“But we checked him out,” Liska insisted. “There was nothing. Zip. Nada.”

“But there he is,” Kovac said, pointing at the screen.

“Or a guy who looks vaguely like him,” she argued. “As a single woman, I hate to say it, but there are a lot more guys running around looking like that guy than any Hollywood heartthrob.”

“Well, I don’t like it,” Kovac said stubbornly. “That’s three too many coincidences.”

“You think a serial killer would just happily hand over his vehicle to crime scene investigators?” Liska asked.

“If he knew he’d cleaned it up well enough.”

“Those are some cojones.”

“Yeah, Tinks,” Tippen said. “You might want to reconsider lowering your standards on the rest of the package if the guy has a set like that.”

Liska rolled her eyes. “That’s just wishful thinking on your part.”

“Frank Fitzgerald. I talked to that guy on the phone yesterday,” Elwood said, bringing them back on point. “His name was on the call list for reviewing the old cases. He was sorry to hear we had a new one.”

“Where was he?” Liska asked.

“Iowa number.”

“Doesn’t mean he’s in Iowa,” Kovac said.

“Doesn’t mean he’s not,” Liska returned. She glanced up at the television sets, her eyes going wide. “What the fuck?!”

She grabbed the remote and hit Pause, freezing the frame on Aaron Fogelman walking away from the counter at the Holiday station near the Rock & Bowl the night of Penny Gray’s disappearance. Kovac could feel her shock and braced himself for what would follow it. She turned and punched him hard on the arm.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” she asked, glaring at him. “You watched this all the way through, and you didn’t mention this to me?”

“I just watched it this far through this morning. This is like ten minutes after the Gray girl leaves the store.”

“And gets in the trunk of that sociopath’s car! Goddamnit, Kojak! How could you not bring this to my attention?”

“You know, I got a little distracted by a kidnapping,” he said. “Do you think this kid was up at three in the morning snatching Dana Nolan off the street?”

“Don’t be stupid!”

“I’ve got the other guy in two videos related to two victims, and reporting the dead body of a victim a year ago,” Kovac said.

“You’ve got a hunch based on a vague resemblance, and you want to bet it like a trifecta at the racetrack!” Liska argued. “Are you out of your freaking mind?

“Aaron Fogelman hit Penny Gray not twenty minutes before this video,” she said. “He punched her. The kid has a violent temper. He’s a liar. Here he is in this store within minutes of our victim. And you’re going off about some poor schmuck from Iowa who probably isn’t even in the state? Have you gone senile?”

“I’m not saying we exclude the Fogelman kid as a person of interest on the Gray homicide,” Kovac said. “I’m saying there’s a bigger possibility here.”

“Well, say it to someone else,” Liska said, getting up to move away from him. “We’ve got people in Penny Gray’s life who are lying out their asses every time they open their mouths, and that kid is one of them,” she said, pointing to the screen. “For Christ’s sake, the girl’s own mother just lawyered up. I’ve already got a call in to Aaron Fogelman’s father. I’m betting he does the same. I know where my focus is staying.”

Kovac spread his hands in surrender. “That’s fine,” he said. “Stay on it. I hope you’re right, Tinks. Because if you’re not, we’ve got a bigger monster on our hands than I want to think about.”

41

On the upside of kidnapping a news reporter was the fact that he didn’t have to wonder about the investigation. There were no long lapses in coverage of the case, particularly on the station she worked for.

Fitz kept the TV tuned in for all the breaking news—of which there was none, of course. They kept showing the parking lot of Dana Nolan’s apartment building, blocked off with fluttering ribbons of yellow crime scene tape and crawling with cops and crime scene investigators swarming around her car like ants on a scrap of food.

He recognized Kovac moving around the scene with his hands jammed in his pockets and his shoulders hunched against the wind. There was no sign of his partner, Liska. That was a bit of a disappointment.

The NewsWatch people kept putting up photographs of their missing news girl and making pleas for information. The level of desperation was very high. He liked that. The adrenaline rush he got from hearing that was something new and intoxicating and probably addicting. He had always been happy with his way of doing things. The balance of risk to reward he maintained had always been just right for him. But this, he admitted, was heady stuff. He had to be careful not to get drunk on it and make a mistake. He had to keep his objective in mind.

He had a point to make.

He couldn’t get too excited that the homicide captain, Kasselmann, made a personal appearance not only at the official press conference but in the studio on the NewsWatch set, to say the police department was taking very seriously the idea that they were dealing with a very dangerous predator in Doc Holiday. Giving credit where credit was due.

That was all he really wanted at the heart of it, he thought with a smile as he turned to his latest victim, who was still alive and crying, waiting for him to kill her. He was an artist, and he wanted recognition for his work.

He chose a knife with a fine sharp point and leaned over the terrified girl. She was naked, tied down spread-eagle to the work table. He had removed the duct tape from her mouth and replaced it with a red ball gag. He could smell her fear. The scent was an aphrodisiac like no other. Her eyes widened with panic as he touched the tip of the blade to the center of her chest. Blood bloomed rose red against her pale white skin.

“And you, my love,” he said as the excitement stirred within him, “will be my masterpiece.”

42

“The address on his DL is one of those mailbox places,” Kovac said, pouring another cup of coffee. He figured he had to be on his second gallon of the day. Dinner was pizza someone had left over from lunch. Dessert would be a handful of whatever antacids he could find in his desk drawer. Tinks had gone home to feed her kids. He wished he was one of them.

“We’ve got a phone number, right?” Kasselmann said, taking a seat at the table, which was littered with paperwork and file folders, coffee cups and food wrappers. He cast a dubious glance at the lone remaining piece of pizza drying out like a piece of roadkill on the abandoned greasy cardboard box. He had spent most of his day dealing with the media. The knot in his tie was still square. His only concession to exhaustion was the removal of his suit jacket.

In contrast, Kovac knew he looked like he had crawled out of bed after sleeping off a three-day bender in his clothes. He needed a shave. He needed a shower. He needed a good night’s sleep and a long vacation on a beach someplace where no one had ever heard the words windchill factor. He had spent the day either freezing his ass off outdoors or sweating like a horse in this room.

“Elwood spoke to him yesterday. He said the guy was cordial and sympathetic and wished he could do something to help,” Kovac said. “I called the number this afternoon and left a message requesting a callback. I haven’t heard anything.”