The call came as Sergeant Nora Keyes ate a sandwich in her office upstairs at the Courage Bay police station. It was the kind of sandwich nutritionists frowned on, overflowing with bacon and mayonnaise, a sandwich that didn't worry about whether a long life lay ahead, that wasn't afraid to take risks. It suited her perfectly.

Unfortunately, she didn't get to finish it.

The call came from Detective Grant Corbin. "We've got a weird one out here at the Sleepyhead."

The Sleepyhead Motel, adjacent to Courage Bay's municipal airport, was a homespun establishment that featured separate cabins scattered among the trees. Because of its privacy, it had a reputation as the lover's lane of motels in this California coastal city of 85,000.

"How weird?" Nora had seen plenty of oddball cases in her eight years on police forces, beginning with the LAPD and moving north to Courage Bay after being hired as Bomb Squad Specialist. "Should I activate the squad?" The other members were drawn from the ranks of regular police officers and swung into action as needed.

"No, the fire department did a Render Safe. The place is clean." Standard procedure in a bombing required making sure no unexploded devices put investigators at risk.

Someone else had performed a Render Safe? "Wait a minute. That's my job," Nora said.

"Sam Prophet handled it."

At the mention of the fire department's arson investigator, she had to swallow the impulse to argue jurisdiction. In all fairness, Nora had to admit that Sam's training overlapped her own, including Police Academy training as well as courses in his specialty area. He also packed a gun. Still, it irked her to think that the arrogant man had involved himself with a case that was, apparently, about to become her responsibility.

She and Sam did their best to avoid each other, and not merely because of interdepartmental rivalry. They just plain didn't get along.

Soon after she'd arrived in Courage Bay four years ago, they'd been paired at a training seminar to solve a fictional bomb-related arson case. Although Nora appreciated the need to be thorough and methodical, she'd quickly grasped which way the clues were pointing and, aided by an intuitive leap, reached the right conclusion.

By contrast, Sam had insisted on continuing to gather as much information as possible and reanalyzing all known facts, looking for variant patterns that could prove her wrong. When Nora irritably pointed out that their suspect might be absconding to Canada while they poked along, he'd accused her of taking a Wild West attitude.

During the ensuing argument, she'd flung out the term "macho" and he'd thrown in the word "slapdash." Although they'd managed to tone it down before they created an embarrassing incident, they'd given each other a wide berth since then.

"What kind of case is it, exactly?" Maybe, Nora thought, she could leave this one in Sam's hands and avoid a conflict.

"We've got a twofer—a small fire in front of a cabin and a moderate blast that detonated inside the same cabin at about the same time," Grant said. "There's one unconscious victim with head wounds, ID'd as Carl Garcola, age forty-seven, a local resident."

A fire and a separate blast at the same time—that definitely qualified as weird, Nora thought. Because of their respective areas of expertise, no wonder both she and Sam had been called in.

Unusual incidents no longer surprised her. When she'd moved here from L.A. four years ago, she'd feared the city might prove too boring for her daredevil nature, but she knew now that Courage Bay never had a dull moment. The pace had accelerated during the past year with a rash of bombings, fires and homicides.

The city's emergency personnel served a large outlying area and had developed expertise in coping with the area's disasters, natural and otherwise. Even so, investigators—including Nora—had been working overtime to try, so far unsuccessfully, to solve these recent attacks.

Another thought occurred to her. "This guy Garcola. With all the murders we've had, he could still be in danger. Someone might not want him to wake up."

"I'm sending an officer to escort the ambulance to the hospital and stay by his bedside," Grant said. "Both for his protection and in case he comes out of it and starts talking."

"Any witnesses?"

"Not to the actual explosion," Grant said. "We need you to go through the cabin. How fast can you get here?"

"I'm on it right now." Nora's brain raced ahead. Bombs left a signature along with multiple clues, but careless tromping around could muddy the trail. "I probably don't need to say this, but please don't disturb anything. That goes for Mr. Prophet, too. I'd appreciate it if he'd stay out of there."

While performing the Render Safe, Sam must have already gone inside without notifying her. No matter how high an opinion the arson investigator might hold of himself, Nora trusted her own knowledge and judgment more.

"Don't worry," came the response. "All we've done so far is the basics." That meant starting a crime log, setting up a perimeter, taking pictures and diagramming the crime scene. "I'll make sure nothing's tampered with."

"I'll be there as fast as I can," Nora promised.

"In your car, that'll be no time." Everyone knew she drove the speediest coupe this side of a racetrack.

"I'll floor it," she promised. Knowing that Sam was poking around her bombing site provided a good reason to put the pedal to the metal.

Nora hadn't always been this assertive. Years ago, she'd allowed her fiancé to talk her out of enlisting in the Navy and into joining the LAPD, where he was already employed. She'd thrown herself into her new career, envisioning a marriage that was a true partnership, until she actually started working with Len and got wise to what a control freak he was.

It had taken over a year to give up on the relationship, and a few more years to realize that one police department wasn't big enough for the two of them. Since then, she'd learned that it paid to stick up for herself right off the bat.

Nora took one more bite out of her sandwich before tossing it into the trash. Then she seized her purse and headed out.

Theambulance and paramedics were pulling away from the crime scene when a red sports car whipped into the parking lot of the Sleepyhead Motel. The car's polished surface gleamed in the June sunshine as an officer running crowd control waved the driver through. Among the dozen or so watchers, someone let out a wolf whistle.

Sam Prophet recognized the car even before he saw the person behind the wheel. Heck, everybody at fire headquarters knew who owned that speedster. You couldn't miss Nora Keyes zooming around town in her convertible, mahogany hair streaming in the breeze and designer sunglasses making her look like a movie star. It was just like Nora to drive her own vehicle instead of using a larger, safer, department-provided one the way Sam did.

Plenty of guys considered her hot stuff. The way he'd heard it, a couple of cops had nearly come to blows over her last year and it had taken a firehouse hose to break them up. The woman spelled trouble, not that Sam needed to worry. Nora Keys was the last woman in Courage Bay he'd ever want to go out with.

Or work a case with. He considered her competent, but he didn't trust her with a complicated situation like this one. The woman not only acted on impulse but also had a fiery temper.

Unfortunately, it didn't look as if he had much choice. Well, they'd get along fine as long as she recognized that she'd stepped onto his turf.

So far, today's incident bore the hallmarks of a serial arsonist Sam had been investigating since last August, although he refused to jump to conclusions. This might be the work of the same perpetrator, but he wouldn't know until he'd done more research. Hours and perhaps days or weeks of detailed work lay ahead, work that he hoped would finally enable him to put a name to the faceless person who had already killed at least one victim.

The sports car halted between a patrol cruiser and a fire truck. Several uniformed men from both departments turned to stare as a slim, feminine figure slid from the interior.

For someone who'd paid her dues on two police forces, Nora sure didn't walk like a cop. Or dress like one, either. Grudgingly, Sam conceded that her suit and powder-blue blouse had a businesslike air, but those long, silky legs and pumps made a man's instincts take a quick right turn toward the bedroom. And he suspected Nora knew it.

Grimly, Sam straightened his six-foot-one-inch frame and squared his shoulders. If he were going to head to the bedroom, it wouldn't be with this firebrand.

She must have noticed his frown, because her stride broke for a fraction of a second, and he saw her eyes narrow. Good. She wasn't any more eager to tangle with him than he was with her.

Despite her aversion, Nora marched toward him. At least she had the sense to use the narrow taped trail Sam had laid out to minimize contamination.

"Have you been inside?" she demanded without preamble. "I mean, aside from the Render Safe?"

What did she think he'd been doing for the past half hour, listening to the radio? "I took pictures and diagrammed the place." Even though he was duplicating the work of the police officer in charge, Sam liked to keep his own records.

She gritted her jaw as if holding back an angry torrent of words. Sam braced himself for an argument over territory, but she apparently thought the better of it, because her next question was on another topic. "Any change in the victim?"

"Still out cold," he said. "It's a miracle he survived."

Hands on hips, Nora surveyed the charred ground and broken glass in front of the rustic cabin. "I guess the main issue is whether the fire outside is related to the explosion inside."

"Is that the main issue?" Sam replied tautly. "I'd have said it was, Who did this and why?"

"Cute," she snapped, not at all abashed by his attempt to put matters into perspective. "We're talking jurisdiction here."

In Sam's opinion, this was clearly a matter for an arson investigator. Besides, he'd arrived first and had already started work. "You want to fight over turf?"

"No," Nora said. "I want you to concede that this is my case."

"Not likely!"

Grant Corbin ambled over. "You two are a real piece of work. You make the Hatfields and the McCoys look like good buddies. Why don't you just work together?"

"Too many cooks spoil the broth," Sam answered stiffly.

"Whatever happened to 'Two heads are better than one'?" The detective grinned, taking obvious delight in baiting them.

Sam tried not to bite, but he couldn't help it. "That assumes the two heads are equally competent."

"Or that one of them isn't actually a horse's behind masquerading as a head," Nora snapped. Before he could respond, she addressed Grant. "What have you got so far?"

Deciding to let the insult go unanswered, Sam settled back to listen. Although he'd already been over this territory, reviewing facts for a second or third time could yield new insights.

Grant flipped open his notebook. "According to the manager, Mr. Garcola checked into the motel about 11:30 a.m. The witness glimpsed a woman in the passenger seat but he can't give me a description. And no, she didn't sign the register."

"She wasn't hurt in the blast?" Nora asked.

"We don't know because we haven't found her," the detective said.

She made a note. "Okay. Then what happened?"

"At about five minutes past twelve, the manager smelled smoke and heard a woman screaming. He came out to see flames blocking the unit's front door and a woman running toward the street."

"Was he able to describe her?"

The detective gave the particulars: medium height, short blond hair, T-shirt and jeans. "Another guest reported seeing a woman running through the field behind the motel at about the same time. This one had long dark hair and wore a dress."

"Mr. Garcola sounds like a real swinger," Sam said dryly.

"The manager's sure there weren't two women in the car when Garcola arrived?" Nora asked.

"Not unless one of them was hiding," the detective said. "Like I told you, it's a weird one."

"What about the manager?" Nora asked. "Is there any reason to think he's got a hand in this?"

"Not really. He's fuming about the damage to his cabin. He says the workmen just got finished with repairs from the earthquake." The area had suffered a shaker four months earlier.

In the parking lot, the forensics team pulled up. As soon as they came over, Grant filled them in and then began making assignments.

"I can take the inside," Nora told him. "I want to examine the blast pattern before anyone messes it up."

It went against the grain for Sam to submit meekly, and he resented the implication that he might damage evidence. On the other hand, plenty of work remained to be done outside. Although he'd already bagged the badly burned, gasoline-soaked rag he'd found by the door, the entire area had to be searched for footprints and other evidence.

Besides, Grant controlled the crime scene. And the detective was nodding his assent to Nora's suggestion.

"Let's get to it," he said. Reluctantly, Sam complied.

Nora headed for her car, presumably to fetch her equipment. And, no doubt, to throw some practical clothes over that pretty-girl outfit.

Sam hoped they could hand in their findings to Grant and let him coordinate the crime probe. Eventually, someone higher up would decide whose bailiwick this case fell into, and there'd be no further need to interact with Ms. Keyes.

From now on, he considered her the invisible woman. Or at least, he thought he did, until Grant said, "You'd better stop staring at her butt before she turns around."

"I wasn't staring," Sam replied indignantly. "I was thinking."

"Yeah, but the problem is, we all know what you were thinking about," the detective said, and went to greet the forensics team.

Sam refrained from making a sharp retort. He considered it beneath his dignity. Besides, he couldn't think of one.

The blast pattern. The amount of damage. The fragments of a cell phone found in the debris.

As the hours went by, Nora became more and more convinced she knew at least part of what had happened, because it reminded her of two previous cases she'd worked. Nothing explained the fire outside the doorway, but she had a theory about that, too.

Sam would probably accuse her of jumping the gun. It was a matter of intuition, but in Nora's experience, intuition had a way of turning out to be right.

By late afternoon, her rumbling stomach reminded her of the unfinished sandwich. Nor was that the limit of her physical discomfort, she realized.