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desk. “You know I still keep up with a few of the guys at the station, right?”
    I nodded. Mac and I met when we both worked in the news department of a local television station. We’d left around the same time—I went freelance; he started Kendall Productions.
    “So, I’m having a beer last night with Brian Stuckley. Remember him?”
    I dredged up vague recollections of a skinny, quiet, nerdish guy. “He was on the desk, wasn’t he? Three to eleven.”
    “That’s him.”
    “I remember. So what?”
    “Well, he’s news director now.”
    Figures. The nerds will inherit the earth.
    “He remembers the restaurant where you found rat droppings and called in the city inspector. Who refused to give the place a citation. You tried to tell us he’d been paid off but you couldn’t prove it. Remember?”
    “I remember.” It had been one of my more underwhelming moments as an investigative producer. In fact, the frustration of not cracking the story—and changing the world according to my master plan—was one of the reasons I left TV news. I crossed one leg over the other. “Sooh…” I said, stretching the word. “Other than fond reminiscences, what did Brian have to offer?”
    Mac leaned forward. “He told me the cops ran a partial of the pickup’s plates at the rest stop.” He paused. “They got a hit.”
    “And he knows this how?”
    “Ellie.…”
    “Of course. News director. Sorry.”
    Mac nodded. “Turns out a Jeep was stolen about a month ago.”
    “A Jeep? But—”
    Mac cut me off with a raised palm. “The owner’s a construction worker. He was working in Schaumburg when it happened. In broad daylight.”
    Schaumburg, a western suburb undergoing rapid development, was in the throes of suburban sprawl. More significant, though, it was nowhere near Lake Geneva. Or me.
    “Someone switched the plates?”
    Mac nodded again.
    I recalled my latest conversation with Milanovich. He must have known that before he called me, but he didn’t say anything. Not that it would have made much difference. Unless he’d found a connection between the construction worker and Daria. Or someone else involved in the case. Like me.
    “Ellie.” Mac looked over nervously. “Brian wasn’t supposed to tell me that, you know?”
    “Not to worry.” I uncrossed my legs. “Someone steals a license plate, slaps it onto a pickup that’s used in the murder of a woman I don’t know and didn’t meet until five minutes before she died. What am I gonna do with the information?”
    Mac just looked at me.
    I swiveled in the chair. Then I stopped.
    “What?”
    I leaned forward. “Tell me something. If you’re a sniper, and you’ve already killed one person, and you know the cops have ID’d your pickup, why would you steal a set of plates and slap them on the same truck you already used? Wouldn’t it be safer to rip off a different truck, one that looked nothing like the first one?”
    Mac folded his arms. “What are you saying?”
    “Why did the shooter use the same truck but different plates?”
    “How do I know? Because he wants to establish a pattern? Let people know he’s behind all of them? So he uses the same method to draw attention to himself. Isn’t that what the shrinks say?”
    “The profilers, you mean.” I started swiveling again. “But if you’re really trying to hide your identity, it wouldn’t make sense, would it?”
    “Neither does picking off people at a rest stop.”
    “How much do you want to bet that’s where Brian goes with the story? That’s what I’d do.”
    Mac shrugged.
    “There’s something else, too.”
    “What?”
    “The detective working the case seems interested that there was only one shot fired. And that it hit the woman dead on.”
    “So?”
    “Is that what happened the first time?”
    “Only one person was hit. The nurse.”
    “But how many shots were fired?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Me neither.” I swiveled some more. “So what kind of gun would you