“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 the 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.

“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 to 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.”