Lacey unfolded the Boston Globe, the last large city newspaper in her pile. She was tired of scouring the ten largest city newspapers every day of the week, but she couldn't stop. She'd done it for nearly seven years. It cost a fortune for all the subscriptions, but she had enough money from her trust fund so she'd never have to worry about feeding herself and buying as many subscriptions as she wanted. She knew he was out there. She would never stop.
She couldn't believe it. She nearly dropped her coffee cup. It was on page three. Not a big article, but large enough to immediately catch her eye. She read:
'Yesterday evening at 6:30, Hillary Ramsgate, 28, a stockbroker with Hameson, Lyle & Obermeyer, was found brutally murdered in an abandoned warehouse on Pier Forty-one. Detective Ralph Budnack of the BPD said that she had apparently been led through a bizarre game that had resulted in her death from multiple stab wounds to her chest and abdomen. A note tied around her neck said that she had lost the game and had to pay the forfeit. At this point, police say they're following leads.''
He was back. In Boston. He'd begun again. She prayed that this poor woman was his first victim of this new cycle, that she hadn't missed others, or that he hadn't murdered women in small towns where the AP wouldn't pick up the story.
Hillary Ramsgate. Poor woman. She reread the newspaper article, then rose from her kitchen table. She had died just as Belinda and six other women in San Francisco had seven years ago. They'd all lost the game.
What the newspaper article didn't say was that her tongue had also been cut out. The police were holding that back. But Lacey knew all about that. She'd been brutally stabbed and her tongue had been sliced out.
The bastard.
She realized then that yesterday had been the seventh anniversary of the last murder.
Seven years. He'd struck seven years ago to the day. The monster was back.
Lacey was pacing back and forth in front of Savich's office when he came around the corner. He watched her a moment. He said very quietly, so as not to startle her, 'Sherlock, it's seven in the morning. What are you doing here? What's wrong?'
When she turned abruptly to face him, he saw more pain on her face than he'd seen in a long time. Then the hollow, despairing look was gone. She'd gotten a grip. She'd hidden the pain again. And left nothing at all.
What was going on here?
'Sherlock? What's wrong?'
She smoothed out her face. What had he seen? She even managed a smile. 'I'm sorry to bother you so early, but I have a favor to ask. I need to take a few days off and go to Boston.'
He unlocked his office door and waved her in. 'Boston?'
'Yes. I have a sick aunt. It's an emergency. I know I've only been in the Unit a couple of weeks, but there's not anyone else to see to this situation.'
'Your aunt is elderly?'
'Not really, well, she's got Alzheimer's. She's gotten suddenly worse.'
'A relative called you?'
Why was he asking all these questions? Didn't he believe her? 'Yes, my cousin called me. He, well, he's not well himself so there's no one but me here on the East Coast.'
'I see,' he said slowly, not looking at her directly now. She looked pale, scared, and excited-an odd combination, but that's what he saw in her face. Her hair was pulled severely back, held in the same gold clasp at the nape of her neck. It looked like she'd flattened it down with hair spray. She couldn't seem to be still, her fingers now flexing against her purse, one foot tapping. She'd forgotten to put on any makeup. She looked very young. He said slowly, 'How long do you think you'll need to be away?'
'Not more than three days, just long enough to see that her care is all locked into place.'
'Go, Sherlock. Oh yes, I want you to call me from Boston tonight and tell me what's going on, all right?'
Why did he care what she was doing away from Washington? More lies. She hated lies. She wasn't particularly good at them, but she'd rehearsed this one all the way in. Surely he believed her, surely. 'Yes, sir. I'll call you this evening.'
He jotted down his phone number on a piece of paper. 'If it's late, call me at home.' He handed her the folded paper. He said nothing until she was nearly at the outer door, then, 'Good luck. Take care.'
He turned back to his office only after she was out the door. He listened a moment to the sound of her quick footfalls.
This was odd.
Why was she lying to him?
It was 10:30 that night when the phone rang. Savich muted the baseball game between the Giants and the Red Sox, Giants leading 7 to 2 in the seventh inning. He kept looking at the screen as he answered the phone.
'Sir, it's Sherlock.'
He grinned into the phone. 'What's going on?'
'My aunt is just fine. I have more details to tie up but I'll be back by Thursday, if that's all right.'
He said easily, 'I have a good friend at Boston Memorial, a doctor who specializes in geriatrics. Would you like his name so you can speak to him about your aunt?'
'Oh no, sir. Everything's under control.'
'That's good, Sherlock. What's the weather like in Boston?'
'It's chilly and raining. Everything looks old and tired.'
'About the same here. I'll see you on Thursday. Oh yes, call me again tomorrow night.'
There was a pause, then, 'Very well, sir, if that's what you want.'
'It is. You sound tired, Sherlock. Sleep well. Good night.'
'Thank you, sir. You too.'
He watched her from his office. It was nearly one o'clock Thursday afternoon. He'd been in meetings all morning. This was the first time he'd seen her since she'd left for Boston. She looked tired beyond her years. No, it was more than that. She looked flattened, as if she'd lost her best friend, as if someone had pounded her, not physically, but emotionally. He wasn't at all surprised.
She was typing furiously on the keyboard, completely absorbed. He waited for a few more minutes, then strolled to her workstation. He'd spoken to her three nights running, each night at 10:30, each night mirroring the previous one and the next, except that on Wednesday, she hadn't quite been the same. He'd wished he could see her. When he looked at her, her thoughts were clear as the shine Uncle Bob put on his wing tips every Wednesday.
'Sherlock.'
She raised her face, her fingers stilling on the computer keyboard. 'Good afternoon, sir. You just get here?'
'Yes. Call me Savich. Or Dillon.'
'Yes, sir. Dillon.'
'Would you please come in my office? In say ten minutes?''
She nodded, nothing more, just a defeated nod that she tried to hide from him.
When she walked into his office, he said immediately, 'I don't like lies or liars.'
She just looked at him hopelessly.
'Your mother's sister lives in San Diego. You have three cousins, none of them older than thirty-five, all living on the West Coast. You don't even have a third cousin in Boston. Also, there's nary a trace of Alzheimer's in anyone in your family.'
'No, I guess there isn't.'
'Sit down, Sherlock.'
She sat.
He watched her pull her skirt to her calves. She sat on the edge of her chair like a child ready to be chastised. Only she wasn't remotely a child.
'Don't you think it's about time you leveled with me?'
'Not until I call Chico and take a dozen or so lessons.'
Humor from her. He appreciated it. At least she had her balance, if nothing else. 'I could still wipe up the floor with you. I'm an old hand at karate and other things as well. Speaking of hands, I played right into yours when
