“IF you ask me, three years is a hell of a long time to go without getting laid.” Leigha was right, almost. It had been two years, nine months and twenty-nine days. I was counting.

             We were sitting in the kitchen of the three bedroom house we shared.

“I don’t recall asking you anything,” I grumbled, stuffing the last bite of burrito into my mouth. Some people wore their celibacy like a badge of honor, a show of will power and strength. It made sense if you actually chose a life free of sexual gratification. I, unfortunately, had the decision made for me.

“Besides, I’ve seen what my options are. The dating pool is nastier than a frat house hot tub. The way I see it, I’m better off alone.”

“Of course you’d say that, Nikki. You’re bitter and disillusioned.” God love her, but Leigha had a knack for irritating the crap out of me. Not because she was irritating, herself, but because she was almost always right. The woman knew me better than I knew myself at times. That tends to happen when you live with a person for ten years. We met in college. She was the worldly, glamorous, flirtatious cheerleader. Cliché, I first thought upon meeting her. I was the quiet, bookish wallflower. I liked the quiet. I still do.

                “When are you going to let go of all that old bullshit and get back to living your life and enjoying it? Geez, Nik...”

                “Can we not? Please?”

                “Look. I’m sorry, but I just don’t think it’s healthy what I see going on with you. I want you to have a little fun. Smile. Something.” Leigha sighed in resignation. We’d been going around in the same circles for months, neither one of us making much progress. I wanted a nice, quiet life. Something free of all the angst I was currently drowning in. Leigha wanted me to go out and party. She was positive a good tumble in the sheets with a perfect stranger would cure all that ailed me. Cliché.

                “Thanks for looking out, really. I’ll be fine. I will,” I gave her my best version of a brave face. “I have an event tonight. We’re a little heavy on fives and sixes, and I’ve been looking for a few sevens or eights to balance things out. Are you interested?” I hoped the change in conversation would be enough to distract Leigha and derail her train of thought. There was only so much of her motherly-like worry I could stand.

                “Sevens and eights, Nikki.” Leigha scoffed. “ Do I look like a freaking seven or eight to you?” Her look of concern quickly mutated into one of utter indignation. “Here I am trying to be a friend, and you insult me. Why do I even bother?”

                “That isn’t what I meant and you know it,” I tried to calm her. “This was supposed to be a top shelf evening and all I’ve got would be considered average at best. We have free drinks, free food, and very eligible bachelors. All of whom are under forty, of course.” I hoped down off the stool I’d been perched on at the kitchen counter and leaned against her.

                “Pretty please?” I ducked my chin and looked at her from beneath my lashes, smiling sweetly. Leigha pulled the same move on me dozens of times over. It was time to cash in on one of the many favors she owed me.

                “Alright,” she said in a huff, “I’ll do it. But it’s only because I can’t afford to pay your half of the rent if you lose your job. Lucky for me, I decided to buy that new BCBG dress we saw last weekend.” Leigha continued to talk to me, or at me, as she skipped down the short hallway of our little bungalow house and into her bedroom. I caught every fifth or sixth word. There was something about leading a horse to water and a question of which pair of stiletto heels would look best, though I tried to tune most of it out.

                I didn’t have any trouble deciding on what to wear. It would be the same as it always was – a simple black cardigan worn over a teal cocktail length dress with patent leather black heels. I’d have to wrestle my hair into some kind of up do—‘fluffy’ hair was unprofessional.  Looking at the clock on my bedside table I decided against a bath, opting for a run through the shower instead. The last thing I could afford was to be late to my first event serving as Matchmaker.

                “Save me some water will you.” Leigha stood in the hall thrusting two dresses at me.

                “I thought you said you only bought the one dress?”

                “I did. I got this one yesterday on sale. Which one says, ‘available but not desperate’?” Shaking my head, I quickly assessed each. The week old BCBG was black, very short, and had a long sleeved sheer chiffon overlay with shimmering sequin-like things around the hem and cuffs. The one from yesterday was an indigo Vivienne Westwood dress that hung quite low in the front gathered at the waist in a way that would only serve as a blazing neon sign pointing to Leigha’s already well-proportioned, model-like figure.  I love her to death, but I don’t have to like her all the time.

                “Most of the guests will have just come from the office. You might want to be subtle right out of the gate. Go with the black one with your black satin heels. A smoky eye and a low, messy bun should do the trick.” Apparently I’d done good, because I was rewarded with a noisy kiss on the cheek.

                “Thanks! No wonder you made Matchmaker so quickly,” Leigha teased me with a wink. She spun on her heel and swept back into her room, muttering excitedly.

                I walked to the end of the hall to the bathroom with my dress. It was a bit rumpled so I hung it on the towel bar to steam while I washed. I’d have to remember to drop it off at the cleaners in the morning. I turned on the hot water in the shower, undressed with my back to the mirror, and stepped in. Ten minutes later I was out. Leigha scrambled in barely avoiding a head on collision with me. The door slammed and techno/house music started blaring from her iPod.

A mere hour later we were out the door, speeding toward the city in my Mini Cooper. I was already ‘in the zone’ as Leigha called. I had to focus, running through the bios and preferences of every client set to attend. I had to prove that I could give a person exactly what it was he or she wanted, even if they didn’t know it. I had to prove I could be a Matchmaker.

                The whole thing sounded ludicrous when I first learned about The Unity Group. Even the name was a bit gimmicky. Matchmaking was supposed to be a thing of the past. It seemed so archaic. And yet, like 1940s vintage dresses, what was once old was new again. Thankfully it was something that I was able to do and apply my liberal arts degree and years of experiencing romance from the outside looking in. Now I was hosting an event, an evening one no less, as Matchmaker with my ace in the hole in tow.

                “Thank you so, so much for doing this. You have no idea how stressed I’ve been trying to get all of my female slots filled.”

                “After all this time, I can only imagine,” my former best friend giggled. I cut my eye at her as we pulled up to the valet stand.

                “You know what I mean. Ready?” I had no idea if tonight I would be meeting my destiny or my doom. Both were terrifying. Stepping out of my seat with as much grace as possible, I handed over the car keys and smoothed the invisible wrinkles of my dress while trying to calm the mammoth butterflies in my stomach.  This was it. I walked into the restaurant, hoping I wouldn’t fail.

#

“I don’t care if you have to go over that entire beach with a fine tooth comb and a flashlight! Find me something that we can use. Find if now, dammit.” The division chief spun on his heel, effectively dismissing the crime scene tech. The poor kid was at an utter loss for words, staring blank-faced and slack-jawed after the squat man charging back to his office. When the chief jerked back around, the tech scurried out of the line of fire.

                “Quinn,” the older man boomed, then continued his march back to the station office not even bothering to check that his call was  acknowledged.

                Snapping upright from his chair, Corwin Quinn buried the heels of his hands into his eyes and then palmed his face. He’d been up since the ass crack of dawn working ever since the most recent body was found. It was bad enough he had next to nothing to work with on the first four. Now that there was a new victim and still no leads, everyone would be riding him for answers.

                “Shit.” Captain Campbell was on a rampage, like a rhino charging at anything moving. Quinn chuckled at the bizarre picture. The old man even looked like a rhino.

                “I’d hustle if I was you,” Marco’s voice was like a mosquito in his ear.

                “Were,” Quinn didn’t want to engage. It was just so damn hard not to. “If you were me. Thankfully, you’re not. Though I’m sure your girl wouldn’t mind.”

                “Ha! I didn’t even think you went that way, man, you so emotional and shit.” At that, Quinn shook his head and dragged himself in the direction of the captain’s office. What he really needed was a cold beer, or three, and a good night’s sleep. By the look on old man Campbell’s face, Quinn wasn’t going to be getting either for a long while.

                “You wanted to see me?”

                “Why in the hell don’t we know any more about this bastard,” the captain yelled. Charles Campbell looked almost comical when the light hit him just right. He was a short, stocky man with a barrel chest, and whose arms and legs seemed almost too small for his body.  He had small, black beady eyes, short nose, and a permanently downturned mouth. Definitely a rhinoceros.

                “The techs have been going through anything and everything the Villanova woman touched. But it isn’t helping that she vanished for two months. All that we’ve got on her at the moment is old news, stuff we’ve had since she was reported missing.” It wasn’t the question he was asked, but Quinn still wasn’t ready to admit he was still just as empty-handed now as he was when the killer first showed up. Captain Campbell glared at him, waiting for him to offer up something they didn’t already know.

                “He kept this one longer. That has to mean something. It isn’t about taking these women simply so he can kill them; at least not with this last one, anyway.”

                “Anything else that stood out to you,” Campbell seemed to cool off some with that small piece of information.

                “She was older, much older than all the others were. Couple that with the length of time between the discovery of the fourth body and her disappearance; I’d say he’s looking for something in particular.”

                “Yeah, well, they usually are. If that’s the case, find out if Missing Persons had any leads. She may have had an admirer we need to look in to. And go back over the other cases to see if there’s anything that will tie all these women together besides turning up dead.”

                Quinn sighed as he stood, “Will do.”

                “Get some sleep, too. You look like something my dog coughed up.”

                “I’ll see what I can do, Cap.” Beer wasn’t strong enough. He’d definitely need a scotch or four. Or he could just play it safe and take the whole bottle. First, he had to stop some psycho with a penchant for lace.