"I have an idea."

Grissom stared across his desk at Mozell. "For some reason I have the feeling that perhaps this should worry me."

She smiled at him sweetly. "That's often the case where I'm concerned, but considering the deep doo-doo I'm in right now, I hardly think I can make it worse unless I, oh, painted a target on my back and took to sleeping with my doors wide open. Care to hear the idea?"

"Sure. You're the one who's the most intimately involved in this horror show right now, so I think you ought to have input."

"I think I've mentioned that I haven't gotten around to changing the information in any of my online public profiles. Maybe it's time I did." She noted the beginning of Grissom's frown, and said, "I'm not necessarily saying I should give accurate information. Maybe I can post something that will help lure the son of a bitch in the direction we want." She paused. "Has anyone actually suggested a direction yet?"

Grissom rubbed his face. "We're expecting the FBI to show up any moment now, since this crosses state lines."

Mozell grunted. "Might as well wait for them, since they'll probably hoist their hackles at anything they weren't involved in."

Gris didn't quite smile. "You think?"

"Hey, I haven't watched years of television cop shows for nothing. Anyway, I'm thinking that I need to switch service providers, no matter what I post. This guy is going to know enough to check the ISP."

Grissom pulled a legal pad toward him and began to jot notes. "We need to see about getting you a blind set up. I'm not sure whether we'll want to put you in a safe house, or set up surveillance on your place."

She grunted. "If you try to park someone to watch my place, you're going to stick out like Ozzy Osborn at a Christian Youth rally. I live in a suburb mostly full of retirees, and it's the sort of place where neighbors still might actually give a damn if they heard screaming or shooting in the middle of the night."

"Really? How can you tell?"

"Since I've been there I've been given two casseroles, a pie, a plate of cookies, a welcome mat, and an offer to introduce me to a single nephew who has a steady job." Gil blinked. "I turned her down politely when she told me that she hoped she could get him to spend a little time away from his roommate--Shawn. Anyway, I need to figure out what I'm going to put in my online profiles, so I thought I'd talk to you about it."

"You don't actually have...?"

"Address or phone number? No, I have some survival instincts, thank you. I just gave them my region--South-East Texas on the Gulf coast. I listed myself as a student, working as a night clerk in a convenience store. That was what I was doing, up until I graduated, and got scouted for here. By the way, if anyone ever asks you, tell them not to work in a convenience store unless they have children who are about to be snatched by Protective Services because you're not supporting them."

"Bad?"

"You know how some humanitarians believe that each person has their own personal hell? I've had previews of what could be two versions of mine--that store during shift change for the refinery across the street--and Christmas rush working in the food court at a mall." She shuddered. "Either is enough to make you go to church--just in case. I figured I'd post that I'd moved to Las Vegas and gotten a job as a computer tech and repairer at a local business--very vague, so that I can drop more hints to reflect whatever cover we settle on..."

"Grissom?"

Mozell and Grissom looked up to find a pair of dark-suited men standing in the doorway. Mozell pointed up, as if calling a point of order. "Speak of the devil!"

The slightly taller visitor frowned. "Miss?"

"Well, I'm assuming that you two are either FBI, or MIB."

He blinked. "Excuse me?"

Greg had appeared behind them in the hall. "Men in Black. Don't they teach you any popular culture? Aren't you guys supposed to blend in?"

The FBI agent apparently decided it would be better to ignore anything they saw as oddness and just continue as if it were business as usual. "I'm Special Agent Donaldson, and this is Special Agent Clark."

Mozell smiles sweetly. "I've always wondered--you have special agents, but what makes you so special? Is it like in the Boy Scouts? Earn so many merit badges and you're an Eagle Scout? I know it isn't special, like 'the special kids ride the short bus'. I don't think they started using that term till after J. Edger set things up, because I doubt he'd have wanted anyone he saw as representing him..."

"I'm Grissom." Gil gave Mozell a reproving glance.

She gave him an equally sweet smile. "I'm sure you have wrangling to do." She got up. "I'll go start formulating obfuscation. Fellas, you need to part. I might be able to squeeze between you, but my boyfriend is right behind you, and he might object."

Agent Clark glanced back at the young blond man standing behind him. He smiled, but he raised his eyebrows. The two agents stepped back, making room for Mozell to exit the office. She stepped out, and Donaldson thought that she and the man in the lab coat shared what could only be described as a smirk before starting off down the hall.

As they entered the office, Donaldson said, "Was that a witness?"

"Not exactly," said Grissom. "She's out forensic electronics expert."

The agents took seats. "That explains it," said Donaldson dismissively. "The computer geeks are always a little off."

"She's also the most recent contact for the killer you're interested in." Grissom managed to hold back the smile at the flicker of dismay in the senior agent's eyes. "You'll be working with her--closely."

Sarah entered the break room to find Greg and Mozell sitting at a table, heads close together, working over a legal pad. Greg was saying, "Are you sure you don't want to be a grad student? There are a lot of them in Vegas. It's a lot easier here to get part-time jobs at odd hours that'll leave plenty of time for classes and study."

"No. I DID my time in classrooms. I still have nightmares about my time in college--pop tests, can't find my homework, brought the wrong text and the prof counts off, teacher is speaking Swedish and everyone understands but me, can't find a parking space in the pouring rain..."

"you wouldn't have to worry about that last one here," said Greg, straight-faced.

"But maybe if I learned something practical this time around. Cosmetology? Do you suppose the department would spring for the tuition?" She ruffled his hair enthusiastically. "It'd give me a legitimate excuse to play with your hair."

"You don't even need an illegitimate excuse. You could study dental hygiene. I could come up with some kinky fantasies about you in a smock, me loopy with gas, and a dental chair."

"What is this?" asked Sarah. "This is an odd conversation, even for you two."

"I'm trying to build a realistic alternate identity," said Mozell.

"Why?" asked Sarah. "What crime are you planning to commit?"

Her tone was snide, but Mozell smiled cheerfully. "Watch it--you're starting to act human. No, if that was the case, I'd be coming up with an alias first."

"Then what are you two up to?"

"We could tell you," said Greg blandly, "but then we'd have to kill you."

Mozell nodded. "And that's so awkward, given our present location."

Catherine and Nick came in. Nick said, "There are Feebs among us."

Catherine pointed at Mozell. "Are they here for you?"

"They won't be hauling me away in handcuffs," Mozell responded, "but in a manner of speaking--yes, bet the farm on it."

"What is this?" said Sarah suspiciously. When the gears meshed, it was obvious. "That cyber-serial killer!" She sounded almost accusing. "They're here to set up a sting with you."

Mozell's voice was suddenly sober. "Look, Sidle, if you'd rather do this than me, I'd be happy to trade places."

"Don't think that I wouldn't..." she trailed off, blinking. "Did you just say my name properly?"

Greg patted Mozell's hand. "She's under a lot of stress. Cut her some slack."

"No, she's right, Greg," said Mozell. "Now is not the time to be sloppy. I'm sorry, Side Effect. We're considering possible fake jobs. The killer would have to be not only crazy, but careless, to go after someone he knew worked in the heart of a police station."

Nick and Catherine joined them at the table. Nick said, "You mentioned your studies on line, right? And that you got your degree?" Mozell nodded. "A lot of people can't find jobs in their chosen career right out of school, so you have a wide range of options."

"But it would be more convincing if it used her skills somehow," Catherine insisted. "But would it be better to have one where you worked strictly from home, or one where you had to go in, at least occasionally?"

"Search me," said Mozell. She quickly slapped at Greg. "And that was not an invitation to slip your hand under my blouse, Lab Boy." He gave her an unrepentant grin. "Ignore him, people. I'm sure he's not usually this frisky in public, but he's trying to keep my moral up right now. Anyway, you sound like you have an idea, Catherine."

"I think I might. I have a friend named Chris Bezich. He owns a club, and he was just mentioning recently that he was thinking about setting up a website to promote it. Can you do website design?"

"You mean you haven't seen my website yet? Damn! I knew I should have posted the URL on the bulletin board."

"Actually, I have seen it."

Sarah exclaimed, "Catherine! You mean that you were looking at porn?"

Mozell gritted her teeth, but before she could say anything, Catherine responded. "Okay, let's just leave privacy issues and the fact that I'm of age out of the picture right now. It isn't a porn site, Sarah. There's absolutely no graphic visual content..."

Mozell held up a finger. "Couple of male nudes as illustrations."

"Tastefully done. And the prose offerings may get adult, but they aren't what I'd consider pornographic. Not unless you just chopped out all the racy bits and strung them together. There's real drama and humor there."

"What would you call it if it isn't pornography?" Sarah insisted.

"Erotica. Get over it, Sarah. There's a lot of stuff that's considered classic today that was once considered smut, and banned, but we're off the subject. Mozell, you built your own site?"

"Using a freeware html editor, dearie. I'd self-taught myself almost everything before I took the required html courses. Of course, since I'm focusing on prose on my site, I don't use a lot of the fancy bells and whistles. You won't find any dancing text on my site, and I hate frames like poison."

"Before I say anything to Chris, do you think you actually COULD make up a decent website for him?"

"Hell, yeah. Especially if he's willing to spring a few bucks for me to purchase some copyrighted images."

"I'll talk to him, then. What would your fee be if we did it?"

She blinked. "You mean he'd pay me for it?" She clasped her hands. "I'd get paid for playing with my editor and a graphics program? Would he actually use it?"

Catherine couldn't help smiling. "I'm sure he would, if he paid for it."

"Could I put my name on it somewhere? Designed by me?"

"I'm sure he'd be happy to have it."

"I like him already."

The two FBI agents entered the break room. Donaldson looked strained, but Clark looked almost amused. They came right to the table. "Miss McClain?"

"Heck, boys, I feel WAY too Southern when someone calls me 'Miss'. Besides, it points up my un-united state in a manner that would pain my dear mama," said Mozell.

"It looks as if we're going to be working together," Donaldson continued.

"Then I suppose you can call me Mozell--not Moe." She jerked a thumb toward Greg. "That privilege is reserved for this cutie. Anyone else who dares if I'm in a bad mood risks dire reprisals." She gave Sarah a look. "Notes should be made."

Donaldson frowned. "I'm not sure if you realize how serious this is..."

Her good-natured look suddenly snapped. Her eyes flashed, and her voice was low and intense. "It's my life. I know for a fact it's damn serious. Look, to you these people are names, lists of facts, and maybe a few pictures. To me they're my kin--some are more distant than others, but they're still special. I knew some of them vicariously, and at least one of them personally. Someone was left devastated by each death. Each and every one was a horrendous loss to the world in general, and their readers in particular. Don't tell me I'm not treating this seriously enough, gentlemen. You don't know how I deal with stress. Now, if you're willing to treat me like an intelligent, competent adult, then I'm willing to co-operate in any way I can to stop this son of a bitch." She smiled suddenly. "And I'm just crazy enough to do so stuff that would make your usual citizen prefer bungee jumping."

"That sounds fair enough--Mozell," said Clark. It was the first time any of them present had heard him speak. Judging from the look that Donaldson gave him, he was generally expected to keep his mouth shut and nod at whatever the senior agent said.

"Then we'll just get on like a house a'fire--" she noted Donaldson's expression. "and you don't know what that meant. No, I'm not an arsonist. 'Like a house a'fire' means that we'll get along swimmingly. Did that make more sense?" Donaldson gave a slight nod. "Feel privileged. I'm not always inclined to explain myself."

"We need to begin consulting immediately. Time is a factor." Donaldson ignored the eye-roll that Mozell, Greg, and Catherine shared. "Perhaps we could go back to your office."

"We could, if you really want to get that physically intimate with me," said Mozell cheerfully. "With both of you big fellas in there, that'd leave about, oh, two cubic feet of space for me, and I don't think there'd be enough oxygen left to sustain us. However, one of the great things about this building is that there are a number of *cough* 'interview' rooms, and they're seldom occupied all at once--thank God. We can adjourn to one of them."

As they started out of the room, Sarah stopped Donaldson. "Quick question--do you ever have trouble with people mispronouncing your name?"

*They're all peculiar around here,* he thought. "No. Donaldson is a very simple name. I don't think I've ever had anyone mispronounce it."

"Wait."

"What do you mean?"

"She doesn't like you."

"What's that got to do with it?"

Mozell popped her head back into the room. "You're holding up the parade, Donald Duck." She ducked out.

As Sarah gave him an 'I told you so' look, Donaldson stared after the evident lunatic, and tried to decide if this sort of aggravation was the next rise in pay scale.