THE WOMAN IS LYING ON A COIL OF ROPE, AWKWARDLY, her back bent, legs twisted. Dumped here, probably, after dark.

This is a busy pier during the day. Her form and face are obscured in shadow. The only light reflects from the pool of blood ringing her head like a halo.

And that looks black.

The scent of her blood is heavy on the air. "She's human," I say.

Williams is kneeling beside the body. "She's human. I thought when the report came in it might be another vamp." He stands and slips off the latex gloves he'd donned when we arrived. Cop habit.

"Looks like her skull was crushed," he says.

Being around this much blood awakens the hunger always lurking beneath the surface, but I force it back and stoop to take a closer look. The woman is dressed in good linen slacks and a long-sleeved blouse.

"She's wearing Jimmy Choos," I say, pointing to her pumps. "There's a good-sized rock on her finger, and I'd bet those earrings are a carat apiece. She wasn't mugged for her jewelry."

I lean in. The woman's hair has fallen over her face. Gingerly I brush it away.

She looks vaguely familiar. She's in her thirties, attractive.

The wail of far-off sirens distracts me.

Williams puts a hand on my shoulder. "We need to go."

Still, I hesitate. I know I've seen this woman before.

"Anna, come on. We can't be found here."

Reluctantly, I get to my feet. Williams motions for me to follow him, and we make our way quickly back along the pier to the parking lot.

Flashing lights and sirens bear down on the pier. We turn to the right and head across the trolley tracks toward the Gaslamp district.

There's a hotel with an outdoor patio still serving and we take a seat. We can see the pier from here.

The show starts as soon as the cops arrive. I recognize Ortiz in one of the lead cars. No surprise then, how Williams found out about the woman. A crowd forms, the media arrives, a coroner's wagon pulls up.

I know I should be out of here-check that address in Coronado. But something tugs at the back of my mind. I'm sure I've seen that woman before. I sift her face through the sands of memory, hoping to shake something loose.

When it hits, it's not who she is but what she is that does it.

Today. The literature I picked up from the receptionist.

I jump to my feet and leave Williams with an abrupt, "I'll be right back."

The Jag is parked down the block. The brochure is still on the front seat. I grab it and quickly thumb the pages.

She's there. On page five.

She was one of Eternal Youth's test subjects.

When I rejoin Williams, I thrust the brochure at him. "Look familiar?"

He studies the picture for a minute, then looks up at me. "A coincidence? One of Burke's test subjects turning up dead?"

I shake my head.

Quickly I tell Williams about the other women in Burke's files.

I hand him the bottle of cream.

"You'd better have this analyzed. She's using magic, I'm sure. Can't do anything about that. But if it turns out the product she's selling at two hundred fifty dollars a jar contains nothing but animal fat and food coloring, maybe you can get her for fraud."

He slips the bottle into a jacket pocket. Then he calls Ortiz on his cell and passes the information along.

He listens for a minute, hangs up.

I already suspect what he's going to say. He doesn't disappoint.

"Ortiz will join us as soon as he can, but the fact that this woman was one of Burke's test subjects is not sufficient cause to get a search warrant for Burke's warehouse."

Ortiz is standing by his patrol car and he turns and looks for us in the crowd now gathered at the restaurant.

I stare back at him, a troublesome wariness beginning to build. Burke said she wanted to play a game.

"I don't need a search warrant. I'll get the file of her test subjects."

For once, Williams doesn't argue. "Bring the file back here. Ortiz and I will wait."

FOR THE THIRD TIME IN TWELVE HOURS, I AM BACK at the warehouse. I perform my bat-woman routine and shimmy my way inside. It's two a.m. I'm trying to decide whether to copy the file or take it when the decision is made for me. I hear a car pull to a stop outside.

No time to waste. I grab the file and lock the office door. I peek out front, but the lot is empty. The car must be at the loading dock.

Shit.

I run back through the factory and leap to the ledge. From the windows, I can just see the front of a white van backed up to the loading dock. I don't hear any noise and the doors to the factory don't open.

What are they doing? Trying to break in? A competitor trying to steal the formula?

It's so quiet, I'm beginning to think whoever drove the van here left in another vehicle. Maybe it's a vendor waiting to be the first in line for his supply of Burke's miracle cream. I hunker down. I'll give it twenty minutes and then I'll take my chances and find another way out.

I don't have to wait that long. Ten minutes later, the van starts up and pulls away. It's a white Econoline with no markings and no tags.

I leap to the ground and look around. The loading bays are closed tight, no indication at all that anyone tried to get in.

I look in the direction of the retreating van.

Maybe I'm not the only one up to no good.