“Got a time of death?” I ask.

“Call came at a few minutes after five.”

Ravenswood is a Chicago neighborhood about five miles away from us, but Bobalik’s victim died at the same time ours did. I frown at the obvious conclusion.

“It gets better,” Bobalik says. “Guess what happened in Englewood at the same time?”

“One more dead pervert,” I say, quoting the card.

I fill Bobalik in on the details, then hang up and relate everything to Herb.

“Three snipers,” he says. “Jesus. Why don’t we ever get the normal cases? A guy gets drunk, shoots his neighbor for playing his radio too loud?”

I look at the business card again and wonder the same thing.

ON THE CAR RIDE to Ravenswood my phone rings again. I inwardly cringe, hoping it isn’t another sniper death. The fates smile; it’s my fiancé.

“Did I catch you at a bad time?” Latham asks.

I picture him in his office, wearing a snazzy suit. Red hair. Green eyes. Boyish smile. Broad shoulders and trim waist. That leads to me picturing him without the suit. I almost say something dirty, but don’t want Herb to hold it over my head for the rest of my life.

“Your timing is perfect,” I say into the phone. “Are you calling to accept my mother’s kind invitation?”

“I’ll do my best to cram in as much of Mom’s home cooking as I possibly can.”

I live with my mother in the suburb of Bensenville. That’s a big no-no for Chicago cops (living outside the city, not living with your mother). But the mortgage is in her name and so far I haven’t been caught. I love Chicago, but Mom wanted a more laid-back lifestyle and I wanted to keep an eye on her because she’s getting up there in years. So we bought a cute little ranch house in a woodsy area and I braved a daily one-hour car ride to and from the Job.

It’s about as much fun as it sounds. To make up for the commute, I get to experience the joy of weeding, painting, home repairs, cutting the lawn, tarring the driveway, cleaning the gutters, and countless other homeowner tasks that I so enjoyed living without when I had an apartment in Wrigleyville.

But at least Mom is happy.

Since Latham proposed, Mom has been inviting him over more and more, foisting food, drink, and conversation on the poor guy. It isn’t easy for Latham. Not just the travel back and forth from the city, but he had a bout with botulism earlier this year and hasn’t fully recovered. He still retains some residual paralysis in his legs, and an aversion to food in general.

Thankfully, the paralysis doesn’t extend to his other parts.

“It will be a few hours,” I say. “I’ll be tied up until at least seven or eight. Can we eat at nine?”

“That’s fine. I’m on my way there now. I promised Mary we’d play some rummy.”

“Mom guilted you into coming early?”

“Not at all. I enjoy spending time with your mother. Besides, we play for money. I’ve already won her pension, now I’m going for her Social Security.”

I smile. “Mom told me she was up sixty bucks.”

“She cheats, Jack. She looks all cute and harmless, but she’s a wily one. I think she deals from the bottom of the deck.”

Can a woman ask for anything more than her future husband hanging out with her mom? Plus he’s caring, funny, attractive, and he puts up with me. Good sex sealed the deal.

“See you later,” I say. “I love you.”

“Love you too, Jack.”

“Love you more.”

“No, I love you more. See you to night.”

He makes a kissing sound and I grin and make a kissing sound back, then we hang up. I glance at Herb, who does a good job of ignoring me by occupying his mouth with a chocolate power bar. Herb insists he snacks on these for energy, even though he has more than enough energy already stored in the extra eighty pounds of fat he carries around.

“That probably doesn’t have much fiber in it,” I offer.

Herb licks some chocolate off his fingers. I once asked Herb what the difference was between power bars and regular candy bars, and he told me that power bars had more calories.

“For energy,” he’d said.

When he had his heart attack a while back, he was the only one who seemed surprised.

“I thought we had an unspoken agreement, Jack.” He’s taken on a superior tone. “You don’t question my eating habits, I pretend to ignore it when you make kissy-face on the phone.”

“I don’t make kissy-face on the phone.”

“Yes you do. And for your information, this power bar does contain fiber. It’s in the caramelized peanuts.”

I snort. “The wrapper has more fiber.”

“I’m eating that next.”

This long-dead horse has been beaten many times, so I change the subject. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking about the last crime scene?”

Herb’s turn to snort. “Yeah. Welcome to amateur night.”

I drum my fingers on the steering wheel. “What kind of shooter grinds the engraving off the bottom of his bullets? Think about the misfires.”

“He should be more worried about shooting himself in the face while he’s filing it down. A pro would simply pick up his brass.”

“A pro would also know we would find the slug. Hell, anyone who watched TV knows the word ballistics.”

I left the cartridge with Rogers to take to the crime lab. He ID’ed it by sight, without needing to use acid etching to bring out the markings. A.338 Lapua Magnum. A caliber specifically designed for sniping, and hopefully unique enough to be able to track. I have a team doing just that.

“And did you see his hide?” Herb shakes his head. “Can you imagine the guy, squatting in a bush, facing the sidewalk?”

If you want someone dead, it’s relatively easy to ring his doorbell and shoot him in the chest when he answers. Much easier than shooting him from two hundred yards down the street at a scheduled time.

“This isn’t just about the death,” I say. “This is a game. A bunch of knuckleheads playing soldier, getting their kicks shooting sex offenders long distance.”

I leave the next part of my thought unspoken – that a knucklehead could kill you just as easily as a pro. In some cases, they’re even more dangerous. Soldiers are taught patience and discipline. An amateur takes unnecessary chances and makes big mistakes, exposing more people to risk. This TUHC group might be easier to track down than an expert hired gun, but they might also hurt a lot of innocents before that happens.

My phone rings again. I find it on my seat without taking my eyes off the road.

“Daniels.”

“Is this Jacqueline Daniels?”

A female voice, rote and professional.

“Yes. Who is this?”

“This is the Heathrow Facility, you’re on the list of people to inform.”

The Heathrow Facility is a maximum security center for the criminally insane. I’ve sent a few people there over the years. The arresting officer is always called if one of the inmates dies. They’re also called when an inmate is released, or escapes.

“Who is this regarding?” I ask.

“Alexandra Kork.”

A feeling overwhelms me, like the shower has gone from hot to cold. Kork is one of the most dangerous people alive. I’d met her under another name, and her entire family consisted of psychopathic killers. She almost murdered me, and several people I cared about, in horrible ways.

“What about Kork?” The words are hard to get out, sticking in my throat like chicken bones. A dozen thoughts run through my mind at once, the most pressing being Please don’t tell me she escaped.

“Alexandra Kork died this morning.”

I blow out air through my mouth, and my shoulders sag.

“It appears to be a suicide,” the woman continues. “She set herself on fire with some aerosol spray.”

That sounds like Kork. She’d kill herself in a horrible way like that.