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the Northeast, particularly the residents of the Big Apple. She was determined to convince tourists from downstate that Albany was New York’s “vibrant, historic capital” and should be more than a station stop on the way to Montreal.
    Having Vivian Jessup die here was not going to do much for either tourism or promoting Albany as a bedroom community. Especially since, as McCabe recalled from the bit she’d heard on the news, the mayor had planned to tie Jessup’s play into her “It Happened Here” ad campaign about Albany history and culture.
    Not that some people—including Clarence Redfield in one of his more inflammatory threads—thought it was desirable to have people from the City coming to Albany. According to him—and some cops agreed—enough prostitutes, drug dealers, gang members, and other assorted troublemakers were already taking the train or the Northway up to Albany.
    McCabe opened the door to the third interview room. Baxter was standing there, arms folded, a disgusted expression on his face. He was staring down at their suspect from that morning.
    Mouth open, snorting, the perp was managing to both drool and snore.
    Baxter said, “Ready for me to wake Pigpen up so we can talk to him?”
    McCabe shook her head. “Get someone to put him in holding. We just caught another call.”
    â€œWhat’s up?”
    â€œFemale vic. She could be number three.”
    â€œI thought this was way too easy. Pigpen here walks right into our arms by breaking into the first vic’s house.”
    â€œIt happens,” McCabe said. “Stupid perps. Drug addicts. Except nothing our killer’s done so far would suggest he’s either. And now, if this one’s his, it looks like he’s gone for extra points.”
    â€œHow? What’d he do?”
    â€œI’ll tell you in the car. I’m going to grab my field bag while you’re getting our friend here stored away.”
    *   *   *
    Baxter met her at the entrance to the garage.
    McCabe pressed her thumb to the ID slot.
    â€œDetective Hannah McCabe,” the Voice said. “Please drive carefully.”
    The detectives in the squad room had never agreed on who the Voice sounded like. But someone had decided that the Voice should give his automated safety reminder when they checked out a car. Call them by name just so they knew he knew who they were.
    The turbolift descended from the third-floor parking deck. A blue sedan came into view in its stall. The barrier slid back and the car rolled out.
    â€œHey, we got one of the new ones,” Baxter said. “How’d you pull that off?”
    â€œLuck of the draw,” McCabe said.
    â€œWant me to drive?”
    â€œSure, if you want to.”
    In the car, McCabe shrugged off her thermo jacket, tucked her field bag by her feet, and strapped herself into the passenger seat. Then she looked over to see why they were still sitting there.
    Baxter was studying the console.
    â€œMike, it should already be programmed with the location.”
    â€œI know.” He pointed. “See that? This baby has superenhanced night vision. The guys working vice were really pumped about getting Prowl Vision 240 on the new cars.”
    â€œI’m sure they were. But we’re the dull cops with the dead body waiting, remember?”
    He grinned. “Right. Let’s roll, Hank.”
    They shot out of the garage enclosure and down the street, merging into traffic.
    â€œHannah,” she said.
    Baxter glanced at her. “What’d you say?”
    The collision warning signal on the console beeped. Baxter was driving on manual control. He had to swerve around the commuter shuttle bus that had stopped to pick up passengers.
    McCabe glanced over her shoulder at the car they’d cut off with their lane change. “With an inch or two to spare,” she said.
    â€œMaybe we should turn on the siren and plow the