I was looking down from a roof top, watching the Fullerton Playhouse below.

It was windy up here, and my light jacket flapped wildly. Too wildly. I think I was losing weight. A steady diet of blood will do that to you.

I was kneeling on the roof's corner, four stories up. Directly below me was a bank. Why a bank needed four floors, I hadn't a clue. Sure as hell wasn't to store my money. So far there was no movement below, although I had spotted something very interesting in the alley behind the theater.

A blue cargo van.

I waited and watched. Other than the van, the theater looked empty. There was no movement. No lights. It was well past time for any rehearsals and any cleaning crews.

I decided not to make a move, unless something prompted me to. I was here for one reason only: to keep an eye on the theater, should the shit hit the fan. Or should someone get tipped off about the police raid.

So far, all was quiet.

My cell phone chimed. A text message. I glanced at the screen. A text message from Danny.

Thanks, Sam! They didn't come back to collect from me. Whatever you did, I owe you one.

"You owe me two, loser," I whispered, and erased his message.

I was dressed in jeans and the aforementioned light jacket. There had been an old fire escape that I had managed to grab onto. Now, I waited and watched. Just another mom with two kids, waiting on the roof of a bank building for a serial killer to emerge from his creepy theater.

Perhaps an hour later my cell vibrated.

I picked up on the first vibration which, I think, was the equivalent to a single ring. It was, of course, Detective Sherbet.

"Mason wasn't there," he said.

"Go figure," I said. "Anything turn up?"

"Nothing yet, but my guys are working on it. If there's a blood stain anywhere, they'll find it."

"Except if he's as good at killing as I suspect, then there's not going to be any evidence at his home."

"What are you saying, Sam?"

"He kills at the theater, Detective. You know that, I know that. He kills and drains and bottles his victims' blood all at the theater."

"A blood factory."

"Or a slaughtering house. A human slaughtering house."

"Jesus, Sam." Sherbet paused. "Then why not destroy the bodies there?"

"Maybe he does. Or maybe he usually does. Maybe he ran out of room. Or maybe he's decided to make it a bit of a game."

"Jesus, Sam. I'm too old for this shit."

"We have to stop him, Detective."

Sherbet paused again, said, "We've got another missing person reported tonight. A female. Twenty-three. Last seen leaving class at Fullerton College two nights ago."

"She's there," I said, with a surety that wasn't psychic. It was my gut. My investigator's instincts. "The son-of-a-bitch has her. And my bet is she's somewhere behind that door."

"We can't just go in there, Sam."

"Perhaps you can't, but I can."

"Sam, wait."

"What?"

He exhaled loudly and if I truly wanted to I could have followed his entire train of thought. Instead, I gave him his privacy, let him work this out on his own. Finally, after exhaling again, he said, "I'm coming with you."

"Welcome aboard, Detective."