanging up, she gave him a grim look. "If you still have concerns, they'll have to wait, sir. Our killer just surfaced again, in one of the residential neighbourhoods. We're needed at the scene."

"All right. I should have expected we'd hit the ground running." Closing the gap between them, he caught her hand before she could move away. "But when we get back, maybe you should let me look you over more closely." He grinned. "Just to reassure myself that you're really as okay as you say you are."

Riza returned the smile. "Only if you let me do the same."

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