"Vincent? Fred Stolfutz."

Stolfutz was the assistant US attorney helping D'Agosta draft the search warrant affidavit for the Ville. "Hi, Fred. So what do you think?"

"If you're trying to get in there looking for homicide evidence, you're going to be out of luck. The evidence is too thin, no judge will approve a warrant. Especially after what you pulled on Kline the other day."

"Christ, how'd you hear about that?"

"Vinnie, it's all over the place. Not to mention how the commissioner—"

D'Agosta interrupted impatiently. "So what are the options?"

"Well, you said this place is deep in the woods, right?" "Right."

"That rules out plain — use doctrine: you can't get close enough to, say, see evidence of a crime in plain view or smell marijuana smoke. And there won't be any exigent circumstances, somebody screaming for help or something."

"There's been plenty of screaming — by animals."

"See, that's what I was thinking. You'll never get in there on a homicide rap, but I could probably draft something about cruelty to animals. That's a statute we could make stick. If you go in there with an animal control officer, you can keep your eyes out for the other evidence you're looking for."

"Interesting. Think it'll fly?"

"Yes, I do."

"Fred, you're a genius. Call me back when you know more." D'Agosta hung up the phone and returned to the problem at hand.

On the surface, it wasn't complicated. Good witnesses, excellent witnesses, had seen Fearing enter and leave the building. And even though the results weren't official, and couldn't be used in court, the man's DNA had been found at the scene, something the official results would eventually confirm. Fearing was stalking Nora and, again, there was the proof of his DNA. His crypt was empty — no body. That was the proof on one side.

On the other side? An overworked, sloppy asshole of a medical examiner who couldn't admit he'd made a mistake. A tattoo and a birthmark, either of which could be faked or mistaken, given the time the body was in the water. A sister's ID, but false IDs had happened before when a family member was too distraught, or the body too changed. Maybe it was insurance fraud, with the sister in on it. The fact that she had disappeared afterward just added to the suspicion.

No: Colin Fearing was alive, of that D'Agosta was sure. And he was no frigging zombii, either. Was Kline behind it, or the Ville? He'd keep up the pressure on both.

D'Agosta picked up his coffee, stared at it, then poured it into the wastebasket, following it with the cup. Enough of that shit. He thought about the crime itself. It just didn't look to him like a rape gone bad. And the guy hadstared at the camera going in. The man knew he was being recorded — yet hedidn't care.

Pendergast was right. This was no disorganized killing: there was a plan here. But what plan? He swore under his breath.

The phone rang again.

"D'Agosta."

"Vinnie? It's Laura. Have you seen the West Sider this morning?"

"No."

"You'd better get yourself a copy." "What does it say?"

"Just get yourself a copy. And…"

"And what?"

"Expect a call from the commissioner. Don't tell them I told you, just be ready."

"Shit, not again." D'Agosta re — cradled the phone. Then he stood up and headed for the nearest bank of elevators. He could probably scrounge a copy up on the floor, but if Laura was right, he needed to carve out some time to digest whatever it was before the commissioner called.

The elevator bell rang, and a set of doors opened. A few minutes later, D'Agosta approached the newsstand in the lobby. He could see theWest Sider hung prominently on the upper left rack, as usual. He dropped his two bits on the counter, slid one off the top of the pile, and tucked it under his arm. Stepping into the Star — bucks across the lobby, he ordered a single shot of espresso, took it to the table, and opened the newspaper. The lead article practically yelled out at him:

D'Agosta stared at the espresso, which barely covered the bottom of the paper cup. Whatever happened to the preheated demitasses they used to serve it in? He shot it down, barely tasting it, snapped the paper flat, and began to read.

He had to admit, for a shit — piece of a story it was effective. Nora Kelly and the reporter had gone up to the Ville at night, jumped the fence, and heard the whole thing. Then they'd been chased away, by who or what was left vague, but the reporter insinuated it had the appearance of a zombii. The reporter went on to wonder how the city could have allowed a public road to be closed, and whether animal cruelty laws were being broken. There were quotes from Smithback's article on the Ville, descriptions of the vévé left at his apartment door prior to the murder, as well as the weird stuff left at the murder scene itself. There was a pithy quote from the head of an animal rights group. While the reporter made no direct assertions of a connection between the Ville and Smithback's murder, the thrust of the article was unmistakable: Smithback had started writing about animal sacrifices, and he'd been planning to do more. And then there was a line that particularly burned him, typical of this kind of reportage. "Repeated attempts to reach Lieutenant Detective Vincent D'Agosta, in charge of the Smithback homicide investigation, were unsuccessful."

Repeated attempts. His cell phone was on night and frigging day, and his office number rolled over to it after hours. Now that he thought about it, he had gotten a call or maybe two from that woman, Kidd, but who has time to return every call?Repeated attempts, my ass. Twice, more like it. Well, okay, maybe three times.

Now he knew exactly why Laura Hayward had called.

The previous article, about voodoo, had been a joke. But this one had some real meat, and the piteous description of the bleating animal being killed was all too effective. Animal lovers, he knew, could be damn near rabid.

The theme song fromThe Good, the Bad, and the Ugly rang out in the coffee shop. D'Agosta quickly grabbed his cell phone, flipped it open, and walked out into the lobby.

The commissioner.

"We speak again," said the commissioner.

"Yes, sir."

"I assume you've seen the West Sider piece?"

"Yes, sir, I have." He tried to keep his tone respectful, as if yesterday had never happened.

"It seems that you might be barking up the wrong tree with Kline — eh, Lieutenant?" The voice had a cold edge to it.

"I'm keeping all lines open in this investigation."

A grunt. "So what do you think? Ville or Kline?"

"As I said, we're pursuing both leads."

"This thing has really exploded. The mayor's concerned. I just got calls from the News and thePost. This business about you being unavailable for comment… Look, you need to be out there, reassuring people, giving answers."

"I'll schedule a press conference."

"You do that. Two o'clock would be a good time. Focus on the Ville — and leave Kline out of it." A crackle as the connection was cut.

D'Agosta headed back into Starbucks. "Give me four shots of espresso," he said. "To go."

At the best of times, D'Agosta hated press conferences. And this was hardly the best of times. There was little to tell — and what there was to tell seemed to beggar belief. As he peered through the doorway into the briefing room — every seat taken, the reporters and cameramen and officials all shouting over each other — Commissioner Rocker came up beside him. "Ready with your statement, Lieutenant?"