He ran up to them. “Where’s Taylor? Is she okay?”

Commander Huston turned to Baldwin. She was calm, collected. Sadness tinged her eyes.

“Hello, Dr. Baldwin. The lieutenant is fine, so far as I know. We lost a witness in the parking garage, and the suspect who killed her. Detective Ross was forced to employ his service weapon in self-defense. This is a crime scene, so I need to ask you to remove yourself. This is a local case, it has no bearing on the FBI.”

She was right: he had no right to be there, no reason. But Lincoln was his friend, as was Marcus. He didn’t want to leave. And where in the hell was Taylor? She should be here by now.

He looked over to Lincoln, who was gray with misery. Marcus was standing next to him, speaking quietly. He squeezed his arm, then nodded to Baldwin.

Without speaking, Marcus walked away, back toward the CJC. Baldwin fell into step with him. They took the long way around the building, to the back entrance, then stopped on the stairs to talk.

“What the hell is going on?” Baldwin asked.

“Chick had a knife and she was inside the zone. Linc had no choice but to shoot her. He’s pretty messed up. It’s a clean shoot, straight self-defense. Problem is, three people saw what happened, and two of them are dead. He’s on leave, he’s going to get sent home for the day at least, after he sees the shrink.” Marcus slid his key card through the reader. “Where’s Taylor?”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to find out. I was hoping she was here already. She asked me to meet her. She’s looking for Sam. We think Copeland’s got her. I thought you were with Fitz?”

“I was, but when I heard Sam was missing, I got back here pronto. I’ve got two guys I trust on him. He’ll be fine. This day just keeps getting better and better,” Marcus said.

“What caused Colleen Keck to blow up?”

When they were inside the Homicide offices, Marcus went straight to Taylor’s office and beckoned Baldwin to follow. He shut the door so they could talk freely.

“Lincoln had a set of her prints run. Turns out she was living quite the lie. Her real name is Emma Brighton, and she’s from Forest City, North Carolina. Copeland’s hometown.”

“Taylor said she thought Colleen was tied to Copeland in some way. That she recognized the name.”

“That’s what Lincoln was trying to get out of her when she snapped. He thinks she was the rape victim from when Ewan was sixteen. She was in the group home with him.”

Baldwin smacked his forehead with his hand. “My God. That makes perfect sense. No wonder he was targeting her—he’s wrapping up loose ends. She started her life over under a different name. Got married. Had a kid.” Another thought hit him. “Her husband’s murder was never solved, right? I bet Copeland was responsible somehow.”

“It’s possible… He was killed on the interstate during a drug interdiction sting—all caught on camera, but whoever did it knew how to shield his face. They knew it was a man, just by the size of him, but that was all they got. The ballistics never matched anything, it was a clean gun.”

“That sounds like Copeland. He found his old flame Emma living as Colleen Keck. He knew who she was married to. He used Keck’s name to visit his mother three years ago. He spent years looking for her, then decided to systematically ruin her life. At her most basic, she was a witness. We know he’s changed his face cosmetically several times since then. He’s been posing as Barclay Iles, from Forensic Medical. One of my profilers is serving the plastic surgeon he’s been using with a warrant right now.”

“No shit?”

“Nope.” Another thought hit him. “The blog name. Felon E. E for Emma. I wonder if she did that intentionally or subconsciously? I bet after her husband died, she couldn’t help herself. But who was the woman Lincoln shot, the one who killed Colleen?”

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out. She doesn’t have any ID on her.”

Baldwin stood and paced for a minute. “The clues that he sent us, with the license plate numbers and Sam’s address. There was a leftover letter—an E. E for Emma Brighton, E for Felon E.”

“Makes sense.”

“I didn’t ask—how was she killed?”

“Gruesome. Her throat was slit.”

It hit him in a rush. “Marcus, we’ve got to go back out there. I think I know who Lincoln shot in the parking structure. And if it’s her, this just became my case, too.”

Fifty-One

The man who would be Richard Cooper loved this hotel. He figured he was due for a splurge—being on the road for several days, the pressure of imitation, the stakes, the hunt and the kill—he was simply exhausted. After he checked in, he’d utilized the exercise room, worked up a good sweat, then opened his pores in the sauna, followed by a cool bath with a fine green-tea scrub that had him clean and rosy pink. He ordered a clean lunch—organic greens, papaya and pineapple, a small piece of grilled salmon. He felt lighter, emptier than he had in days. Food on the road, in a rush, drive-throughs and greasy spoons, none of this was compatible with his lifestyle. He took care of himself. His body was his temple. He didn’t drink or smoke. He rarely, if ever, took medications. He committed to treating his body the way it was meant to be treated, nothing fake, nothing artificial. Fresh, whole foods, things that could be grown, captured or hunted.

Especially hunted.

He set his empty plates back on the cart and wheeled it out into the hallway, so the scent wouldn’t linger and spoil his appetite. He closed the door, triple locked it, then went to the luxurious leather chair situated at just the right angle to watch some television. He planned to watch the news then read the afternoon away, perhaps take a stroll, though it was so nippy outside. He was disappointed they hadn’t done this in the summer, the hotel’s pool was exceptional.

He found the remote stashed in the drawer of an oak side table within easy reach, turned the television on. Thank goodness for cable news, at your fingertips twenty-four hours a day.

His heart dropped as he watched the flashing red Breaking News! banner cross the screen. He turned the volume up carefully. Listened as the anchor described his past few days with stunning accuracy. The whole game had been discovered.

It was one thing for Troy to summon them without warning—he hadn’t appreciated that. He’d done a lot of work lining up his kill in Cincinnati, and he didn’t like walking away from a plan. But it was a completely different issue to have the media on top of the story.

It was on all the major stations. He flipped through a few times, then caught a name. His name. Not his real name, of course, he wasn’t that stupid, but the name he’d been using in connection with this contest. The name he’d used for the hotel.

He forced himself to stay calm. He needed to walk out of the hotel immediately. He’d leave the rental car, he’d already wiped it down, a nightly precaution he took, and take apart the BlackBerry. He’d succeeded this long because he wasn’t stupid, though now he was questioning his intelligence in getting involved with a man who was obviously on a death mission. Troy Land, he called himself, though he knew that name was as fake as his own current nom de plume.

He packed his duffel quickly, put on his clothes. Put on the baseball cap he’d used when he checked in to keep his face off the cameras. Decided to take the linens and robe with him; though he’d only sat on the edge of the bed, he might have left a DNA trace somewhere and he didn’t need that hassle. He ran a piece of masking tape along the edges of the chair and on the floor underneath. He always ate with gloves, so prints weren’t an issue, and he’d washed the silverware in hot water with soap to get the DNA off them, but he wasn’t going to take any chances. He opened the door carefully, no one in the hallway. Thankfully the maids hadn’t removed the tray yet. He bundled everything together; he’d burn it once he was clear of town.