“It’s a fairly infamous case.”

“In 1927? Well, you can’t really blame that one on violent video games, can you? I don’t get it though. You’re talking nearly eighty years ago. I kinda doubt that’s the same cat we’re dealing with now.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s a different ‘cat.’ The Fox is dead. Mr. Parker recognized him immediately as a former employee, the police picked him up, and he was hanged in ’28.”

“So in other words, it’s got nothing to do with us,” Kincaid said with a frown. “One guy signed notes The Fox, another guy signed his note The Fox. Probably just thought it sounded cool.”

“In real life,” Quincy said quietly, “the Fox’s name was William Edward Hickman.”

Kincaid stopped, looked faintly ill again. “W.E.H.”

“Return address L.A.”

“Ah jeez… Can’t a criminal just be normal anymore? I swear even the felons have watched too much TV.”

“The nom de plume, the map, the cemetery.” Quincy gestured around the gray-gloomed space. “Whatever we’re dealing with here, I doubt it’s just about money. Frankly, if the criminally inclined wanted money, they could knock over a 7-Eleven. These, ransom cases, are always about something more.”

Kincaid narrowed his eyes. “All right. I’ll bite: How many of these cases have you worked?”

“Six.”

“And the success rate for happy family reunions?”

“Thirty-three percent. Two of the six abductees were returned alive.”

“Did the other four families pay up?”

“Yes. But it didn’t matter. In the other four cases, the victims were killed within an hour of abduction. There was never any intent to return them alive. It’s difficult to have a hostage, you know. One, if they’ve seen your face, they’ll identify you later. Two, there’s the sheer logistics of housing them, feeding them, dealing with them. It’s much cleaner to simply kill them from the start.

“Three of them were children,” Quincy added. “One was a girl who was only two years old. We caught the man later. He was a former business partner of the parents, who felt they owed him more money than they’d given him in the original buyout. So he killed their child in an effort to extract fifty thousand dollars. These kinds of predators… It’s never just about money, Sergeant Kincaid. It’s almost always a little bit personal.”

“I do not like the things you know.”

“Most of the time, neither do I.”

Kincaid glanced at his watch. “We have forty minutes.”

“I think we’ll only need another ten. Assuming, of course, you brought a shovel.” Quincy pointed to the ground. Kincaid made a small “o” with his mouth, then headed for the trunk of his car.