Julia knelt on the other side of Skinner’s body. „No. But look at these depressions on both sides of his skull. Same size, same placement just behind his ears.“

„Vise grip,“ Jack said and Julia looked up at him with approval.

„That would do it.“

„Do what?“ Abe asked.

Julia stood up. „I’ll be able to confirm it after the autopsy, but if your boy is consistent and this bullet hole in Skinner’s forehead is postmortem and not the cause of death, I’m thinking we’ll find blood in his lungs.“

Abe sighed. „Meaning he cut out Skinner’s tongue and immobilized his head with the vise so that he drowned in his own blood.“

Mia rose to her feet, brushing her knees. „I think we need to put a watch on the guy that was acquitted for Renee Dexter’s rape. It’s logical that that’s where he’ll strike next.“

They all stepped back as the ME’s office zipped Skinner into a body bag.

„He’s crossed the line,“ Kristen murmured. „Skinner was a bastard in the courtroom, but he never broke the law.“

„What’s next?“ Jack asked bitterly. „Judges?“

„Or prosecutors who don’t win,“ Abe said and Kristen’s eyes widened, meeting his. „This guy has no boundaries, Kristen. He doesn’t blame you yet, but that could change.“

„We asked Spinnelli to give you twenty-four/seven protection,“ Mia said and Kristen opened her mouth as if to protest, then closed it.

„Thank you,“ she said instead.

„And until then,“ Abe said, „you stay with one of us.“

Mia’s phone beeped and she flipped it open. „Mitchell.“ Her lips curved in a feral smile as she listened. „You don’t say. Ain’t technology grand? Hold on.“ She looked at Abe, blonde brows lifted. „They found Skinner’s car across town. It has one of those global positioning systems.“

Abe’s pulse jumped. Finally a break. „Ask them if they can track the car’s movements Thursday night.“

Mia looked satisfied. „They can and they did. Looks like we have our own little x-marks-the-spot.“

Saturday, February 21,

7:00 A.M.

He staggered back against his basement wall, nauseous. He slid to the floor. Gasping. His heart thundering as if it would claw its way out of his chest. His hands, his arms, his chest, his face… all covered in blood. I did this. Dear God… I did… this. This.

He closed his eyes. Relax. Take a deep breath. Get control of yourself.

He drew in the air with deep gulps, shuddered it out, felt control return in slow spurts. He was finished. Angelo Conti was dead. Very, very dead.

Bracing his feet on the cement floor, he pushed against the wall, forcing himself to his feet. And surveyed the carnage he’d left in the process. He’d lost control. He mustn’t allow that to happen again.

But Conti deserved it, the cocky punk. It had been no great mystery finding him last night. He’d just waited until Angelo came out of his favorite bar just off Northwestern’s campus, weaving drunkenly. He’d headed for his brand-new Corvette, obviously intending to get behind the wheel. Conti hadn’t cared that he was too drunk to walk. One would think the boy would be minding his manners after narrowly avoiding prison for the murder of Paula Garcia and her unborn son, but obviously Angelo thought himself charmed.

Angelo had been wrong…

He never saw me coming. He could have just hit Conti on the head and dragged him into the van, but something about that drunken swagger and the brand-new Corvette made his blood boil. So he’d popped his knees. Both of them.

Then he’d coshed him on the head and dragged him to the van.

He’d savored the anticipation of Conti’s return to consciousness, the fear that would make the boy’s eyes go glassy and his tongue finally stop flapping. But no. Angelo had roused from his stupor surprisingly alert and in seconds had figured out where he was.

And who I was.

He hadn’t stopped talking, and before I knew it, the tire iron was in my hand. The first few blows were to get his attention. But still Conti wouldn’t shut up. Then he started talking about Kristen.

And I lost control.

The things Conti had said… vicious, vile things. „How did she pay you for doin’ her dirty work, huh? How was she? I bet there’s a real tiger under that prissy suit.“ He kept talking, saying perverted, vile things about him, about Kristen. He just wouldn’t stop.

And then neither could I.

He drew a breath. No one would recognize Conti now. Most of his face was gone. There would be no sense in taking any Polaroids. He walked to where he’d left Conti’s things and found the boy’s wallet. His driver’s license had been taken away for too many DUI’s. But Conti did have a university-issued photo ID. That would have to do.

He busied himself, taking care of Conti. The sharp crack of his pistol and the acrid odor of a fired weapon soothed. It was routine by now.

He checked his watch and grimaced at the time. „I’m late,“ he murmured. He had to clean himself up and get back to work. Later, he’d return and make the marker. Paula Garcia and her unborn son deserved that much.

Saturday, February 21,

9:30 A.M.

Trevor Skinner’s wife was a thin, pale woman who looked as if she’d collapse at any moment. She was no help when it came to any questions about her husband’s whereabouts, any strange visitors, nothing that would explain how Skinner was lured to the place where he’d been shot Thursday night.

They’d found the ambush site easily, thanks to modern technology. Skinner subscribed to one of those global on-call services that track motorists by satellite so that they can send help should there be an emergency. The service also provided driving directions. Luck was with them. Skinner called for directions to an abandoned factory site, where the killer shot his kneecaps and moved him elsewhere. Apparently the car was then stolen by passing teens who drove it to where it was found that morning.

Abe was ready to call it quits with the hysterical Mrs.

Skinner when an elderly housekeeper tentatively tugged at his jacket sleeve. „Sir?“ she whispered. „There was a package delivered.“

At instant alert, Abe and Mia escorted the housekeeper to the next room where they could hear her soft voice over Mrs. Skinner’s understandable hysteria.

„When was this package delivered, ma’am?“ Abe asked.

„Thursday.“ She shrugged uncomfortably. „Maybe two o’clock.“

„Did you see anyone deliver it?“

„No, sir. Someone just rang the doorbell and left it there.“

„Can you describe this package, ma’am?“ Mia asked.

„It was wrapped with plain brown paper. There was a label, typed, just with Mr. Skinner’s name. It was very light, like air. About so big.“ She gestured with her hands.

Light like air. A single piece of paper, another letter, most likely and Abe wondered what could have been compelling enough to lure Skinner out. „Did you see a car, ma’am?“

„Yes, yes I did. It was a white van. I remember thinking it was odd because it was a florist van, but there were no flowers.“

„Yes,“ Mia muttered. „A flower by any other name smells just as sweet. Did you open the box?“

The housekeeper’s eyes widened in something akin to horror. „No. Mr. Skinner didn’t like us touching his things. He was very particular.“ The housekeeper looked over her shoulder at the sobbing Mrs. Skinner. „He’s really dead?“

Oh yeah, thought Abe. Mr. Skinner is very dead. „Yes, ma’am. We’re very sorry.“

Saturday, February 21,

4:00 p.m.

„Diana Givens won’t be able to help us.“ Mia’s pronouncement from the backseat of Reagan’s SUV was glum. „Nobody can help us. The bullet’s too damaged.“