“I’m sorry, sir, but courtyard dining is closed for the evening.  If you would like, I have several very desirable tables inside.” The regretful tone of the maître d’ was belied by the look of annoyance on his face. Was it the hassle of trying to rearrange his precious dining room that seemed to irk the man? Not that it mattered.

                “That will be fine. Somewhere quiet.” Judging by the mindless banter that filled the air, he wondered if such a thing was even possible. But the maître d’ quickly snapped to attention, guiding the man past the bar and away from the people who only wanted to see or be seen.

                He was one of them, in a sense. The ever watchful eye, he was always mindful of who was around him and if they mattered or not; always noticing those who seemed to pay him too much or too little attention.

                “Here we are, sir,” the man in front of him made a show of displaying the table. “Will this be alright?”

                “Yes, thank you.” The table was situated in a corner of the room, in full view but still somehow set apart. The building was in a U-shaped design, which would ordinarily make it difficult to observe all that was going on. From this vantage point, he could see the party in full swing in the courtyard and, if he cared to put that much effort into it, the entrance to the bar and lounge on the other side. He could see it all, and he would know if anyone had seen him.

#

                The vice around my heart eased ever so slightly. I wouldn’t call it a success, but it was an hour into my ‘Meet Your Match’ event and I’d yet to put out any major fires. I ignored the maître d’s huffy attitude, because he hadn’t told the kitchen to spit in the hors d’oeuvre. At least I hoped that he hadn’t.

                “Smile, you’re starting to scare some of the guests,” a hushed voice said in my ear.

                “Son of a biscuit!” Suddenly remembering where I was, I unclenched my chest and tried to calm my breathing. A quick scan of the courtyard let me know that everyone was too enthralled in one another to notice my outburst.

                “Honestly, Nicole, try to be a bit more dignified.” The man was actually smiling, no, laughing at the fact that he’d nearly scared me to death. Be professional. I love my job, I need my job, I love my job.

                “Mr. Fields, I didn’t realize you would be attending tonight. Did you confirm with one of the other Matchmakers?” Sneaky, slimy...

                “Actually, I spoke with Sadie directly. She convinced me that tonight I would finally meet my match.” I highly doubted that. Sure, it was typical of Sadie Goodwin to promise instant and long lasting true love. She’s started The Unity Group Corporation and made Fusion, her pride and joy, the most successful offline matchmaking business there was. Sadie did not fail.

                Byron Fields, on the other hand, was a serial dater. I was beginning to think that he’d run out of bar flies and was using Fusion to give him a fresh supply of women desperate for attention and overly eager to please. I tried to weed those types out purely in an effort to keep that man away. Why or how I was the only one who could see though his Prince Charming act was beyond me.

                Looking at him now, I could understand the attraction. The man did have a lot going for him. Tall, light brown complexion, brown eyes with lashes I’d kill to have, not an ounce of fat on him. On top of all that, he knew how to dress. Tonight, he had on a dark blue three-piece suit that was perfectly tailored. His crisp, white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar to give him the appearance of being laid back but not lazy. He even had a white silk pocket square in the breast pocket of his jacket.

                “Right. Well I believe that you’ll find that the ladies who are attending tonight are all quite wonderful,” I did another quick scan. “Mara is a fairly recent transplant to the area – she has set up her law office here in South Port with a satellite on the island. Annalise is a principle with the Whitney Dance Company, and rather talented if I’m to understand correctly.” I was rattling off names and mini bios at a fever pitch. Please just let this man find someone and leave me alone.

                “I see.” Byron cast a fleeting glance at the women currently meandering about in cocktail dresses carrying drinks in varying shades of pink.

                “Oh, and Renee is a partner with C&J Recruiting out of Dutch Haven. I recall her mentioning to me that your companies have done quite a bit of business with one another.”

                “You seem to have a sales pitch for all of these women. Surely you know me well enough now to know my wants and needs.” Was he baiting me? He knew that no one had been able to find the perfect woman for him. With Byron, finding ‘the one’ was like looking for the Holy Grail.

                I turned to face him full on, quite ready to explain that while I was very confident in my list of potential dates, the process was only complicated by his inability and unwillingness to give over control and stop fighting me at every turn. I had the whole speech right there on the tip of my tongue. I squared my shoulders, inhaled, and lifted my chin to look him in the eye.

I was stuck, frozen. The overly confident, playful gleam in his eye and teasing smirk had been replaced by something more calculating. I’ve seen come hither stares, lustful gazes, bedroom eyes. Maybe not always directed at me, but still. They were heated. If you were on the receiving end you’d have likely wanted to melt and burst into flames all at once. The feeling I got from Byron was equally as intense, though not as hot. Calling it lukewarm was a stretch.

“Have you found true love, Nicole James? Do you want that for yourself?”

“I..I’m not… I don’t think…” Why wasn’t my mouth working?

“Well, this certainly is cozy. I hope that our Nicole hasn’t jeopardized too much of your time Mr. Fields,” the cultured voice of Mrs. Goodwin was a welcome interruption. She had never given me the impression that she liked me. My clothes were unsophisticated, my hair too wild, my approach too personal. Now that one threw me. I was a matchmaker; a measured degree of personal involvement was expected.

“Of course not, Sadie. I’m afraid I am the one who has been keeping Ms. James from her duties. She was telling me all about the exquisite ladies who are in attendance this evening.” Like that, Fields was back. I, however, was still in panic mode.

“There is some great potential here, without a doubt. In fact, there’s an absolute beauty just dying to meet you.”

“That does sound enticing. Lead the way.” Sadie may not have liked me much, but she loved Byron. I was glad he was out of my hair for the moment. After that little episode, I added creepy to the list of words to describe him.

“So, how are things?” Leigha finally managed to wrench herself away from her adoring fans. She had made the night an interesting one. Tomorrow morning I’d have to break it easy to four or five guys that yes, she was beautiful and sexy and would look great on their arm; she simply was not the right match for them.

“My face hurts.”

“I’m sorry dear. Does it hurt too much to smile? I have a surprise for you,” the last part was done in a sing-song manner. Perfect, Leigha was tipsy and giddy.

“I don’t want him.”

“Would you want her?” I scowled.

“Fine,” She huffed, “ I’ll just tell you, then.”

“Please do. I’m waiting with bated breath.” I put on my glasses and began reviewing follow-up cards, getting a head start on confirming matches. There were a few that would need some redirection, but for the most part my instincts about tonight’s group were spot on. Leigha grabbed my hand, not so much for support but as a way to get my full attention. I peered at her over the top of my glasses.

“Well,” she drew the word out for dramatic effect, “I had the misfortune of finally running into that Barron guy.”

“Byron.” Leigha waved me off.

“Anyway, he came over and started going on and on about something. What was he talking about? Never mind, not important.” I stared blankly at my friend. I saw the maître d’ behind her, gliding towards me, beckoning. I wondered if he’d been a figure skater in another life.

“Hang on a second, Lee. Let me talk to him really quick.” I stepped around Leigha and followed obediently inside.

By the time I returned, Leigha was busying herself with a gray haired gentleman, one of the men from the event no doubt, laughing at some shared joke. I always wanted to be one of those women who saw jealousy as a useless emotion. I’m not. I wanted to be flirtatious and approachable. Standing back and seeing my friend in action, I reminded myself why I wasn’t open anymore. Being flirty and fancy free was how I met Mathew.

“Excuse me miss, do you know what time it is?” Ripped from my flashback, I lifted my wrist and impatiently looked down at my watch.

“Yeah, it’s eleven forty-two.”

“Wonderful, thank you. Have a good night.” By the time I considered who it was that had asked me, I was met with the retreating back of a tall, slender woman with close cropped hair.

“Who was that,” Leigha asked once she finally made her way back to where I stood.

“I’m not sure. One of the guests, I suppose.” Trying to recall if any of my female clients had short hair, I came up blank. Shrugging it off, I grabbed my bag and ushered Leigha to the exit. It was late and my bed was calling me.

“I still haven’t told you your surprise.”

“Let me have it.” It’d better be something I can actually use, I thought. Leigha’s ‘gifts’ tended to be things that were curiously in the wrong size or color, without a receipt. Naturally, she was ever so kind as to take it off my hands since it wouldn’t work for me.

“I matched Bryan,” she squealed. At least she was close.

“Matched him with whom?” I dug the valet ticket out of my purse and handed it to the kid at the podium.

“Well, I noticed how bored he seemed with all of the women you had, so I hooked him up with the cook.”

“You what!” My career was doomed. The most important client at Fusion was being sent on a date with the help. Was I hyperventilating?

#

                “Stop. No. Stop talking! I’m coming down there. I need to look at what you’re talking about.” Quinn had to hand it to the scene tech. After having his ass handed to him by the chief, the poor kid worked overtime searching for the tiniest of clues. With the media and grieving families breathing down the department’s neck, anything was better than nothing at this point. He dragged his hand across the back of his neck and sighed. There was a bright spot in his day however faint it was, and he clung to it with all he had.

                “You got something,” Marco asked as he strolled out of the chief’s office.

                “Sounds like it. Why are you checking up on me?” Quinn moved double-time to the elevators.  

                “Chief wants us together on this one. Guess he thinks you needed some hel…”

Quinn stopped dead in his tracks. Sebastian Marconi’s critical thinking skills were passable at best. What would possess Chief to add him to the case? Chief Campbell was making his way to his office from the conference room with the D.A. in tow. Against his better judgment, Quinn detoured and stalked over. Marco was hot on his heels.

                ”Chief, I know it’s taking a bit longer than we’d like but I sure as hell don’t need Marco slowing me down.”

                Chief Campbell held his hand up, stopping Quinn’s advance . The chief of detectives and the D.A. continued to argue in hushed tones. The statuesque ice queen and the old rhino locked in an unending struggle for control.

                “Wrap this up, Campbell, or I’ll advise the mayor to bring in someone who can get the job done.. The last thing we need is citywide panic.” For a brief second, the sound of four inch heels hammering across the tile floor was the only one to be heard in the bullpen. “Corwin,” she greeted the detective with a slight quirk of her eyebrow and a sneer. No sooner had she passed through the doorway, noise erupted in the work area.

                “What do you want Quinn,” the chief growled.

                “I need for you to take Marco off my case. There’s got to be something else to keep him busy; B and E, directing traffic, something.”

                “Not going to happen. I have to ‘wrap this up’ and a fresh pair of eyes never hurt anything.”

                “I’ll be sure to remind you of that when Chuckles over there screws this royally.” Quinn knew he’d never win the argument, but he had to at least voice his displeasure at the whole thing. Marco was grinning like an idiot. In that moment, he wanted to smash the guy’s nose – couldn’t be a pretty boy without a pretty face.

                “So, they have something to show us down in the ‘freaks ‘n geeks’ department?”

                “Yeah, only try not to talk too much. I don’t feel like waiting on evidence because the techs associate me with your stupidity.” Quinn mashed the elevator button. A vicious smile cut across his face as he envisioned Marconi’s face bloodied and swollen.

                ”Alright, kid, lay it out for me.” Being down in The Vault never sat well with Quinn. The entire space was a contradiction. Basements were supposed to be dark, dank, musty, creepy cave-like rooms. The Vault was dark and creepy, but it was also fresh; too fresh. It made sense of course, because humid and moldy conditions could corrupt samples; tarnish evidence, blah blah blah. Still, Quinn was eager to get the new info and go.

                So wrapped up in his own displeasure at being in the forensics department, Quinn didn’t realize the scene tech was talking until Marconi started in on him. Taking stock of the situation, he saw two things. First, Marconi had taken the lead. Who the hell did he think he was? Second, it was seventy-two degrees and the kid was sweating buckets. There was no telling if it was from nerves or stress. Quinn’s money was on both.

                “Sure you have,” Marconi jeered from the corner. He was fiddling with a glass jar of something. “So d’you find anything useful or not?”

                “I don’t think you realize how tedious this kind of work is.”

Quinn felt an impending battle between idiot and savant, which would only lengthen the amount of time he’d be forced to spend in the space.

                “Just tell us what you found, kid,” he pleaded. “And you,” he jabbed his finger at his new partner, “shut up and stop touching shit.”

                “It’s Karl, actually.”

                “You found karl? That some kind of chemical or something?”

                “It’s my name. Karl. As in Karl Marx, the socialist. He wrote the…You know what, I’ll just tell you what we found.”

                “That’d be best.”

Karl called up a series of images on his computer screen. Four dingy lace veils were on display. The fifth veil lay on the stainless steel table top in front of the men.

                “All of these veils are what tie all of the murders.”

                “You got to be shitting me,” Marconi huffed. “Of course they do! That’s why the newspapers and TV are calling him the ‘Veiled Killer’.”

                Boxing out the third, the two men centered on the computer screen and continued talking.

                “How are they linked? Did they all come from the same store, the same manufacturer?” Quinn was grasping at straws, he knew it, but a lead was a lead.

                “No. They were all made by hand, but not recently. I’ll need more time to be sure, but I think it’s safe to say that these five veils are at least eighty years old.”