“The hotline and website are on fire,” one of the district commanders, Gerry Hockney, reported in. “It’s all over the place, literally. Hennessey’s a government operative. He’s holed up in a storage facility in Ohio, he’s in Florida, he’s in Toronto —”

Perkins cut him off. “Anything credible? I need to know what we have, not a lot of useless bullshit.”

“It’s too early to say, to commit to anything. We’re overwhelmed, sir.”

“In other words, no. Who else? Alex?”

I waved from where I was. “Waiting on a weapons report from that double homicide on Vermont Avenue last night. Two John Does found shot dead in a car, with cash on them but no IDs.

“It was definitely nine millimeter, but we don’t know yet if it was the same weapon that killed Mitch Talley.”

A huge buzz went up around the room, and I had to shout to get everyone’s attention back.

“Even if it was,” I went on, “the most it can tell us about Hennessey in the short term is that he was in the city sometime between twelve and four a.m.”

“Which means he could be anywhere by now,” Sampson said, giving the shorthand version for me. “Which means we should wrap this shit up and get back out there.”

“Do you think Hennessey was working for the two dead guys in the car?” someone asked anyway.

“Don’t know,” I said. “We’re still trying to track down who they were. It does seem like he’s cleaning house, though. Whether or not he’s finished is another question we don’t have an answer for.”

A lieutenant in the first row spoke up. “Do you mean finished cleaning house, or finished with these sniper killings?”

The questions were natural, but they were starting to get on my nerves. I held my hands out in a shrug. “You tell me.”

“So, in other words,” Chief Perkins cut in, “we’re nearly twenty-four hours out and we know less than we did before these murders, is that it?”

Nobody wanted to answer. There was a long silence in the room.

“Something like that,” I said finally.

Chapter 101

TWO MORE DAYS of nerve-rattling quiet went by without much progress or any sign of Steven Hennessey or even anyone who might know him. Then, finally, there was some movement over at the Bureau. Max Siegel called me himself to tell me about it.

“We got something over the Web,” he said. “Anonymous, but this one checked out. There’s a guy going by Frances Moulton, supposedly fits Hennessey’s description down to the toenails. He’s got an apartment over on Twelfth, except nobody’s seen him for approximately two months. Then, this morning, someone spotted him coming out of there.”

“Someone — who?” I asked.