patches drifted past.
“Doug, I’m way underdressed for a potential mugging as it is.” Annja wore a silver calf-length duster over black pants and a pearl-gray silk tie-waist blouse. Slouchy microsuede boots pushed her five-ten up to something over six feet. The boots were comfortable, stylish, and she could run for her life in them if she had to. She wore her auburn hair clipped back.
“This guy’s not a mugger.” Doug Morrell sounded put out. The producer of Chasing History’s Monsters— the syndicated television show Annja costarred in with Kristie Chatham—was twenty-two, young and driven by all things Twitter.
Despite the fact that he wasn’t really interested in history or archaeology, Annja genuinely liked Doug. He was like the younger brother she’d never had.
“I know he’s not a mugger.” Annja walked through the alley with her hands in her pockets. “He’s killed three women that the Metro police know about.”
“I saw those reports, too, which is why I want you to be careful.”
“Careful, but less dressed.”
Doug hesitated only a moment. “Yeah.”
“Not happening.”
“You could at least get rid of the jacket.”
“And give it to Igor to carry?”
“Don’t make fun of your bodyguard.”
Annja resisted the impulse to look back at Ray Venard, the guy Doug had hired for the shoot tonight. Venard was a large, hulking brute who had played professional rugby before he’d gotten caught shaving points, then was injured by outraged fans. He’d gotten through the court system unscathed, but the fans had left him with a knee that would never be the same.
“I thought he was a cameraman.”
“He is. He’s both. Kind of like a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup. Bodyguard and photographer.”
“Did I mention to you that when I met him in his office he was taking pictures of women for a skin magazine?”
Doug sighed. “You did.”
“So not only am I not going to take my coat off to be more revealing in this cold, rat-infested alley, I’m also not going to take it off in front of Igor.”
“I only mention the coat because it could help ratings.”
“The ratings are fine. We just got a two-year renewal.”
“So we could work on the next two-year deal.”
Annja kept walking. Working for the television show was sometimes a pain, but mostly it was fun. And there was Doug and a few of the other people she liked who were connected to the production. Not only did she get to travel, but the salary and bonuses were nice and allowed her to follow up on other explorations and digs.
She watched the shadows carefully. Detective Chief Inspector Westcox hadn’t been happy when she’d come to his office to discuss the recent murders that the media was attributing to “Mr. Hyde.” Of course, the reporters were only doing that because “Mr. Hyde” had written in, claiming responsibility for the murders.
Westcox had shown Annja the morgue photos of the victims. The DCI was closemouthed and professional, and he’d thought to frighten her off with the brutality of the killings. The victims had been stomped to death, their faces pulped by size eighteen Rufflander work boots.
What DCI Westcox hadn’t known was how much violence Annja Creed had seen. The police inspector had assumed she was a young woman inquiring into things much too bloody for her.
“I’m keeping my clothes on for the next two years, too.”
Doug whined. He was a good whiner when he wanted to be, but Annja was impervious.
“You have Kristie for the T and A ratings. With me, you’ve got history and archaeology ratings.”
The fact that Kristie Chatham was the fan darling because of her habitual loss of clothing and “wardrobe malfunctions” bothered Annja more than she would ever tell anyone. But she accepted it. She had her fans, too.
“Would Kristie agree to walking in a rat-infested alley at midnight so a serial murderer could leap out of the shadows and murder her?”
“No, of course not. If she got hurt, she wouldn’t be able to
“Doug, I’m way underdressed for a potential mugging as it is.” Annja wore a silver calf-length duster over black pants and a pearl-gray silk tie-waist blouse. Slouchy microsuede boots pushed her five-ten up to something over six feet. The boots were comfortable, stylish, and she could run for her life in them if she had to. She wore her auburn hair clipped back.
“This guy’s not a mugger.” Doug Morrell sounded put out. The producer of Chasing History’s Monsters— the syndicated television show Annja costarred in with Kristie Chatham—was twenty-two, young and driven by all things Twitter.
Despite the fact that he wasn’t really interested in history or archaeology, Annja genuinely liked Doug. He was like the younger brother she’d never had.
“I know he’s not a mugger.” Annja walked through the alley with her hands in her pockets. “He’s killed three women that the Metro police know about.”
“I saw those reports, too, which is why I want you to be careful.”
“Careful, but less dressed.”
Doug hesitated only a moment. “Yeah.”
“Not happening.”
“You could at least get rid of the jacket.”
“And give it to Igor to carry?”
“Don’t make fun of your bodyguard.”
Annja resisted the impulse to look back at Ray Venard, the guy Doug had hired for the shoot tonight. Venard was a large, hulking brute who had played professional rugby before he’d gotten caught shaving points, then was injured by outraged fans. He’d gotten through the court system unscathed, but the fans had left him with a knee that would never be the same.
“I thought he was a cameraman.”
“He is. He’s both. Kind of like a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup. Bodyguard and photographer.”
“Did I mention to you that when I met him in his office he was taking pictures of women for a skin magazine?”
Doug sighed. “You did.”
“So not only am I not going to take my coat off to be more revealing in this cold, rat-infested alley, I’m also not going to take it off in front of Igor.”
“I only mention the coat because it could help ratings.”
“The ratings are fine. We just got a two-year renewal.”
“So we could work on the next two-year deal.”
Annja kept walking. Working for the television show was sometimes a pain, but mostly it was fun. And there was Doug and a few of the other people she liked who were connected to the production. Not only did she get to travel, but the salary and bonuses were nice and allowed her to follow up on other explorations and digs.
She watched the shadows carefully. Detective Chief Inspector Westcox hadn’t been happy when she’d come to his office to discuss the recent murders that the media was attributing to “Mr. Hyde.” Of course, the reporters were only doing that because “Mr. Hyde” had written in, claiming responsibility for the murders.
Westcox had shown Annja the morgue photos of the victims. The DCI was closemouthed and professional, and he’d thought to frighten her off with the brutality of the killings. The victims had been stomped to death, their faces pulped by size eighteen Rufflander work boots.
What DCI Westcox hadn’t known was how much violence Annja Creed had seen. The police inspector had assumed she was a young woman inquiring into things much too bloody for her.
“I’m keeping my clothes on for the next two years, too.”
Doug whined. He was a good whiner when he wanted to be, but Annja was impervious.
“You have Kristie for the T and A ratings. With me, you’ve got history and archaeology ratings.”
The fact that Kristie Chatham was the fan darling because of her habitual loss of clothing and “wardrobe malfunctions” bothered Annja more than she would ever tell anyone. But she accepted it. She had her fans, too.
“Would Kristie agree to walking in a rat-infested alley at midnight so a serial murderer could leap out of the shadows and murder her?”
“No, of course not. If she got hurt, she wouldn’t be able to
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