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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  Cover art by Norman Saunders, from a 1950 Black Mask cover.

  CONTENTS

  Fiction: THE FALLEN by Jan Burke

  Passport to Crime: DEATH AND THE COMPASS by Jorge Luis Borges

  Fiction: THE BONNIE AND CLYDE CAPER by O'Neil De Noux

  Reviews: BLOG BYTES by Bill Crider

  Department of First Stories: SHOOTING THE MOON by Thomas Humphrey

  Black Mask: THERE'S A KILLER LOOSE! by Mickey Spillane and Max Allan Collins

  Fiction: A BLACK-TIE AFFAIR by Barbara Cleverly

  Fiction: BODY AND FENDER by James H. Cobb

  Fiction: STONE BOY KICKED THAT BLOOD CLOT AROUND by John Edward Ames

  Fiction: RUN FOR JUSTICE by Brendan DuBois

  Fiction: A NICE OLD GUY by Nancy Pickard

  Reviews: THE JURY BOX by Jon L. Breen

  Fiction: THE WAR IN WONDERLAND by Ed Hoch

  NEXT ISSUE...

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  Fiction: THE FALLEN by Jan Burke

  Art by Laurie Harden

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  Best Novel Edgar winner Jan Burke has appeared on national bestseller lists and claims a large fan base for her series about Southern California newspaper reporter Irene Kelly. But she has also become well known in recent years as the founder of the Crime Lab Project, an organization devoted to raising public awareness about the under-funding of crime labs. Forensics enter into the latest in the Irene Kelly series, Kidnapped.

  He watched her for a moment before he left for work, thinking that he could have drawn a map of her body, served as a kind of cartographer of every plane and curve of her surface as it was not so very long ago. Jared McKay believed he could trace—strictly from memory—Catherine's body as it had been when he had been her explorer, eager to know the line of her neck, the curve of a shoulder blade, the ticklish place behind her knee.

  He thought of nights when he had heard her talking on the phone in another room, and of how her voice, used even for the most commonplace conversation, would bring him to her side as surely as any siren's song. And of other nights, when he would sit in an armchair, reading, and become suddenly aware of her, and look up to see her in a doorway. Without a word, she would beckon him with a smile, or with nothing more than a look of secret amusement—a look that would make him need to know that secret, need to pursue it, need to pursue her.

  He thought of her silken, golden curls, and of wrapping his fingers in them as he kissed her.

  He remembered the feel of her embrace, the length of her against him, soft and yet strong, always so strong.

  Even in this current state, he thought, his wife was still strong. Holding on to a life that was leaving her. That map re-drawn now. A landscape brought to ruin, but which he could still admire.

  He heard a sound behind him and turned to see Gracie Moran, one of Catherine's caregivers, enter the room. She was a tall woman, built on almost manly lines. Despite her name, she did not move with grace. This had worried Jared at first, but over the last three months he had never seen her be anything but tender in her care of his wife.

  He had checked out her background, of course, and that of Eldon, her husband. Working in law enforcement had some advantages. He didn't trust background checks entirely, though. He avoided glancing toward the hidden security camera as he bid goodbye to his wife and Gracie.

  Not for the first time, he made a useless wish: that he had installed the cameras before she was injured.

  * * * *

  Twenty minutes after he left the house, he turned down an alley in the Shore, as this part of the city was known. The alley was at the edge of the Shore's commercial district. It was just before three o'clock on Monday morning, and the alley was empty. One side was lined with businesses—a restaurant, a bar, stores, and a bank. The other side was a mixture of apartment buildings and homes, a residential area that stretched to the beach.

  He pulled up behind a three-story, modern box of a house and reached up to the visor over the driver's side to hit the remote clipped there. The smaller of the doors for the three-car garage opened, and he pulled into the only available slot.

  The house was being used as a surveillance post. It had little to recommend it other than being vacant at a convenient time, and its location: next to a two-story Spanish Colonial Revival home, currently occupied by the mistress of Daymon Riggs, a local crime boss.

  Jared used the remote to close the garage door behind him. He sat in the car even after the overhead light went out and, in the darkness, listened to the sound of the engine cooling.

  Keep moving, he heard Catherine exhorting him from a long-ago conversation. It makes it harder for the turkeys to find a place to roost.

  He grabbed his computer and went into the house, crossing the darkened kitchen and sparsely furnished living room to reach the stairs. He used the handrail, a recently acquired habit. At the third-floor level, a newly installed heavy door blocked a passage down the hallway. He entered his code and let it scan his thumbprint. The door was an expensive addition to their usual setup, but they wanted this part of the house to be secure from the parade of thieves that visited the house next-door.

  The lock hummed and snicked as it released, and Jared opened the door. He could smell a fresh pot of coffee brewing. He made his way down the hall to a large room on the right. A young brunette was sitting at a desk.

  Jennifer Albright, from the narcotics squad, was watching the video monitors. “Hi, Jared,” she said, glancing up. “All's quiet."

  "No visitors?"

  "Not even lover boy."

  He heard the toilet flush in the bathroom across the hall.

  "You doing okay?” Jennifer asked, standing up and stretching. But beneath the question he heard the concern he'd heard at every shift change. Are you really ready to be back on the job?

  "Yes, fine. You?"

  She laughed. “Me, I'm always good.” She paused and, hearing footsteps in the hall, added, “Any time you want your old partner back, though—"

  "Hey, Jen—don't think that wouldn't make me happy, too,” Max Harrell said, coming into the room. “How's it going, Jer?"

  "Fine, Max,” he said. “You look like hell, though."

  "Yeah, well, working twelve-hour shifts never agreed with me. I'll be glad when this assignment's over. How's Catherine?"

  "The same."

  He had given the same answer every day, and every day, Max looked stricken, as if the news had been about his own wife.

  "How's Mary?” Jared asked, doing his part in the routine.

  Before Max could answer, Jennifer rolled her eyes and said, “I'm going to get going. I hear enough about snookum-ookums, thank you very much."

  "Jealous,” Max said.

  "Yeah, right. See you this afternoon, Jared."

  When she had left, Max said, “Mary's fine. She said to tell you she'd be happy to come over and sit with Catherine or—anything else she could do to help you out. Same here. I'd be glad to come over. You know I would."

  "Thanks. I know you two love her, but—remember her the way you knew her, Max. She's—I don't think she'd want you or Mary to remember her the way she is now."

  Tears came to Max's eyes. He choked out, “Are you sure there's nothing that can be done for her? I mean, another doctor—"

  "We've been over this, Max, and I have to tell you, it doesn't make it any easier for me to have to keep telling you that she's dying, and nothing will stop her from dying. She's dying at home, with what dignity can be managed, and without pain, which is all anyone can do for her now. Now or ever. I wish to God you'd accept that.” The words had come out sounding angrier than he had meant them to, but he didn't apologize.

  After a stunned moment, it was Max who offered an apology. “I'm sorry. I'm sorry. It just seems so strange..."

  Jared said nothing.

  "I mean, she falls down the stairs, and that's when they find out she has brain cancer?"

  Jared sighed.

  "Sorry,” Max said quickly. “I know. I know. She probably fell because of the tumor. You've told me that a million times, haven't you?"

  "Not that many."

  "But close.” Max took out his handkerchief and wiped at his face. “Look at me, will you? God, don't tell Jennifer I was in here bawling like a baby.” He took a moment to compose himself, then said, “When all this is over, you and me, we're teaming up again, okay? I mean, Jen's okay, but it's not the same."

  * * * *

  Jared was glad when Max left, glad to be alone with his thoughts. He realized that he had forgotten to thank Jennifer for making the coffee, and after pouring a mug of it, wrote a note to remind himself to mention it when she came back on for the next shift. He had an excellent memory, but lately, under the strain of dealing with Catherine's illness, he found he needed to make notes.

  He had asked for this shift, and asked his lieutenant not to pair him back up with Max just yet. He had used the excuse of not being sure how soon he'd need bereavement l
eave, but the fact was, he couldn't handle Max's fussing over him. The lieutenant, another member of Catherine's fan club, had been sympathetic. In truth, Jared wasn't sure how much longer he'd last on the job, although just now it provided him a much needed distraction.

  He immersed himself in that distraction now. He reviewed Jennifer's notes. The woman they were watching, Lillian Barr, had spent the afternoon and evening at home. The house, in addition to serving as Riggs's love nest, seemed to be a kind of meeting place for Riggs and his associates. Jennifer and Max covered the busiest hours. Working from three in the morning until three in the afternoon, Jared rarely observed anyone other than Riggs and Lillian entering or leaving the house. Lillian seemed to be a night owl of sorts.

  Today had been quiet even for Jennifer and Max's shift, though.

  Their investigations into Lillian's past had revealed that she was now twenty-seven, had a degree in English, and was estranged from her family and college friends. She had earned some of her money for college as a model, and when that work dried up, for one night as a dancer in a strip club. The club was owned by Riggs. He saw her dance, invited her to have a drink with him, and had apparently decided he'd give her a personal scholarship. She was in his company fairly constantly after that, set up at first in an apartment, and then here. Riggs's wife of nineteen years didn't seem to mind that he was rarely at home, but Lillian was hardly his first mistress. The current Mrs. Riggs held that title.

  Lillian didn't seem to be involved in the scheming that went on, other than providing a place where information was dropped off or meetings were held. When Riggs was there and his cronies arrived, she went for a walk, did some shopping, or, now that the days were warmer, went up to the rooftop. She had created a garden there, and spent time caring for the plants or reading.

  A quiet and demure young woman, to outside appearances. Detectives who had tracked her movements when she was away from the house said that although she attracted the attention of males young and old wherever she went, she never spoke to them, other than to rebuff an approach. Now and then, Riggs had provided one of his men as an escort, but one sign of the degree to which he trusted the young woman was the number of times she went out alone.

  The surveillance here, combined with a phone tap, had already allowed Jared's team to recover a cargo container full of stolen vehicles down at the port. They had enough to incriminate Riggs himself, but the D.A.—in Jared's view, almost as greedy a bastard as Riggs—wanted more. So they had let it out to the media that the cars had been a lucky discovery made by harbor security.

  Some new plan was developing, judging from the recent guest list at Lillian's place. It made Jared wonder why she had been left alone today.

  Inevitably, his thoughts turned to Catherine. He opened his computer, made the Wi-Fi connection, and checked on the cameras live. She was sleeping, her mouth slightly open, her breathing labored. Her golden curls were gone now, and her cheeks were hollow, but he still loved that face, still saw who had been there before his life fell down the stairs with hers.

  Gracie sat next to her, reading. He knew he could call home and ask about her, even though it was now an hour before dawn. But he also knew that there would be nothing new to tell him. If her condition changed rapidly, Gracie or Eldon would call.

  He closed the connection, and put the computer away. He should be watching the house next-door. He had no sooner thought this than one of the alley cameras picked up the light of headlamps.

  Riggs had arrived. He was carrying a large suitcase. Jared made a note in the log.

  Their ability to pick up conversation from next-door was imperfect to say the least. Never completely able to hear everything being said, for the last week they had rarely been able to make out much of any conversation. A technician was supposed to come and check their equipment. Jared was fairly sure that Riggs had installed some kind of soundproofing or a jamming device. But tonight, doing his best to pick up a greeting or other words, Jared didn't even register the sound of voices.

  Lillian must be asleep, he decided.

  The light went on briefly on the lower floor, and watching them Jared could trace Riggs's passage through the house. Very briefly downstairs, he moved to the second story, used an upstairs bathroom, and, without turning on other lights, moved to Lillian's bedroom.

  Jared found himself envying Riggs, not for the youth and beauty of his companion, but because she was healthy enough to withstand having someone lie next to her. Catherine was now so frail, Jared dared not do more than sit next to her on her hospital bed.

  His thoughts went to the nights when he would come in late and try not to disturb her as he crawled into bed next to her. She would always awaken, at least briefly, and pull him into an embrace. They slept in the nude, and the feel of her against him never failed to arouse him. Most of the time, he had to wait restlessly for that to pass, for she would not remain awake, and he didn't have the heart to bother her. But there had been those times when she had not so quickly fallen back to sleep...

  As the sun came up over the roofs of the houses between here and the ocean, he faced facts, something the cold dawn seemed to insist upon. In recent years, since making detective, he hadn't been much of a husband to her. His working hours were long and uncertain, the stress high. She had rolled with it, but they had been growing apart. It seemed to him now that he had squandered something invaluable, and he could not reconcile himself to its loss.

  He thought through all the facts of that last day—the last one when she had been whole.

  They were few.

  Fact: It was a Tuesday. He had been in a courthouse in Riverside County, two hours away, where a change of venue had taken one of his cases. He had been waiting to testify. He called home to say that the defendant had decided to enter a plea, so he'd be back early. He offered to take her to a romantic restaurant for dinner. She happily agreed to the plan. She had told him she loved him. They were the last words she would speak to him.

  Fact: She had fallen from the top of the stairs. She apparently lost her balance while carrying laundry—she had stripped their bed. Later, in the waiting hours at the hospital, he would focus on this nonsensical bit of information. Why had she varied from routine and washed laundry on a Tuesday instead of Monday? He almost felt angry with her for it—this is what had caused the accident, a change in routine.

  When he came home and found her—perhaps as much as two hours after the fall, although probably less—she had been entangled in the sheets and pillowcases on which they had slept the night before. He thought perhaps she had just showered, preparing for their evening out, for she was wearing a bathrobe, and where it was not bloodied, her hair was damp.

  Fact: In the course of his work he had seen blood, seen the human body mangled beyond recognition. But nothing prepared a man to see his wife's face bloodied, her shoulder and arm broken, her knee at a wrong angle.

  The bones would heal. The cuts and abrasions would heal. What was killing his wife had been there before the fall.

  The skull fracture had caused concern. And indeed, it was severe, and caused its own set of problems. But it didn't win first place on his list of that day's disasters. While reviewing images of her brain, the doctors discovered a tumor. He numbly gave permission for a biopsy. The tumor was malignant.

  Had it caused the fall?

  Possibly, they said. But it was just as likely that the fall was an unlucky accident, one that just happened to reveal the tumor's presence. She had stepped on the corner of a trailing sheet, perhaps, and tripped. Or simply missed a stair. The tumor wasn't in a part of the brain that would necessarily have caused her to have problems with balance. Had he noticed any lack of coordination in her before?

  No. No, she had always moved with grace.

  The doctors made noncommittal, non-word noises.

  So now they could remove the tumor? he asked.

  They shook their heads and looked—the word that came to his mind was “grave."

  What a horrible word, he thought, and wept.

  In those first hours, he was too distraught to think clearly. Max and his wife, Mary, came to the hospital, sat in the halls with him. There had been others—neighbors, friends, coworkers. In this department, people pulled together in times of trouble.