I stick a pin in the town in Michigan. I push another in Fort Lauderdale and a third in New York City.

A triangle.

“Dr. Ailes. The last three murders form a triangle if you look at them on a map.”

He lets out a small laugh. “Jessica, any three points on a map will make a triangle. It’s getting late. You need some sleep.”

I look at the triangle in front of me. “I know. I know. But this is a pretty nice triangle.” I’m embarrassed I can’t remember the mathematical word for it. I rummage through the top drawer of a desk and find a ruler and a marker. I trace the lines of the triangle on the map. Two sides look perfectly even. “What’s the distance from Manhattan to the cemetery?”

Ailes asks me to hold and calls out to Gerald. A minute later he has the answer. “One thousand and sixty miles.”

“What’s the distance from Fort Lauderdale to Manhattan?”

There’s a long pause.

Ailes clears his throat. “Damn, about one thousand and sixty miles! Give or take. Curious. Real curious. You know, Jessica, you’re talking to three mathematicians who didn’t notice this. You may have missed your real calling. That’s a perfect triangle!”

“I’m sure one of the FBI computers would have picked it up sooner or later.” And remember what an isosceles triangle was called.

“Maybe. But only if we ask it to. Usually we only use the Data Integration and Visualization System computer when we think someone is dumping bodies randomly and can’t find a connection. Gerald is going to put these coordinates in and see what we come up with. Could be something. We might have the next location in here somewhere. Now that you’ve schooled the math teacher, go get some rest. And feel good. You saved a life today.” I sense a touch of pride in his voice.

I take a van with the other agents to the hotel where we’re checked in. We’re all tired. Some of them seem a little excited about the fact that we saved Katya. I guess they’re right to. We showed up here expecting to pick up the pieces of a murder, but we got lucky and saved someone. Barely. Still too late for Claire.

I put the keycard into the lock and kick the newspaper in front of the door across the hall. Above the fold is a high-resolution photo of Claire. In a smaller box is my photo and a headline about me, “FBI Magician on Hunt for Angel Killer.”

I can’t get away from this bullshit. I have to resist the urge to throw the paper down the hall.

Too tired to even take a bath, I just set my alarm, undress, crawl into bed, and shut my eyes. I’m still too wound-up to sleep, but if I can keep my eyes closed long enough . . .

A minute after my head hits the pillow, the phone on the nightstand rings. I answer without thinking. I should know that only one person ever calls me on actual hotel phones.