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I’m not sure why it would be listed, though.”
    “It wouldn’t be. But I think you’re on the right track. We’re definitely dealing with a code. The only question is what kind. Why don’t you fire up your CPU and run a search? Who knows? Maybe Google can help us out.”
    Normally, Jones would have told Payne to wait, insisting that he could figure it out on his own. After all, solving mysteries was a passion of his, which was one of the main reasons that he had opened a private investigations firm in Pittsburgh when he left the MANIACs. But in this case, time was crucial, so he sat in front of his laptop and ran an Internet search for
TOW
.
    Hundreds of possibilities popped up on his screen, none of which seemed likely.
    But Jones kept trying, searching page after page, until something clicked. And when it did, he shook his head in frustration, pissed off that he hadn’t thought of it sooner.
    It was a look that Payne had seen many times. “Got something?”
    Jones nodded. “It’s not an acronym. It’s an abbreviation. It stands for
tower.
”
    “Tower?”
    “As in
cell phone
tower. Each letter and number combo refers to a specific area in the city. If we get a tower map, we can figure out where our mystery caller was each time he called.”
    “And how will that help?”
    “If necessary,” Jones said, “I can access traffic cameras in each of those grids and look for familiar faces. Who knows? We might get lucky and get a picture of this guy.”
    Payne frowned. It sounded like a lot of unnecessary work. “I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t we just call the number and talk to him?”

8

    D ial crept anonymously around the monastery—never mak ing eye contact, always blending in, never staying in one room for too long. He knew the moment he stopped was the moment someone would approach. And he wanted to avoid that at all costs.
    In his mind, there was an appropriate time to discuss a case.
    And that time was much later.
    Built in 1475, Agia Triada had been remodeled on several occasions but remained true to its post-Byzantine roots. The interior of its church was architecturally ornate, both in design and material, while the artwork was colorful and vibrant. Dial did his best to ignore the religious frescoes that surrounded him, focusing instead on the crimson puddle on the main altar.
    This was where the killings had occurred.
    More than one person had died here—that much was certain. But he wouldn’t know an actual number until he was briefed on the blood work. From the looks of things, he guessed somewhere between five and ten. They had been killed on the stone slab, then immediately dragged toward the side door. He could tell that from the thickness of the blood trail. These victims, fresh from the slaughter, had continued to bleed as they were moved.
    Following the path, he left the chapel and walked toward a four-foot restraining wall. It was made of stone and designed to keep people from falling over the edge. Only in this case it hadn’t done its job. Dial noticed a large patch of dried blood near its base. The red stain streaked up the side and continued to the top, as if the bodies had been picked up and dumped over the side.
    Dial turned on his flashlight and leaned over the wall, careful not to touch anything. In the past few minutes a light fog had settled in the valley, obscuring the crime scene below. From this height all he could see were the surrounding peaks that rose above the mist like a lost city in the clouds. Yet somehow that seemed appropriate. The monks had chosen this place for its isolation, a way to avoid the dangers and distractions of the outside world. But in the end, they had neglected to consider a basic tenet of life:
    Just because you ignore the world doesn’t mean the world will ignore you.

    S ince half the police force was in the church looking for evidence, Dial decided to roam the outer parts of the monastery, hoping to answer the one issue that plagued him