“Any idea where he got it?”

“Manufacturer’s a company called Teletech. They’ve been around forever. Seeing that it’s a match with the wire from the earlier crime scenes, I’d say he got a good supply of the stuff somewhere. Kept it on hand over the years.”

“Maybe he works for a phone company or a company that installs security systems,” Alves said. “He might be an electrician. Any one of those jobs would put him in regular contact with this kind of wire.”

“He could have bought it at Home Depot, like everyone else. Paid cash for part of a roll and kept it on hand. I don’t think it’s any indication of what he does for work.”

Alves shook his head. “Have you ever been to a mason’s house, Eunice?”

“You mean like a Benjamin Franklin, George Washington type Mason, or a tradesman who lays bricks?”

“Works with bricks.” He avoided the word lay. He figured she was through with the flirting, but why give her ammunition?

“I can’t say I have, but if you know one who’s not married, feel free to give him my number.”

“I’ll get on that.” He smiled. “If you ever get lucky enough to see a mason’s house, you’ll notice that all of the home improvements involve masonry work. New walkway, brick. New siding, brick. Garden edging, old bricks. Kitchen and bathroom floors are tile, never linoleum.”

“What’s your point?”

“My point is that people like to work with a familiar medium. If a guy works with concrete, he’ll put in a concrete walkway with a concrete apron around his house. My next-door neighbor is an electrician. If he gets bored on weekends, he changes light fixtures, puts in new circuit breakers and transformers. Once he even dug a trench in his front yard and ran PVC pipe underground so the power and phone lines running to his house wouldn’t be visible.”

Eunice tried to interrupt him, but Alves held his hand up.

“The most important thing I’ve noticed about this neighbor is that he uses pieces of that heavy Romex electric line-the kind with the positive, negative and grounding wires in the white casing-to tie things up. He uses it instead of rope. If he puts a ladder on the roof of his van, he secures it with a couple of pieces of Romex. Rolls up his garden hose for the winter and ties it with Romex. His wife plants a sapling in the back yard, he keeps it upright with a piece of rebar and Romex. He uses it for everything because that’s what he’s familiar with.”

“So your next-door neighbor is the killer because he likes to use electrical wire to tie things.”

“What I’m saying is the killer didn’t just choose this type of black telephone wire. It chose him,” Alves said. “Maybe that’s the case with everything he uses. Mooney brought this up last night and it got me thinking. What if this guy is with a local theater group? What if he does lighting and electrical work for them? That would give him access to the wire, the makeup, and the clothes. Working in theater would give him a reason to go to thrift shops, yard sales, and flea markets looking for used formal wear for men and women. No one would question it.”

“Problem is the makeup isn’t that heavy theatrical makeup. He caked it on the best he could so the victims looked good from a distance, but it was inexpensive makeup, like Revlon, the kind that’s sold in pharmacies and supermarkets.”

“This is the first time he’s used makeup,” Alves said.

“I noticed that. I guess he just wanted to add a new touch to his creation. Another thing. I’m not sure if this tells us anything, but the clothes smelled like naphthalene.”

“What’s that?”

“Mothballs. Old school mothballs. They still make them, but most mothballs today are made with dichlorobenzene. Less flammable.”

“So it makes sense that he could have had the clothes in an attic.”

“Or he just bought them at a flea market,” Eunice said. “Stuff someone else had stored away. So it doesn’t tell us anything, really.”

“I can’t help but think this guy has this stuff packed up and ready to go. We know he’s got a supply of the wire. We know he’s had the same gun all these years. I’m willing to bet he’s done the same with the clothes. What about the jewelry?”

“The first victim had a gold necklace, real emeralds.”

Alves had read in the reports that Kelly Adams’s mother loaned it to her for the prom.

“After that, costume stuff. Similar, but cheap glass beads. I can’t tell you if he bought the jewelry last week or ten years ago.”

“Eunice, are you familiar with the BTK Killer?”

Eunice nodded. “Bind. Torture. Kill. Dennis Rader.”

“Rader lived what most people would call a normal life, aside from the fact that he was a murderer. He was involved with his church, Boy Scouts, a regular family guy. But he had a ‘hit kit’ with pistols, knives, venetian blind cords, plastic bags, duct tape, electrical tape. He kept it all hidden in a closet until he went out on one of his ‘projects.’ Sometimes he shoved the stuff he needed into a coat pocket, sometimes he’d carry it in a black bag or a briefcase. Maybe our guy’s had his ‘kit’ stored somewhere over the years. I’m checking the local storage facilities. There weren’t that many ten years ago.”

“The next safest place would be with a girlfriend or wife, if he had one,” Eunice winked.

“Exactly. He had to have been living somewhere, with someone he could trust. Problem is we’re not going to find that person until we find the killer.” Alves felt a sudden surge of tension run from his shoulders up into his neck. He could expect a headache if he didn’t get some fresh air soon.

Alves needed to get back out on the streets. He’d had enough of sitting in offices and conference rooms, reading through old case files. Courtney and Josh were his latest victims, and that was where Alves needed to focus his attention. “Thanks, Eunice.”

“Any time, handsome.”

He went for the door, then stopped and turned back to Eunice Curran. “You’ll let me know if you come up with anything else.”

“I always do.”

I found a broken meter,” Zardino said. “Never pass up a broken meter.”

“What good is it if it’s in Cambridge?” Luther asked.

“Stop crying.” But Luther was right. It had been a long walk in the hot September sun. As they rounded the corner onto Huntington Avenue, the Northeastern University campus came into view. “We’re going to be here for a few hours. I needed a good spot. Finding the perfect parking spot is one of my many talents.”

“You could have dropped me at the door.”

“If I’m walking, you’re walking.” Zardino smiled. “The good news is that you get to look forward to walking back.”

“Not today. I have a meeting with a client at the Youth Center. I’ll take the T when the conference ends.”

Zardino picked up the pace. “The mayor doesn’t like it if you show up late for one of his events.”

Luther lengthened his strides, and Zardino had to jog to keep up with him. Today was the mayor’s Annual Peace Conference, held every year around the time school started. Everyone would be there: elected officials, law enforcement, social services, professors, some students. The place would be packed, and he and Luther were speaking.

“We’re sitting on another panel today, Luther. Just follow my lead. I’ll talk a little bit about my life, my background and my experience in the criminal justice system, how I was framed and wrongly convicted. And you can talk about your experience.”

“As a real criminal, someone rightly convicted?”

“As someone who got caught up in a bad situation and made some mistakes,” Zardino explained patiently, “but who’s turned things around. You know the spiel. The same pitch we use when we talk on the street.”

“I don’t mind telling people about the mistakes I’ve made,” Luther said. “But why should I humiliate myself in front of a bunch of suits, cops and white women social workers from Wellesley?”