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Jack. I want to start at dawn. First light.“
    Spinnelli was looking at the Polaroids. „We have five dead men. Suspects?“
    Mia sucked in one cheek. „First stop would have to be the victims of the… victims.“
    „How many victims are we talking about, Kristen?“ Spinnelli asked.
    Kristen sat back. „Ramey had three that we know of. The Blades had their two. Ross King had six boys come forward, ranging in age from seven to fifteen. So all totaled we have eleven victims, plus families and friends.“ She lifted her eyes once again to Reagan’s intense gaze. „I can get you a list of names and last-known addresses.“
    „But that one victim would kill all five,“ Jack wondered. „Does that make sense?“
    „Perfect way to muddy the waters.“ Abe noted the coordinates of each map on his notepad. „Get your revenge, pop off a few for the road, give the defense attorneys room to introduce reasonable doubt if you’re caught. There’s a certain poetic justice in it.“
    „I’m surprised our humble servant didn’t pick off a defense lawyer or two while he was at it,“ Mia muttered.
    Kristen took in the photos, the clothing, the maps. The letters. „Don’t discount it,“ she said quietly. „I don’t think he’s anywhere close to being done yet.“

 
    Chapter Four
     
     
    Wednesday, February 18,
    11:00 p.m.
     
     
    Abe stopped short at the base of the stairs. There she was, once again. Standing at the glass doors that led to the street, nearly swallowed up in her bulky coat, her rich red hair still in the tight twist that made his head ache just looking at it. Her profile could have been hewn from stone, she was so still. He was surprised to see her. He thought she would have left half an hour before, when the meeting had disbanded and they’d all gone their separate ways. Spinnelli had gone back to his office to order uniformed watch over the three sites indicated by the maps. Mia disappeared with a large box filled with Ray Rawlston’s personal effects.
    His new partner was efficient, eradicating all traces of the man who’d owned that desk for twenty years. He didn’t envy her the task of taking personal effects to the widow of a fallen officer. He’d done it himself, once, before making detective. It was his partner’s baseball cap, and he’d held the woman left behind, awkwardly patting her back as she sobbed, clutching the baseball cap to her breast. His partner’s wife hadn’t cried at the hospital or the funeral, but it was somehow holding that damn cap that lowered her floodgates. He’d gone home and pounded the punching bag in the garage until Debra had come to find him, worried. She’d kissed his sore knuckles, then held him, murmured in his ear the comforting things that only a wife can. Could . Past tense. Debra was gone, truly gone.
    God, he missed her. He let himself yearn for just a moment, to wish for what might have been, to wonder what if. Then realized he still stood in the same spot. Still stared at Kristen Mayhew’s profile as she stared out onto the darkened street. And he wondered what went through her mind. He assumed she was scared. She had every right to be. Even though Spinnelli had ordered a unit drive by her house every hour and even though she had every one of their personal cell phone numbers, she had every right to be afraid.
    He approached slowly and cleared his throat. „Am I out of pepper spray range?“ In the window’s reflection he saw her lips quirk in rueful amusement.
    „You’re safe, Detective,“ she said quietly. „I thought you’d be gone by now.“
    He stopped a few inches from her right shoulder, closer than he’d intended. But he caught the scent of her fragrance and his feet refused to move. When she’d clutched his arm in the garage she’d been this close, but his head had been filled with the odor of stale oil and exhaust. She smelled good, he thought. Pretty. And he wished he hadn’t noticed. „I’m on my way home. I thought