thought Carl Bala would reward him from prison by making him boss of the family. The killer found Tosca first.'
'If he got Tosca, why would he come here and do this to the Castigliones?'
'I think that the other bosses didn't like it that he killed Tosca, so they're hunting him. He seems to be making his death as costly for them as possible. It's hard to know exactly what a man like him feels-what portions of his mental life haven't been permanently turned off, or what he wasn't born with. He seems to feel that once they'd agreed to come after him, they were all fair game.'
Fowles took the rest of the staircase in silence. At the top of the stairs was a big room with a few metal bunk beds. Fowles said, 'He came up those back stairs. He probably looked in those rooms-which are a bathroom and a closet-to be sure they were empty. Then he stepped into this area.'
'Who was here?'
'One man, Jerry Grisanti, age thirty-four. He was shot once with a twelve-gauge shotgun loaded with double-ought shot. A neighbor reported hearing the shots, and it wasn't shots tumbling over one another. It was more like this: Boom. Boom. Boom. Each about a second or two apart. Which sounds like one man shooting, pumping the shotgun, and going straight to the next victim, then shooting again.'
'Interesting choice, a shotgun,' she said.
'He picked up the shells afterward, so there's nothing to fingerprint and no brand name to trace. The shot was the sort you'd find in a store today, nothing antique or exotic.'
'I'm not surprised.'
'After this man was dead, the shooter probably took a couple of quick steps to this room.' He stepped to the end of the short hallway and opened the door. It was a modern, attractive master bedroom with a California king bed, a pair of matching dressers and nightstands in dark-colored wood. The mattress was covered with the darkened red stain that was left when someone bled heavily. The wall beyond it had blood spatter. 'Castiglione was reaching for a gun in the nightstand, but didn't have time to fire it.'
'And then he shot the girl?'
'We think Castiglione was first, or he might have had time to shoot back.'
Elizabeth nodded. 'I appreciate your giving me the chance to see it.'
'Still think it's him?' Fowles asked.
'If this and the other two scenes were the work of just one person, he'd be my leading candidate.' She turned and walked toward the stairs. 'Thanks again.'
She descended the stairs past technicians kneeling to dust surfaces for prints and photographers taking pictures, seemingly in every room. Then she was out the front door.
The two FBI agents were waiting back at their car. Saddler said, 'Would you like us to take you to the other house?'
'At the other two scenes it was a shotgun, right?'
'No, he used a pistol on Paul. One round to the forehead.'
She felt a chill. He seemed to be relentless, someone who could and would do anything. 'What about at the motel?'
'I understand it was a nine-millimeter pistol.'
'What time of night did that happen?'
'I believe it was around two A.M., before Joe was killed. Then he went to Paul's. By then it was about four, or later.'
'So the motel was the first. Can you take me there?'
'Certainly.'
They drove out of town along Interstate 57 to a cheap motel. It was a relic of a generation ago, or maybe two-one long, low building with a set of doors along the side, an office near the street, and a tall sign that had NO VACANCY in neon, but the NO was probably never lit. It was easy to pick out the room because there was yellow crime-scene tape around it and the door beside it. There was a forensic team wrapping up its work when they arrived. She and her two companions got out of the car and looked in the motel-room door.
There was a woman technician just coming out holding an oversize equipment box. Saddler showed her his FBI identification. 'You can take a look now,' she said. 'We're about done here.'
Elizabeth looked inside. She saw the overturned dresser, the hole cut in the wall at the baseboard, another big blood stain. She noticed the forensic technician hadn't left. She was still there, watching Elizabeth from the doorway.
Elizabeth said, 'Help me.'
The woman said, 'A lone man checked in at the office and came to this room in the early evening. He seems to have used the bed to sleep in. There was a couple in the next room. They say that around two A.M., some men- four of them-arrived. They walked around in the parking lot, looking in the cars, then came into his room quietly, either picking the lock or using a master key. We haven't found either yet. There was some stomping around and talking. It looks as though the man in the room had already cut a hole in the wall as an escape route and then pulled the dresser over to cover the hole. He was hiding in the unoccupied room on that side.' She pointed. 'They moved the dresser out of the way, and he shot two of them from the hole. The shots go upward into the stomach and chest of one, and the side of the other. At that point, the hiding man ran for the door of the unoccupied room to get outside. We can see bullet holes running along that wall as they tried to shoot him through it, but he must have made it and waited for them. We found the other two assailants lying outside the door of this first room. The couple in the third room waited for a while and listened until they were sure nobody was still alive, then called the police.'
'And this couple-they're sure it was just one man who did this?'
'Oh, yes. As you can see, the walls aren't much. They heard him cough, but there was no talking until the assailants came.'
'Thank you very much,' she said. 'You've helped me a lot.'
She and the FBI agents walked to the car. Saddler opened the door for her and said, 'I suppose he's long gone by now.'
Elizabeth got into the back seat. As she spoke, she realized she was lying to an investigator who was trying to help. 'I'm sure he is.'
'As I recall, the last actual count we did was four hundred and forty-three soldiers in the Castiglione organization. There are probably a few we don't know about who have made their bones since. Plus assorted hangers-on, wannabes, and allies. They'll all be looking for him day and night.'
'No doubt,' she said. 'He's probably been driving hard since about five A.M. He could be in Canada by now.'
For most of her career she had never intentionally lied to another Justice Department official about anything, but now it was beginning to be a habit. In twenty years she had never pretended her opinion was different from what it really was. She had argued for her theories even when the whole Justice Department was arguing on the other side and her opinion seemed to them to be simple obstructionism. But not today. She was almost positive she knew where the Butcher's Boy was going to be tonight. If she told the FBI, they would ruin any chance she had of getting to him in time. He would be dead.
Elizabeth asked the two agents to drive her back to her hotel. It was nearly seven now. As soon as she was in her room, she locked the door, kicked off her high heels, opened her suitcase, and looked at the one outfit she had not hung up. As she usually did when she traveled, she had brought business suits-one with pants and one with a skirt that she could use interchangeably.
Now she took out the third outfit, a pair of black pants, a gray blouse, and a black cashmere jacket. The shoes were ones she had bought when she had been thinking of taking the kids to Europe. They felt as good as sneakers but didn't tell everyone instantly that she was an American tourist. They weren't stylish, but they were unobtrusive, and she could run in them.
She had almost let herself think, Run or fight in them, but tonight fighting would not be an option. If she was almost supernaturally perceptive and could sense when things were about to go wrong, she might be able to run.
She wondered how many other people had expected to meet him and thought about their fussy little advance preparations. Will wearing this outfit, or this one, give me an advantage? What if I bring a can of pepper spray? If I plan a route in advance that I can run efficiently from memory, will that save me? All of these decisions were
