7:26 a.m.

Omaha Police Headquarters

Nick Morrelli crushed the paper cup and tossed it into the corner wastebasket. He’d had enough coffee. He was tired. He wanted to go home. He rubbed his eyes and paced the room, a poor excuse for an employee lounge with a metal table and folding chairs, a row of vending machines, coffee maker and a sagging sofa along the back wall.

The door opened and his captor came in, shirt sleeves rolled up, shaved head shiny with perspiration. Detective Tommy Pakula handed Nick a black and white print-out, a copy of a driver’s license.

“Do you recognize this guy? Maybe seen him around any of your properties?”

The license had been enlarged which only made the photo blurred. The guy looked pretty ordinary, could be anybody.

“No, I don’t think so.”

Pakula sat down in one of the folding chairs. Pointed to one across the table for Nick to sit down. They’d already done this. What more could he ask? But Nick sat down. Tommy Pakula was one of the good guys. Four daughters. Still married to his high school sweetheart. Nick had been questioned by him before a couple years ago. Another case. Another killer.

“You were a sheriff not so long ago,” Pakula said, getting Nick’s attention. That was true. Nick had been a county sheriff. Got his fill after a killer almost claimed his nephew as his next victim. Just when Nick thought Pakula might finally cut him some slack, the man came in with another verbal punch. “You should know better. So tell me again why you thought you should be touching this dead guy before you called us?”

“If he wasn’t dead I wanted to help him.”

Pakula raised an eyebrow.

“It’s Gino,” Nick said, almost a whisper.

He watched Pakula sit back, pull in a long deep breath. Rubbed his jaw.

Everybody loved Gino. Nobody knew his last name but he was a familiar face downtown, part of the landscape. Years ago he used to sell Italian sausage and peppers out of a rickety stand he’d set up on the corner of Sixteenth and Douglas, right in front of the Brandeis Building. Suddenly he was living on the streets. Tall, thin – a little bent over as he grew old – with friendly brown eyes that sparkled despite his situation. Security guards, police officers, even the guys on the newspaper’s loading dock, they all loved Gino. Took care of him. But they hadn’t taken care of him last night.

“Is this the guy you think stabbed Gino?” Nick asked and held up the print-out.

Pakula nodded. “FBI thinks so, too. He’s done it in other cities. We’ve been keeping an eye out ever since he hit Kansas City about two weeks ago.”

“Mind if I keep this?”

“Go ahead. Maybe check with your security people. You said your company has how many buildings downtown?”

“Nine. Plus three in the Old Market.”

Nick folded the print-out. Tucked it in the back pocket of his trousers. He’d get this bastard himself if he had to. Then he tried to decide if he should tell Pakula that the Rockwood Building had security cameras on every corner. Before he decided, the door to the lounge opened again and a young cop stuck his head inside.

“Sorry to interrupt. A woman’s here to see you, Detective Pakula. Insisted I tell you that she brought you doughnuts all the way from Kansas City?” The cop’s face flushed a bit, like he wasn’t sure if he should be delivering what sounded like a personal message.

Pakula smiled and stood up. “Send her in here.”

The cop disappeared. Pakula shot Nick a look. Another smile.

“FBI,” he said. “First time I met her I was eating a doughnut. Had a cup of coffee in my other hand.” He shook his head, but the grin hadn’t left yet. “She’ll never stop busting my chops about that.”

Nick should have figured it out, but he was totally surprised when the lounge door opened again and Maggie O’Dell walked in, carrying a white bakery box that she meant as a joke for Pakula. From the look on her face when she saw Nick, he figured the joke was probably on her. But only for a second or two.

“Nick Morrelli,” she said. “I haven’t seen you since you drove off with that blonde bomb expert in Minneapolis.”

Nick winced. Damn, she was good.

10:57 a.m.

The last time Maggie had worked with Nick Morrelli they spent hours watching security footage. Mall of America. The day after Thanksgiving. Black Friday became bloody Friday. Three college kids set off backpacks filled with explosives.

Here they were again, sitting in a small room in front of a wall of computer monitors.

“How’s Timmy and Christine?” she asked. She and Nick had a history that went back further than Minneapolis. They’d worked on a serial killer case when Nick was a sheriff. And again, years later when the killer returned.

“Timmy played football this year. Christine’s good.”

They sat side by side in captain’s chairs like pilots in a cockpit. Pakula would join them in a half hour or so.

“How’s your doctor?” Nick asked, keeping his eyes on the computer monitors but unsuccessful in keeping the sarcasm out of his voice.

Instead of telling him that Benjamin Platt was not hers, she simply said, “Ben’s good.” She didn’t ask whatever happened to the blonde bomb expert. That was over a year ago. She knew Nick probably didn’t even remember the woman’s name anymore. And therein lay the reason that she had never seriously considered a relationship with Nick Morrelli.

Simply put – he wasn’t relationship material. Maggie had too much drama in her professional life to put up with it in her personal life.

But charming, yes. Handsome – God, he was still gorgeous. Dark eyes and dark hair. He had managed to keep his college quarterback physique. She didn’t deny that there had been chemistry between the two of them. Just sitting next to him she could still feel it. Annoying as hell.

She tried to turn her attention to the monitors. She was exhausted from lack of sleep. Her back was tight and tense from a slippery three-hour drive in a small rental car because everyone else had the good sense of renting the SUVs before the snow hit. Somehow she needed to focus.

She pulled up the chair. Planted her elbows on the table in front of her.

“Who are you this week?” she said aloud, like the Night Slicer might answer.

“Pakula gave me a copy of the driver’s license.”

“That’s all we have.”

“You think he changes his appearance?”

“He must, but I’m guessing it’s subtle. He definitely changes his name. He has a normal life somewhere. I think he travels the country on business. Different cities. A new group of people each time who don’t know him. We have that picture from the driver’s license out to every metropolitan police department. We haven’t gotten a hit yet.”

“But you’ve been tracking him?”

“Only by his M.O. He’s right-handed. Uses a double-blade stiletto. At least seven inches long. He does a blitz attack. It’s probably no more than an incidental bump. Slips the blade in just under the breastbone where he knows he won’t have any bone chattering. And the angle of the knife is interesting.”

She paused while Nick tapped buttons on a keyboard and started the film footage from a camera labeled: Northwest corner of Rockwood.

“His image was captured on a security camera at the Tennessee Performing Arts Center. Actually it was only his back but it was enough to give us some idea of how tall he was compared to his victim. He has to angle the blade—”

She pushed out her chair and stood. “It’s probably easier if I show you.” Fact was, she was too exhausted to talk about it. He glanced up at her, paused the monitors and stood up in front of her.

She grabbed a ballpoint pen from the table and held it in her right hand the same way she believed the Night Slicer did.