It was a few minutes before sunset when Patricia Falcon left the Savannah Hyatt Hotel elevator on the sixth floor and walked the hall to the corner suite where Salon Li did business.

As usual, Patricia would be Ken Li’s only client tonight, so she wasn’t surprised to see the hairdresser’s lobby empty. Sometimes Ken would meet her at the door, but usually he would be in the salon making sure everything was perfect for her.

The lights were on in the back, and through the wall of floor to ceiling windows she could see the last remnants of the orange sun on the horizon.

Patricia strode into the salon’s workroom and froze.

Ken Li sat, unmoving, in a salon chair. A knife was plunged deep in his chest.

A short whimper of horror echoed in the silence, and Patricia realized it was her own. Her stomach clenched with nausea and ice-cold shock that cascaded through her. Without thinking, Patricia took a step toward her friend to see if she could help, even while knowing he was dead. Her survival instinct stopped her.

With shaking hands, she reached into her purse and pulled out her Kimber 45. She ejected the magazine and, although she knew, checked to make sure the magazine was loaded. It was. Fully. She slid the magazine back in place and chambered a round.

Both hands on the weapon and eyes systematically scanning the room, she rushed to Ken’s side. Head turning, looking for movement and seeing none, she took one hand off her weapon and felt his neck for a pulse. Nothing. His skin wasn’t cold. How long did that take anyway? Hours, if she remembered correctly. Had his death just happened? There was no sign of a struggle. The only wound seemed to be the knife in his chest.

Harsh mercury light from overhead glistened on the engraved golden hilt of the knife. Dragons with ruby eyes.

She grabbed her phone from her purse, and, with trembling fingers, called 911 and then Trey.

Once Trey answered, she paused to compose herself. “Ken Li has been killed. Right here. In his shop.”