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perhaps the most telling, reason: Norris surrounded himself with experts to plug the gaps in his knowledge. That was what this meeting had been about, Frank realized as Miller opened the car door. Norris had called him into his office to pick his brains and hear his theories, masking his true goal by having Miller in attendance.
    Miller winked at him and cranked the engine. “Wanna go catch a movie? I hear there’s a great thriller playing.”
    “ The one where the killer’s a bad-ass black dude?”
    Miller uttered a mirthless chuckle and drove out of the parking lot. “Norris can be a real prick, can’t he?”
    “ You think he’s a racist?”
    “ Nothing overt,” Miller said as he jumped a yellow light and drove up a ramp to the I-10. “But I get certain vibes from time to time.”
    “ He’ll never solve this case. He’s got no creativity, no gut-instinct. This killer is intelligent and well-organized. The sinner-message he leaves on the mirror is pure smoke screen. He’s no mission-killer, he’s a sexual predator, gets his jollies by terrorizing women.”
    “ Folks are scared shitless, that’s for sure.”
    “ All the victims were Catholic, right?”
    “ Yeah.” Miller looked over, eyebrows raised. “Why?”
    “ Did anybody interview their parish priests?”
    “ NOPD didn’t, but the feds on the taskforce might have. If they did, the transcripts are in the murder book.” Miller shot him a grin. “Not that Norris is gonna let us local twerps read it.”
    Frank clenched his jaw. “Norris is an idiot. We have to find this guy pronto. He didn’t complete his ritual with Dawn Andrews, which means he’s pissed off and frustrated. He’ll do another one soon.”
     

CHAPTER 4
     
     
    Saturday 7:25 A.M.
     
    Father Sean Daily slipped out the rear door of St. Elizabeth’s Church and strode down a cement walk to the rectory after finishing the early Mass in record time. Two more Masses this afternoon, and after today how many, he wondered as he entered the two-story cottage he’d called home for fourteen years. Other than a small pot belly, he was relatively fit for a man of sixty-two, but that didn’t count for much after last week’s news.
    The rich aroma of coffee drew him down a cool dark hall to the kitchen, a cheerful room with tall windows that glinted in the morning sun. Aurora stood at the counter buttering toast, his housekeeper for thirty years, accompanying him from one parish to the next. St. Elizabeth’s was his third, and probably his last.
    “ Six people at the early Mass,” he said, taking his customary seat at the small antique-maple table by the window. “I don’t know why I bother.”
    “ Because you’re a comfort to them.”
    She came to the table and patted his shoulder. A handsome woman with a gentle smile, warm brown eyes and an olive complexion, she wore her silvery-gray hair short in a feathery fringe around her face.
    “ They’re old and hard of hearing. I doubt they even hear me.” He took a crumpled pack of Best Buys out of his pocket and lit a cigarette.
    “ Sean, you’re supposed to quit. You know what the doctor said.”
    Of course he knew what the doctor said. Advanced prostate cancer. Limited treatment options. He refused to think about it. He had too many other worries, like the letter from New Hampshire that arrived last week. He’d almost thrown it away, but curiosity got the better of him. After reading the letter, he wished he had thrown it away.
    Aurora set mugs of steaming coffee and a plate of toast on the table. “I think you should go to Houston for a second opinion. Another doctor—”
    “ You worry too much, Aurora.” He flashed the smile he used to charm his elderly parishioners, the wide Irish grin he used to persuade the few remaining wealthy families to contribute more generously to the church. “Whatever happens, happens.”
    “ Don’t be saying it’s in God’s hands. You must take better care of yourself.”
    “ You take care