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  He rapped his knuckles on the inner door, then let himself in.

  “Be right with you. Have a seat.” With one hand, John motioned vaguely in the direction of the chairs that stood on the opposite side of the desk from where he sat, and with the other, he finished scribbling whatever note he’d been in the midst of making.

  Mitch folded his long legs as he sat on the chair closest to the window and sipped at his coffee.

  “Nice job you did, wrapping up the Kingsley case, Mitch.”

  “Thanks. I had a lot of help on that one.”

  “True. Everyone on that team is to be commended. And will be commended, officially. I’ll be seeing to that in about forty minutes. But I do believe it was your investigative—and computer—skills that put the pieces together. Very impressive.”

  “Thanks, John.”

  “Actually, you did such a good job, and I’m so impressed, I’m going to ask you to look into something else for me.” John Mancini leaned back in his chair. With his shirtsleeves rolled up and his glasses hanging from his shirt pocket, no one would suspect him to be the head of a special investigative unit that operated within the FBI. “You know who Joshua Landry was?”

  “Sure. He’s that true crime writer who was killed last year by one of the three murderers who had hooked up in Pennsylvania and switched hit lists. Sort of a Strangers on a Train meets Ted Bundy and friends, if I recall.”

  John nodded. “Close enough. The three met by accident in a holding room in the courthouse and had a little too much unsupervised time alone. They seemed to have made some type of deal to kill for one another—each would knock off three people who had at some point in time pissed off one of the others. None of them ever admitted to it, but it was pretty apparent that an agreement had been reached among them. Anyway, Landry crossed paths with one of them some years ago and had apparently made one hell of an impression. Enough so that he was gunned down in his barn one morning last fall. Shame, really. He was not only a good writer, but a smart investigator. He’d have made a hell of an agent, I always thought.”

  Mitch sat quietly, waiting to find out what all this had to do with him.

  “One of the things that Landry did that set him apart from other writers in the genre was he’d look into open cases, usually older ones, cold ones. If he solved them, he’d write a book about it. More than once, he’d turned over information or evidence to us or to the local law enforcement agency, which helped lead to an arrest and conviction. He was a pretty sharp guy.”

  “Sounds like.” Mitch was still wondering.

  “I was there the day he was murdered. Spent some time with his daughter—did I mention he had a daughter?” John looked across the desk.

  “No, but I know you’re working up to it.”

  John laughed. “We’ve worked together too long, Mitch. I got a call from Regan Landry—that’s the daughter—this morning. She’s been going through her father’s files for the past few weeks, organizing things and what all, thinking about selling his house. I’m not surprised. It’s a beautiful spread he had, but Josh was killed there. Guess that spoiled any really good memories she might have had of the place. Anyway, she tells me she’s going through some boxes and found some notes Josh made about the Bayside Strangler. Remember him?”

  “I don’t have to remember him. Every time I turn on the news, I hear about another murder that’s being attributed to a copycat Strangler up there in some Jersey resort town. At least, last time I heard, they were still suspecting it was a copycat.”

  “Right. That’s the official word. Well, it seems Regan has some correspondence from the real Strangler that was written to her father years ago, as well as some notes that Josh made that Regan isn’t sure how to interpret. She thinks they may somehow relate to the old case. I’d like you to make a trip up there—Landry’s farm is right outside of Princeton—and look over what she’s got. If something Josh had in his files could help ID the original Strangler, who knows? Maybe it could lead to the killer who’s trying to follow in his footsteps.”

  “If she has information about the Bayside Strangler, shouldn’t she be contacting the department investigating these recent killings?”

  “She’s called the chief of police up there in Bowers Inlet several times, but he hasn’t called her back. So I’m thinking he’s in over his head, not calling back the writer because, hey, she’s just a writer and what he needs isn’t more publicity but a few leads.”

  “That’s a big assumption, John.”

  John nodded. “Could be unfair, sure. But I’ve seen the local chief on TV. Looks like he’s really trying to get a handle on things, but my impression is, he’s overwhelmed. He mentioned on the Today Show he has one detective. One detective, and all these bodies. Think about it.”

  Mitch did. He didn’t envy the chief of police who had to try to track a serial killer with only a small department and one detective.

  “So … ?”

  “So I’m sending you to go through Josh Landry’s paperwork and see if you can find anything there that might shed some light on the case.”

  “Wouldn’t it make more sense to send an agent to the scene and give them another set of hands and eyes?”

  “That’s next on my agenda.” John handed Mitch a business card. “Here’s Regan Landry’s phone number and address. Give her a call and let her know you’ll be stopping by tomorrow. I already told her I’d send someone up, tell her you’re it.”

  “Okay.” Mitch took the card and stood. “I should know after a day or so if there’s anything there.”

  “Good. I’ll wait to hear from you,” John said. “Oh, and on your way out, tell Eileen to track down Rick Cisco and get him on the line.”

  It was nearly ten P.M. by the time Mitch turned off the light in his office and gathered the file containing the information about Josh Landry he’d printed off the Internet. The hall stretched long and quiet before him as he started toward the elevator. Light spilled from the doorway of the office five doors down from his. He rapped his knuckles on the frame and peered inside.

  “You almost done?” he asked.

  Rick Cisco looked up from his desk, where a ream of paper spilled out from a fat file.

  “Just about. You heading out?”

  “Yeah. Thought I’d stop at Henry’s for a beer on my way home. Want to join me?”

  “I need about ten more minutes.”

  “Sure.” Mitch dropped his briefcase on the floor and slid into the lone visitor’s chair.

  “I have a few more things I want to print out …” The agent’s focus was on his computer screen. “I’m leaving for New Jersey first thing in the morning and I want to get a handle on this case.”

  “Let me guess. You pulled Bayside Strangler duty.”

  “Yeah. How’d you know?”

  “Mancini intimated earlier he’d be sending someone to work with the police, right before he asked Eileen to track you down.”

  “Should be an interesting case.” Rick stood and leaned over his desk to replenish the paper supply in the printer. “I spoke with the chief of police up there today. They really have a mess on their hands. Bodies piling up, no witnesses, no suspects. Very little trace evidence. This guy has been very, very careful, all the way around. He’s left very little behind. No semen, no saliva, no blood.”

  “Fingerprints?”

  “They’re trying to lift them off the victims’ skin—all the vics were manually strangled—but it’s been tough going. They’re sending the prints on to our lab, see if we can get something usable.” Rick sat down and hit the Print command and watched the first few sheets of paper feed through before turning to Mitch. “Of course, if there are no prints on file that match, it won’t much help us at this point.”

  “Well, I’m heading to New Jersey, too, and coincidentally, my assignment is related to yours, though I’m sure it won’t be as interesting. I’m going to be going through the papers of a writer who may have received some correspondence from th
e Bayside Strangler. The original one. The real one. Whatever we want to call him.”

  Mitch filled Rick in on the information he’d gotten from Regan Landry when he’d called her that afternoon.

  “So what’s she got in the files that the FBI needs to look at?” Rick asked.

  “She says she has a lot of notes that her father had made and some letters from someone claiming to be the Strangler.”

  “Why would he have contacted a writer?”

  Mitch shrugged. “Who knows? I guess that’s one of the things I’ll find out. Not as exciting as directly working a serial killer case, though.”

  “I don’t know about that.” Rick grinned. “Have you seen this Regan Landry?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I have. She was on one of those morning news shows not too long ago.”

  “And … ?”

  “Short and sweet, good-looking. Interesting face. Lots of long curly blond hair and nicely put together, if I recall. And smart. She came off as being really, really smart.” Rick stood and packed the printed material into the file, which he tucked under his arm.

  “Well, we’ll see how smart she is when we start going over her father’s notes.” Mitch followed Rick to the door and snapped off the light. “I’m still thinking you got the best deal, though. I haven’t had a good serial case in a long time.”

  “You had that guy in California last year,” Rick reminded him as they headed for the elevator.

  “Yeah, but that was an easy one. Something tells me this is going to be a lot more involved.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “You’ve got two possibilities here. One, he’s the real Strangler. Two, he’s a copycat. If this is the guy who has been around for—what is it, twenty-some years?—he’s good, Rick. He’s really, really good. Where’s he been all this time? You know he’s been up to something—they don’t kill, then stop, then start up again unless something has intervened.”

  “Like maybe a prison term.” Rick hit the Down button.

  “Maybe. Could be you’ll get a match off those prints there.”

  “I’ve already requested that any prints we find be run through NCIC on a priority basis.”

  “And if he hasn’t been in prison, where’s he been?” Mitch asked. “And then we have to consider the possibility that this guy is not the real deal.”

  “The chief up there in Jersey—Denver’s his name—seems to be weighing in heavily on the copycat scenario.”

  “Either way, you’ve got your work cut out for you,” Mitch said as the elevator doors opened and they stepped inside the car. He hit the button for the lobby. “The original Strangler or someone following in his footsteps, he’s going to be hard to bring down. He’s killed how many now—three? four?—in a short period of time, and no one has a clue as to who he is or what he looks like.”

  “And it isn’t going to get easier the more time that passes. According to Denver, every day more people come into town for the summer season.”

  “If you’re the killer,” Mitch noted, “that’s good news. The more potential suspects the law has to weed through, the less heat on you.”

  “If you’re the killer, it’s great news. The higher the population, the more potential victims get added to the pool. There’s no telling how high the body count could go before we find him.”

  The two men stepped off the elevator and signed out at the main desk in the lobby.

  “I’ll meet you at Henry’s,” Mitch said as they walked out through the back door to the parking lot. His car was just ten spots off to the left, Rick’s a little farther out in the lot.

  Mitch unlocked his driver’s-side door, thinking about the files that awaited him at the Landry farm and the possibility there’d be something that might aid in the search for a killer.

  At the same time, Rick was electronically opening his own car, wondering just how high the count would go before the killer was stopped, and how long it would take before he was tracked down.

  Eight

  “What are you all dressed up for?” Cass stopped just inside the front door as Lucy was coming down the steps.

  “Cassie, it’s Friday night.” Lucy dropped her purse on a chair and leaned over to tighten a strap on her sandal. “Aren’t these cute?”

  Lucy raised her foot and wiggled it, showing off the pink flowers that ran across the toes. “I picked them up in that little shop out on Route Nine this morning.”

  “Yeah, they’re real cute, but I don’t understand why you’re wearing them or why you’re dressed up.” Cass walked past her into the kitchen, where she lifted the lid on a pot. “Ummm. Chicken noodle soup. That’s great, Luce, thank you. I am just dying.”

  “Well, let’s hope you revive soon. The Clarks’ clambake is tonight.”

  “What?” Cass frowned and spooned soup into a bowl.

  “The Clarks. Cathy and Eddie Clark? They were in my mom’s class at Regional? They own the marina out near the lagoon?”

  “So?”

  “So they invited everyone who’s come back for the dedication of the new high school to a big party, which is tonight. It should be a pretty lively group, since the all-class reunion of the old high school is next week. I know you got an invitation for it, everyone who ever went to Regional did.”

  “Lucy, I’m in the middle of a serial homicide investigation. Four women have died in the past week. I have been pulling double shifts for almost a week now. I’m exhausted. I need sleep. I have to be sharp tomorrow. The FBI offered to send us some help and he’s coming in the morning for a briefing. One agent. Dead bodies piling up, no suspects, and they send us one agent.” She made a face. “I guess I shouldn’t complain, though. At least there will be someone else to help share the load. Not that I look forward to sharing my case with the Feds, but sometimes you just have to bite the bullet, you know? We need help. I need help. I could kill Spencer for walking out the way he did, but there it is. Anyway, I’d like to be coherent when I have to sit down and talk with this guy.”

  She rubbed her eyes with the palms of her hands.

  “God, I hope he’s not an asshole.” Cass sighed deeply. “In any event, the last thing I feel like doing is partying.”

  Cass downed several spoonfuls of soup before looking up from the bowl, to find Lucy staring at her.

  “What?” Cass asked. “Look, there’s no reason you can’t go. You don’t have to stay home and baby-sit me. I’ll be asleep before my head hits the pillow. I’ll never even know you’ve gone. Besides, it’s coming up on nine. Don’t you think all those clams will have been baked by now?”

  “I can’t go by myself, Cass. I haven’t seen any of these people in a hundred years. No one will talk to me.”

  “Why would you want to go to a party where no one will talk to you?”

  “They would if you were with me. You still live here, you know everyone. People will talk to you.”

  “The question was, why do you want to go?”

  “I just … I don’t know, I want to feel connected to something, I guess.” Lucy sat in the chair opposite from Cass, leaned her elbows on the tabletop, and rested her chin in her hands. “I feel so … so …”

  “Spit it out, Luce.”

  “I feel like I don’t belong anywhere right now. I don’t feel as if I even have a home anymore. My rat-bastard husband took that from me.” Her eyes brimmed with tears and her bottom lip quivered. “Everyone in town must know what’s been going on. I feel like I don’t have anything left now. I feel like I’ve lost it all.”

  Lucy picked at her nail polish.

  “Stop that,” Cass told her. “You just paid for that manicure.”

  “Right.” Lucy clasped her hands together. “Anyway, if I don’t belong there, I have to belong somewhere. I was hoping it would be here. I was hoping, oh, I don’t know, that maybe I’d see some of my old friends and reconnect with them. Maybe I could start to build a life for myself away from Hopewell. Maybe bring the kids here t
o live with me—not here, to this house, I’d get my own—but here in Bowers Inlet. Maybe I could even get a job.”

  “Not—gasp—a job!”

  “Very funny. There are things I could do. I just haven’t worked in a long time because … well, there were the kids, and then … well, I didn’t have to. David always gave me a very generous allowance. I will say that for the man.”

  Lucy crossed her legs under the table and Cass could feel the slight breeze stirred up by her cousin’s foot, which was bouncing with nerves and tension.

  “You’re right, though. You are tired, and I am a totally thoughtless, immature, self-centered bitch for not even taking that into consideration. I’m sorry. I was only thinking of myself.”

  Lucy forced a smile, then stood up and patted Cass on the back. “Finish your soup, then go ahead and turn in. I’ll go up and change. I’m sorry I wasn’t more considerate. I don’t know what I was thinking.” She tried to lighten up. “Well, of course, I obviously wasn’t thinking. I’m really sorry.”

  Lucy began rinsing out glasses at the sink. Her shoulders were bunched and tight. Cass could tell even from looking at her back that Lucy was trying not to cry.

  “I’m sorry, too. Sorry I didn’t realize how hard this situation has been for you.”

  “I think you’ve had other, more important things on your mind.”

  “Well, look, Luce, how ’bout we go for an hour. Would you be content with just an hour? I honestly don’t think I’d last much longer than that.”

  “It’s okay. Really. You should go to bed.”

  “Oh, hell, Lucy.” Cass finished the last bit of soup. “I can get changed in a flash.”

  “Are you sure? You don’t have to …”

  “I’m sure. The soup revived me. Besides,” Cass pointed to Lucy’s hot pink Capri pants, “we can’t let those go to waste.”

  “Well, yay! I’ll come home the minute you tell me you’re ready to leave, I promise.” Lucy’s face lit up. “Now, you run upstairs and take a real quick shower while I straighten up the kitchen a bit.”