“So you’re equating our murders with Hinkley’s efforts to impress Jody Foster?” Alves asked.

“Even though his ultimate goal was to impress her, I think Hinkley was trying to gain fame by killing someone important. He committed his crime so brazenly that he couldn’t help but get caught.”

“But our killer is careful not to get caught,” Mooney said.

“Think about it,” Connie said. “He gives a fortune to someone who’s dead. That doesn’t make sense. But if the fortune is for someone else, a lover, an old girlfriend, then it does.”

“And he doesn’t spend the rest of his life in jail,” Mooney concluded. He poured himself another coffee. “Not bad. Problem is no one’s reading those fortunes. We held them from the media.”

“I’ve thought about that too. Look at his first message,” Connie said. “‘STOP SEARCHING FOREVER, HAPPINESS IS RIGHT NEXT TO YOU.’ Say there’s this woman. Sees her every day. He’s afraid to tell her how he feels so he tells her through the fortune. But, key point, he doesn’t know you’re not going to release the message.”

Alves and Mooney looked at Connie. They’d caught his drift.

“Let’s say, for the sake of argument,” Mooney interrupted, “that he’s been in jail. Gets paroled, finds a job. She works at the same place. Or maybe they go to the same gym or she rides the same train. To you or me, that might seem like a coincidence, small world, bup-bup-bup-bup. But to him, bingo, looks like fate. The last fortune-‘DEPART NOT FROM THE PATH WHICH FATE HAS YOU ASSIGNED.’”

“My theory? Even if he got his girl,” Connie said, “he won’t stop killing. He enjoys the challenge. This woman he’s infatuated with gives him a good excuse.”

“I like what you’ve come up with here,” Mooney said. “Maybe I’ll put you on the case instead of Angel.”

Alves didn’t laugh.

“Another thought. Is our mystery woman Chinese?” Connie asked. “Is there anything else of significance about Chinese culture?”

Connie watched as Alves made eye contact with Mooney. Mooney laughed. “You think fortune cookies have anything to do with real Chinese culture? There’s nothing else.”

There was something. Connie could tell by the way Alves had turned to Mooney for a sign. There was something they were keeping from him. He’d get it out of Alves later.

“Maybe we leak those fortunes, from an unnamed source of course, to the media,” Mooney said. “Convince him we’re getting sloppy or desperate.”

“Too dangerous,” Alves said.

Connie could see Mooney was thinking about every possibility, like a maze when you trace out your routes in your head until you find the one way that gets you to the endpoint without any dead ends.

“We have to try something, Angel,” Mooney said finally.

Sleep watched her as she pranced around her room. The attic was dark, and he stood away from the window, with his binoculars. He had such a lovely view. He could almost see the fine pores of her skin. She was getting her clothes ready for work the next day, the new work week. She had set up the ironing board and pressed several outfits, trying each of them on, always positioning herself so that he could see her changing. She knew he was watching. She had to know.

Each night she put on a show for him, acting as though she were getting ready for work. She was really just giving him a preview of the woman who, one day, would belong to him.

He held his breath as she folded the ironing board. Next she would be getting ready for bed. It was almost more than he could bear. He watched as she removed her bra and panties. She only gave him a momentary glimpse, before she pulled a long T-shirt over her head. She was such a tease. That’s what he liked most about her.

He couldn’t believe she was still so beautiful after all these years. His little princess. He remembered the day he’d met her, the day she moved in across the street. He fell in love with her immediately. But she was young for her age, interested in athletes, guys with cars, material things. Inevitably, she would mature and come to realize that her true love had been right there all the time.

After putting on her nightshirt she walked to the wall and flipped the light switch. He hated this part. Bedtime.

He would try to see her again tomorrow night. If he could find the time.

Now he had work to do. He walked to the opposite side of the attic, the unfinished side. He closed the door behind him before turning on the light. The brittle yellow shade was drawn on this window. It was always drawn. He bent down and pulled two old trunks from under the eaves. He unlocked them with the keys from his pocket. He was struck with the smell of mothballs as he opened them.

It was time for him to select the outfits.

He had made a guess as to the size of the tux he would need and removed it from the larger trunk. It didn’t have to be a perfect fit, after all. He chose a paisley cummerbund and matching suspenders to complete the outfit. The young man would look quite dashing. He locked the trunk and slid it back under the eaves.

Then he rummaged through the other trunk and found the dress he was looking for, an ecru satin affair that would look lovely on its new model. He placed the garments on hangers to air them out, let the wrinkles fall out naturally. He turned off the light and went back down to his room.

Judging from the line out the door of the courthouse, it was going to be a typical Monday.

Connie took out his credentials, flashed his badge, and stepped around the metal detectors. The line at the elevator bank was five people deep. No way he could wait. Connie took the stairs to the sixth floor.

He checked with the clerk. Judge wasn’t in yet. He looked around the lobby for the defense attorney on the case, Sonya Jordan. Harvard professor and true believer. Almost a month ago, they’d locked horns outside the grand jury after Tracy Ward gave up the name of his shooter. It was impossible to have a discussion with her. For her, everyone was being persecuted. And all her clients were innocent. He’d first met her when she was dating his old friend Mitch Beaulieu. Much as he liked Mitch, he and Sonya had never been friends. She’d stayed in Boston after Mitch’s death. Now she was on a mission to crucify the DA’s office.

As the supervising attorney for the Harvard Law students in their clinical program, she led an army of budding lawyers she brainwashed into believing that prosecutors were a bunch of fascists. She kept this case for herself in superior court. Maybe because Connie was the prosecutor.

He spotted Sonya Jordan in the corner speaking with her client. She held up a finger asking him to wait. When she finished, she came over to him. “Mr. Darget, are you ready for trial?” She never dropped the formalities. No matter how many cases they had together, he would always be “Mr. Darget.”

“Ms. Jordan,” he was careful to maintain the same level of formality. “I’m as ready as I’m going to be. I just need the cops to show up with the gun.” His strategy was like a pro football coach overstating injuries of key players to lull his opponents and gain an edge.

“This trial won’t be an enjoyable experience. I don’t care for self-righteous sheep that get their rocks off by locking up innocent people in cages. Unlike you, Mr. Darget, I protect our precious liberty and uphold the Constitution. A Constitution that serves one purpose, to protect us from an overzealous government. To protect us,” she pointed her long manicured nail at his chest, “from white guys in white hats.”

Connie smiled. He didn’t want to let her get to him. “My job is to hold people accountable for their crimes. So let’s save the histrionics for the jury, Ms. Jordan.” He took a couple steps ahead and opened the courtroom door for her, bowing gallantly. Just to irritate her.