Introduction

"Stephanie Plum, meet Saylor Oz"."(New York Times bestselling author Susan Elizabeth Phillips) A new novel featuring a downtown- Brooklyn sex therapist whose caseload includes the occasional murder.

In the last three months, three models have been found dead around New York City, each with a lock of hair missing. It would be just another tabloid headline to Saylor Oz?except that her best friend Benita's brother stands accused. Saylor is convinced someone is reenacting the events of an old movie called Bad, Bad Babydoll. But no one else thinks so?not even the sexy P.I. on the case. Undeterred, Saylor and Benita must infiltrate the modeling world?and put themselves at risk of becoming the killer's next victim.

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Excerpt

CHAPTER ONE

“Can't we do this another time? I, um, I've got a pole dancing class at eight.”

Crack. The back of his hand caught me on the side of my face, sending me crashing to the cement floor.

Fighting back panic, I squeaked out a plea. “You've made a mistake. I'm not the woman you're looking for.”

“Did I say you could talk?” Judging by the tone of his cruel, coarse whisper, he wasn't convinced. Remind me to brush up on my Method acting.

I sat up, giddy with fear. My hands searched the grimy floor behind me, desperate for something to use as a weapon.

“Did I say you could move?”

“But I just have to itch this one little spot . . .”

He stepped closer, putting his gun within inches of my face.

Between his breath, which smelled like stale tobacco, the dank moldy stone floors and my having had enough surprise encounters with deranged assassins for one day, my dizziness and nausea came rushing back. Great. He won't even let me scratch, what'll happen if I puke?

I scanned the dimly lit room until I could see where the door was. Guessing my thoughts of making a run for it, he rammed me in the shoulder with his foot, bouncing me off the wall.

Ungh. That hurt, dammit. Nothing like being on the receiving end of a soccer kick from a two-hundred-fifty-pound gorilla wearing Guccis.

The long, razor-thin scar running down his cheek wiggled at the corner of his mouth as he spoke into a headset. “I got her right here. Yeah, it's her. Okay, okay.” He jerked the gun at me. “Stand up.”

Was this it? Was this command step two from the Merry Executioner's Handbook? Heart racing, I got to my feet, hoping my knees wouldn't buckle.

“Well, she looks way under five feet to me.”

If he starts with the munchkin jokes, I may just lose it and . . .

He nudged me with his gun.

Then again, I may not.

“Turn around,” he said. “Face the wall.”

I swallowed hard and broke out in a cold sweat. No, this can't be happening. I pivoted to face the cinderblock and braced myself for that dreaded pop. Tears formed in my eyes. Should I beg? Should I ---

“Yeah, and it sure is sweet,” he said into the phone. “Whadaya mean, 'Keep my mind on my work?' You asked me if she had a heart-shaped ass. Believe me, there ain't too many around like this one. It's her.”

I let out a sigh. Wouldn't ya know my butt is the closer. The inverted heart fanny I inherited from my father's Russian Ozyutikoffsky family line. Way back on Ellis Island the name got changed to Oz.

So, did that mean I had a little more time? But how much more? I knew I was the one they were looking for.

Me. Saylor Oz.

And I knew I'd gotten in over my head again. But getting in over your head is easy when your only four feet eleven. In fact it's been a tendency of mine since the days when I was growing up back in White Plains, a suburb north of the Bronx, and the kids in school nicknamed me “the munchkin.” When you're the shortest one in the class, you learn to assert yourself. Which I did pretty well, thanks to my fast mouth and passion for justice. Like with husky bully Bryan Puckle. His favorite thing was to trip you in the hallway or just make fun. I always ignored him when he deliberately hummed, “We're Off To See The Wizard” each time I raised my hand in class. But when he started shoving around sensitive violinist Adam Lubin, I got right in Pucklehead's face and backed him down with a lecture on Bach partitas.

Only problem is I'm not dealing with school kids anymore. Mess with the wrong person in a place like New York City and your final resting place could be a landfill in Staten Island. You'd think at thirty-two I'd know better than to get myself into real trouble like this. Maybe it went with the territory of being a practicing psychologist, but I've always had this ridiculously optimistic habit of believing every problem had a solution.

Mr. Tobacco Breath gave me a sadistic glance and spoke into his phone. “Yeah, yeah, I know,” he said with impatient annoyance. “You wanna pop a cap in her yourself. Look her in the eye before she dies. Fine. So, either hurry the hell up and get over here, or else I'll drop her off. Just make up your fuckin' mind, cause I ain't no babysitter.”

That meant I had some time. Did it also mean he wouldn't shoot me if I ran? Or would he just blow out my knees and make me wait in a bloody pool for the person on the phone to come and complete the deed?

An uncontrollable tremor ran through my body. My chest felt so tight I could hardly breathe.

I wasn't ready for my life to end. I still had dreams. I still had a long list of “somedays.” Including finding a man who really loved me. Sure, we've all got things we wished for that never happened, and I'd learned to let go of plenty. But deep down inside I was a romantic at heart, and I believed that dreams should come true. Which was why I couldn't stand seeing anybody lose a chance at one.

Especially a person like Angel Morales, my best friend's brother.

Sixteen months ago, the sensitive and talented twenty-four-year-old had been on the verge of a dream he'd worked for since his tenth birthday when his dad bought him his first camera. But now Angel sat in a jail cell at Rikers awaiting transfer to Sing Sing to serve three concurrent life terms with no possibility of parole for three murders he didn't commit.

None of it made sense. All Harlan Sneed had to do to get him off was prove reasonable doubt. But for some mysterious reason the famous trial lawyer botched the case. Angel's sister, Benita, and the rest of the Morales family were doing their best to cope and try again -- once they settled on a new lawyer.

Meanwhile, the real killer was still out there.

I knew finding that person was the only way we'd be able to prove Angel's innocence. And when push comes to shove, one sure way to catch a predator is to set a trap and wait for the sucker to strike.

So, here I was, live bait.

But was I soon to be a carnivore's snack? view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

How far would you bend your own beliefs and standards to fulfill a dream? Have you ever had a goal you wanted so badly you did things you weren't proud of to attain it?

Could you forgive Terry Carew? If so, why? If not, why not?

What do you think of Aunt Lana? Does she remind you of anyone in your life?

Do you trust the legal system? Do you believe all suspects are treated equally? What factors might effect how they are judged?

Have you ever had a pet whose unpredictable behavior caused a change in your plans? For better or worse?

Saylor has very liberal views on sexualty and sex workers, while Benita is more conventional. Where do you stand?

Although in real life we cannot push things to the limits as a fictional character can do, can you think of a time when you've created some chaos in your own life to help get a friend through a crisis? Or a friend who's done that for you?

Take a look at Johnny and Eldridge. They have very different personaltities and different atttitudes in regard to the law. Which man do you prefer, and why?

Did you guess who killed the models?

Do you like protagonists who make you laugh? Are their things in Saylor's thoughts that are like your own? Are you more like Saylor or Benita?

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