“That’s correct.”

  “And she didn’t have a safety tech holding either line? They were just clipped to her belt and the trapeze rig?”

  “Correct again, Agent Logan. Apparently Miss Dowe’s reputation rested on her being a daredevil in the air. Crowds love to watch people taking risks.” Hollingsworth gazed around their group, tapping one manicured nail against her screen. “Dowe was one of those rare trapeze artists who didn’t use a safety net and went so far as to place her trust in unsupervised safety lines. This wouldn’t have been the first time a performer like her died during a show. However, late last night, our forensic team came through with a report that the safety lines appeared to be cut with a sharp object prior to snapping. Forensics noted a distinct lack of fraying on the fibers. The cut was clean.”

  Hollingsworth adjusted her coat. “Revisiting it, the second death also seems to have been staged. Because the first death was thought an accident, no one suspected the second death would be a homicide either.” She sighed.

  Emma read the sigh for what it was. If the homicides had been caught sooner, the third death might’ve been prevented. Maybe even the second. “Two deaths occurring so close together among one group of performers would’ve been a big coincidence.”

  Hollingsworth nodded at her, grimacing. “Too much of a coincidence, obviously.” She swiped at her iPad.

  Again, Emma’s device dinged. This victim, a middle-aged man with a giant bald spot was less sparkly than Penelope. But his blue eyes were friendly. The next photo was a promotional still of the man in full clown makeup. He held a hoop of sparklers in his white-gloved hand.

  “The second death, that of forty-eight-year-old Dennis Hamel, occurred almost exactly a week after Dowe’s. His death was questionable even to his fellow performers. But it was chalked up as a very serious mistake made by the severely intoxicated Hamel himself. He was in charge of his own props and managed to light a display firework instead of the smaller commercial prop he normally used for his act. Hamel caught the blast directly in his chest.”

  Vance coughed to cover a laugh. “How do you light a firecracker that big and not realize it? Even if you are drunk? They’re not the same thing.”

  “Hamel’s act involved him lighting a fuse that went to a container holding the explosive device. Ordinarily, it would be a small bottle rocket, the kind kids shoot on the Fourth of July. Hamel’s costume was padded with a layer of fire-retardant material, so the firecracker would fly out and do nothing worse than singe his nose hairs, if that. But a display firework carries a much bigger punch.”

  Another photo of Hamel loaded. It consisted of strings of skin and muscle. Rib bones pushed through the gaping hole in Hamel’s chest.

  Leo spit out the bite of blueberry bagel he’d just taken. It landed with a splat on the asphalt. “A little warning next time, Boss.”

  Denae grunted under her breath. “Hell of a way to go.”

  Emma raised a hand to push pause on the conversation before Hollingsworth could continue. “Excuse me, SSA Hollingsworth—”

  “Just call me Jacinda.”

  “Right, sorry. Jacinda, do we know if Dennis had access to the real fireworks? Those are usually limited access, right? You’re supposed to be trained and licensed in pyrotechnics to handle them?”

  “I asked about that, yes.” Jacinda pushed some buttons on her iPad before continuing to address the group. “Hamel was recertified in pyrotechnics last year per industry standards, and although his license and certification were about up for renewal, everyone around him has said he took the responsibility seriously and remained sober—generally speaking—whenever called on to work with the display fireworks. Of course, those were never part of his act. The circus used them for opening nights and to give the crowds a treat at the end of the night.”

  Vance waved his coffee cup to get Jacinda’s attention. “His blood come back with alcohol?”

  “You could say that.” Mia tapped her screen. Emma looked over her shoulder to read the report. “He had a point-two blood alcohol concentration.”

  “Whoa.” Emma wrinkled her nose. “And the man was working with explosives?”

  “No wonder he mixed them up,” Mia murmured.

  Jacinda glanced around the group. Her gaze fell on each one of them in turn, as if trying to read their reactions. “Remember, he was a known drunk, and that BAL isn’t unheard of for a functioning alcoholic. He also had no visual confirmation of what that fuse was connected to. Presumably he set up his own props, so he’d know what was inside the box and would assume it was safe to light.”

  Vance chuckled again. “So this clown gets drunk and sets up his firecracker act, then he pounds a few more beers and doesn’t bother checking if he put the right one in the box before going on stage?”

  “That was the accepted explanation until yesterday morning. Everyone here apparently trusted him to set up his own act and to help with the fireworks and pyrotechnics for larger shows, provided he was given advance notice so he could be sober. Hamel’s death sent up red flags, so detectives were already investigating when the third death occurred.”

  “How many folks had access to the fireworks?” Keaton’s Replacement—Leo Ambrose, Emma corrected herself—asked. Though a bit scruffy to her, with his just-too-long facial hair and his dark brown curls, he was smart.

  Jacinda frowned, creating twin fine lines between her flawless eyebrows. “Unfortunately, although they keep the fireworks locked up, the key is easily accessible in a pouch near the fireworks themselves.”

  “Safely away from any wandering pedestrian.” Mia lowered her tablet to look up and down the thoroughfare. “But anyone who wanted it knew where to find it.”

  “Exactly. And then we come to the third case.” Jacinda turned her gaze back to her device.

  Emma skimmed the newest file that had come through, following along as Jacinda narrated what they had in the way of facts.

  “Kyle Perkins was the circus strongman. Twenty-seven years old and known to be a serious athlete. He drank a protein shake, as he did every morning, and was dead within ten minutes.”

  “So much for shouldering a Chevrolet.” Emma nodded at one of the circus signs.

  “Indeed.”

  Emma still couldn’t read Jacinda’s dry responses. She refocused as the SSA continued.

  “This happened early yesterday morning. The M.E. says initial drug test results will be back sometime today. Tomorrow at the latest. But full testing will take weeks. That said, the bloody vomit and foam emitted from the victim’s mouth, the locked-up state of his musculature, and firsthand accounts of the violent swiftness of his demise lead the M.E. to suspect a fast-acting poison.”

  “Like cyanide?” Leo took an educated guess.

  “Could be. Something potent, which, given the timing, we have every reason to suspect was slipped into his protein shake.”

  Vance Jessup raised his coffee cup. “Does that mean somebody had to have access to his place? A camper, I imagine?”

  Several campers could just be seen in the distance beyond the gaudy circus tents and smaller stands filling the area.

  But Jacinda was already shaking her head. “I’m afraid not. He kept his protein shakes in the circus’s kitchen trailer. Anyone would’ve had access to them. It’s possible somebody drugged him after he’d picked up his shake yesterday morning. But it seems Perkins kept to himself, and nobody, with one exception, remembers him speaking to anyone before he died.”

  Emma swiped her hands on her coat, swallowing the last of her bagel.

  She eyed the performers and carnies lingering outside the main tent, wondering when the first set of milky-white eyes would appear. So far, the ghosts had left her free to focus on her job. But at some point, she knew they’d show up and make themselves part of the scene.

  Jacinda returned to her notes. “The owner of the circus is Reginald O’Rourke. He goes by Reggie. We understand that about twenty minutes before Perkins’s death, O’Rourke spoke to him briefly about an addition to his act.”

  Emma’s attention pivoted back to the SSA. “What did they discuss?”

  “We don’t know the details, or at least I don’t. Local PD have a brief statement from O’Rourke. He broke down during questioning and has confined himself to his trailer ever since.”

  Emma huffed. “Leaving us wondering what happened to Kyle Perkins.”

  “We’re still waiting for autopsy reports, but Perkins was in exceptional physical condition, so we’re going to run on an assumption of foul play. According to O’Rourke, Kyle Perkins was fine when he and the ringmaster spoke, which gives us a sense of how quickly the poison acted.”

  The SSA glanced around their group, meeting Emma’s and the other agents’ eyes in turn. “Any questions about the facts so far?”

  Everyone chorused in the negative.

  Jacinda set down her tablet and took a quick drink of her coffee before continuing. “The crime detective assigned to the case, Detective Frank Griff, requested federal assistance late yesterday, at which point related evidence was passed on to our forensic team for examination. As you know, local police are bogged down with cases and short on officers, so it’s no surprise they could use a hand. The fairgrounds are overflowing with news teams, nosy civilians, and animal rights protesters who are causing more headaches than anything or anyone else so far.”

  As if the mention of his name conjured him forth, Detective Frank Griff walked up to the group of agents.

  He conferred briefly with their SSA. He was in his late forties or early fifties. His reddish-brown hair held threads of gray, and more strands seemed to sprout as Emma watched. The man didn’t look to have slept well in a while, with bags around his eyes and a pull to his mouth, even when he smiled.

  “SSA Hollingsworth tells me she’s given you the rundown on the situation, including all three victims. That means you know what I know, and I won’t waste your time by repeating the facts.”

  Griff paused, surveying the group. Emma was surprised to see his eyes were still keen and alert, even behind the purple smudges.

  “We’ve got more protesters showing up by the minute, along with lookie-loos. The same thing happened yesterday, and I won’t be surprised if it gets worse as we move toward lunchtime. You can hear the protesters from here.” He paused, and sure enough, the distant, steady chanting reached them.

  “My officers have them contained to the parking lots, along with the media, but between them and the crowd, I don’t have anyone left to engage in an actual investigation.”

  Can’t have a circus without a contingent of civilians bringing their own act.

  “Thank you, Detective. If you handle the protesters, we’ll take over the scene within the circus.”

  Griff nodded at Jacinda’s suggestion. “Let me know if you need anything, Agents.” He offered a weak salute and headed off to the circus entrance.

  Emma watched him go. A square of crime scene ribbon could just be seen farther down the thoroughfare, fluttering in the cold breeze.

  Jacinda resumed the last of her briefing. “We’ve got the area where Kyle Perkins died roped off, and the news teams are being kept out as much as possible, but this is a less-than-ideal crime scene, even with the circus closed. You’ve got performers and workers who live here as well as work here, so there’s just no way to keep the full area clear. Not to mention, two of our crime scenes were cleaned up, one of them before any real investigation occurred.”

  “Sounds like a mess.” Emma’s blunt assessment had come out before she could catch herself.

  Jacinda’s lips quirked in what might have been the beginning of a smile, and she nodded. “Agreed, Emma. It’s a mess. But it’s our mess now. Three people are dead, and they and their families deserve a thorough investigation.”

  5

  “Shut it down! Shut it down! Shut it down!”

  The chanting from the protesters was so relentless I could barely think.

  But it was pretty funny too. Those dumbasses all up in arms about animal cruelty instead of the actual murders of human beings.

  This city was something else. Apparently, people didn’t have jobs or responsibilities to handle on this chilly Monday morning. And no kids to care for. What a bunch of lucky ducks.

  Or dickheads.

  Behind me, some performers talked about the FBI agents hovering a few hundred feet away. The Feds were chatting over coffee and bagels. Seemed bagels were the new doughnuts for the little piggies.

  At the moment, the sight in front of me was the real show.

  The west parking lot was overtaken by media. Protesters, like squatters, had laid claim to the northwest corner, near the circus entrance. That section sounded more like a circus than the actual circus did.

  Fucking extremist protesters. Even when the cops managed to keep them in their own little space, they just yelled and yelled. It wasn’t like the circus was torturing endangered species or keeping kids chained up in whiskey barrels.

  “They’re yelling like they’re up against Barnum and Bailey.” My comment received hums of agreement. “We’ve only got one animal, you morons.”

  It was true. We only had a ten-year-old mare. That creature was the best-groomed and most-adored member of the entire troupe.

  Abused animals, my ass.

  One woman waved a sign directly at me and the few others watching their crowd. Save The Elephants!!!

  “Who wants to tell her we ain’t got no elephants?” Billy Weaver muttered as he turned to head back to the corral.

  A few more folks stomped off to their campers, bored with the circus outside the circus. I understood the impulse, but I found it kind of nice to be the one taking in some entertainment rather than providing the show, for once.

  Still, these folks were a joke. Second-rate protesters for a second-rate circus. Soon to be less than that, too, so those high-minded folks were wasting their time. Because the Ruby Red was falling apart regardless.

  I sipped my soda and bit back a grin at the thought of it. The circus was on its knees, bending lower than our trick horse kneeling in the dirt.

  Our breathtaking trapeze artist had gotten her beautiful face smashed into the ground two weeks ago, murdered in front of a whole bunch of little kids and their parents, who no doubt went home and called high-priced therapists and bloodthirsty reporters to complain about the sight.

  But what no one seemed to know about our breathtaking trapeze artist was that she’d found herself in a “family way” last year, dropped out of the circus for six months, then abandoned her newborn to strangers. She’d just come back to swing through the air, as if she didn’t have a care in the world, as if she hadn’t abandoned her own flesh and blood just a month earlier.

  But pretty Penelope Dowe’s brains and blood had been nothing compared to the gory remains of that bumbling drunk of a clown, Dennis Hamel—another loser who’d left his family behind.

  I’d always wondered what a firecracker through the chest would do to a human body, and it’d been something of a pleasure to blow up Dennis’s cold, dead heart.

  Then, yesterday, good ole Kyle Perkins, a man just so perfect and so talented, who ditched his wife and didn’t understand the meaning of family, had gone face down in his own puke and blood. I’d sat back and watched the cops pull together his remains and cart him off to the morgue. Our troupe’s strongman taken down by an itsy-bitsy little glass of chocolate-flavored poison.

  Entertainment at its best.

  That’d been a fun death to watch. At first, I was going to keep my train of deaths popping up during shows for maximum exposure. Rigging a frayed safety cable and switching out firecrackers had been awfully fun to arrange, but Kyle’s seizures in the blood-churned mud had been worth the price of admission.

  Reggie might’ve actually done me a favor by closing down the shows and forcing my hand in a different direction.

  Now everyone seemed to be one meal away from fight-or-flight mode. As I’d suspected, most of the circus performers were more cowards than lions. Two deserted us after Dennis’s death, and I expected more would leave soon. But most wouldn’t, as the act of leaving itself would put a spotlight of suspicion on them. Another thing that might work in my favor, because I wasn’t going anywhere. At least, not until the big top was ready to come down for good.

  Across the street, a man waved a sign with some message about child endangerment. I wondered what child he was talking about. None I knew, for sure. The kids around here were treated like royalty. Obnoxiously so. Maybe this guy and the woman going on about elephants were both carrying recycled signs and just aiming to make trouble.

  I could relate to that…wanting to make trouble. The circus was a crime scene now because of me, and I enjoyed the hell out of that fact.

  Reggie the Ringmaster said the circus shutdown was temporary, but he was wrong.

  I was going to close this place down permanently.

  Now that multiple murders were being examined and the Feds were around, the whole circus would suffer a slow death. I planned on making sure we never put on a show again.

  I squeezed my empty Coke can, enjoying the satisfying crunch as it collapsed in my grip. I dropped the can to the ground and kicked it across the asphalt, where it landed among soggy paper popcorn buckets.

  The Feds were still gathered around bagels and coffees like overpriced cops, fancy tablets in their hands. One of them—a lithe woman with flyaway brown hair—looked around the grounds as if waiting for someone. She caught my eye and nodded briefly. Pretty, if a little skinny for my taste.

  I nodded back, making sure my face stayed all solemn. Had to keep up appearances, obviously, and in the mess of performers all watching this group, I was just another face.

  6

  Leo had been observing his new team throughout the briefing. More than the others, Emma was growing more and more antsy to move on to the active investigation. The other agents appeared more relaxed, familiarizing themselves with the details in the files and the few notes they had on the other performers.