“I’m not sure that up front means you get to tag along.”

“That was the deal.” More or less. “I can help you with this. For the past few weeks, I’ve been going through my father’s files. There may be things I’ve read that might mean something to your investigation.”

“Such as…?”

“Something I hear, or see, in Bowers Inlet might ring a bell with something I read in one of his files.”

Mitch searched his pockets for his keys.

“Besides, you need me.” She folded her reading glasses and searched for their case amid the papers on the desk. Finding it, she tucked the glasses inside and dropped it into her handbag.

“I do?”

“Sure. I know all the shortcuts.”

“I’ll bet this backs up but good later in the summer,” Mitch observed as he drove over the two-lane bridge that led onto the small island where several of the bay towns were located. “Who still has two-lane bridges these days?”

“You’d be surprised.” Regan smiled. “I remember when some of the causeways ended in drawbridges. I’ll bet some still do.”

“Doesn’t seem very efficient.”

“You don’t come to the Jersey Shore looking for efficiency.” The smile widened slightly. “If you want efficient, you go to Florida.”

She pointed to acres of salt marsh off to her right where, twenty feet from the causeway, two herons fished amidst tall reeds.

“This still looks the way much of the shore area looks. There are miles of marshes and back bays, areas that will never be developed.” Her right arm drifted out the window and rose and fell as her hand rode the noontime breeze. “This is convertible weather. We should have taken my car.”

“I can put the sunroof down,” he offered.

“No offense, but why bother? On a day like today, you want more than the fresh air. You want to be able to lean your head back, get some sun on your face. You want the breeze along with the fresh air.”

“Fine. If we ever come back, you can drive.”

They passed a marina, where several boats of various sizes sat at their moorings, others sat on concrete blocks or on trailers. A sign advertised live bait, along with an all-you-can-eat clam bar. A Sunfish was heading out to the bay, and a couple of kids in a small outboard politely gave the sailboat a wide berth. They chugged past it slowly, then gunned the motor and took off, the Sunfish tossing in their wake.

Regan took a deep breath, the smile still in place. “My dad used to bring us to a place like this when I was little. I don’t remember the name of the town, but I remember how it smelled. Salty and warm. It was a big deal for me. The beaches are so different from the beaches in England.”

“You lived in England?”

“Until I was twelve. My mother was British, living in London when she met my father. They married there, then moved here when my father’s writing career took off.” Regan stared out the window. “She never really did adjust…”

“Where is she now?”

“She died a few years ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.”

They rode in silence until they reached the main road into Bowers Inlet.

“Looks like a nice town,” Mitch said as he took a left onto Mooney Drive. “Nice little houses on little sandy lots…”

“Like every little town on the Jersey Shore,” she told him. “They all look pretty much the same-except for maybe Mantoloking. Of course, there are differences, but in most places, you pretty much always see the same kind of little beach cottage, the same narrow two-lane streets. The same little ice-cream shacks, the same little grocery stores…”

“What’s with Manna-what was it?”

“Mantoloking.”

“What, no beach cottages? No ice cream?”

“Let’s just say the cottages are a lot bigger there.” She mused. “But every shore town has a place to get ice cream. It’s mandated by code, I think.”

“Does the Bowers Inlet code require the residents to name their cottages?” He read the names as he drove by. “Sanctuary. Bill’s Bungalow. Summer Breeze…”

She laughed. “There’s the police station, on the next corner. Do you think your friend is here yet?”

“There’s his car,” Mitch said as he parked next to a black Camaro. “Let’s go on in and see what’s what.”

They entered the cool lobby of the police station and waited while the receptionist called back to the chief’s office. A pleasant blond woman with an easy smile and a professional manner came to escort them to the conference room.

“Lovely day out there, isn’t it?” She beamed. “We’ve had some great beach days this past week.”

She led them to the last door at the end of the hall.

“Everyone’s already here, you go right on in.” She held the door open for them.

“Thank you,” Regan and Mitch said at the same time.

“You’re welcome.” She closed the door quietly behind them.

“Agent Peyton?” No doubt who was running this show. The man at the end of the table was obviously the chief of police. He had in charge written all over him.

“Yes, sir.” Mitch placed his black satchel on the floor next to the table and extended his hand.

“Chief Denver here,” the chief introduced himself. “This is Detective Burke. And I’m assuming you and Agent Cisco know each other.”

“Detective.” Mitch nodded a greeting. “Cisco.”

“And you are…” The chief pointed to Regan.

“Regan Landry, Chief,” she said before Mitch could introduce her.

“Are you with the FBI, too?”

“No, actually, I’m a-”

“Ms. Landry is a consultant for the Bureau on this case,” Mitch spoke over her.

“A consultant? What kind of consultant?” Denver ’s eyes narrowed.

“Ms. Landry has information about the Bayside Strangler that she’s been sharing with us,” Mitch said.

“If you have information about the Bayside Strangler,” Denver stared at Regan, “why didn’t you share it with us?”

“I did try, Chief Denver.” She arched a brow. “Actually, I tried on three occasions. None of my calls was returned, so I called the FBI.”

“Let’s see what you’ve got, then,” he grunted, vaguely remembering those pink While You Were Out slips, but not recalling exactly what they said. “Something about a writer?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. I’m a writer. And I will most likely write a book about this case.”

“And that entitles you to sit in on an official meeting how…?”

“Because right now I’m bringing more to the table than I’m taking away.”

Regan opened her files and handed Denver the notes her father had received. He studied them without comment at first.

“How do I know these are legit?” he asked. “How do I know that you didn’t make these yourself, to get into the investigation, give yourself an edge over the competition? You don’t think you’re the only person who might want to write a book about all this, do you?”

“No, of course not. But since my father apparently had planned on doing that some twenty years ago, I think I have first dibs on the story.”

She opened the file flat onto the table.

“My father-Joshua Landry-you may have heard of him?-received correspondence over the course of several years from someone I-and Agent Peyton-believe to have been your strangler.”

“Joshua Landry. Of course, of course. Wrote some good stuff.” Denver softened. He looked at Mitch. “You believe her? You think Landry was contacted by our strangler?”

“I do. The information we found in Josh Landry’s files dovetails perfectly with information I’ve culled from the FBI computers. Look here…”

Mitch proceeded to show Denver the lists of victims they had compiled, the news clippings, the faxes he received that morning from several of the investigating departments.

“Huh.” Chief Denver nodded slowly. “It answers the question What’s this guy been doing all these years?”

“He never stopped, sir. He simply moved around. Looks to me as if he was pretty careful to hit small towns, where they were less likely to have the sophisticated equipment and investigative techniques being used by some of the departments in larger cities.”