Bolton waived dismissively and Gerry answered the phone.

After a few seconds of listening, he nodded. “Bob, Bob, listen, we have a plumbing situation. I’m sorry, but I got three inches of water on the floor and…” He listened. “So do what I’m telling you—go to Leary’s or The Fermanagh. Go somewhere. Okay?”

He hung up, gave us another shrug.

I said, “How do you know Kara wasn’t killed by someone she knew? Micky Doog? Or a gang initiation rite?”

Oscar shook his head. “It doesn’t play that way. All her known acquaintances have alibis, including Micky Doog. Plus there’s a whole lot of her time unaccounted for while she was back in the city.”

“She wasn’t hanging around the neighborhood much,” Devin said. “Her mother had no idea where she went. But she was back in town only three weeks and it wasn’t like she could have made that many acquaintances over in Brookline.”

“Brookline?” I said, remembering my dream.

“Brookline. That’s the one place we know she went several times. Credit card receipts from Cityside, a couple of restaurants around Bryce University.”

“Jesus,” I said.

“What?”

“Nothing. Nothing. Look, how do you know these cases are connected if the vics were killed in different ways?”

“Photographs,” Bolton said.

A block of dry ice melted in my chest.

“What photographs?” Angie said.

Devin said, “Kara’s mother had a stack of mail she hadn’t opened in a few days before Kara died. One of them was an envelope, no return address, no note, just a photograph of Kara inside, innocent photo, nothing—”

Angie said, “Gerry, can I use your phone?”

“What’s the matter?” Bolton said.

She was already at the bar, dialing.

“And the other guy, Stimovich?” I said.

“No one at his dorm room,” Angie said and hung up, dialed another number.

“What’s up, Patrick?” Devin said.

“Tell me about Stimovich,” I said, trying to keep the panic from my voice. “Devin. Now.”

“Stimovich’s girlfriend, Alice Boorstin—”

“No one at Diandra’s office,” Angie said and slammed the phone down, picked it up, began dialing again.

“—received a similar photo of him in the mail two weeks ago. Same thing. No note or return address, just a photo.”

“Diandra,” Angie said into the phone, “where’s Jason?”

“Patrick,” Oscar said, “tell us.”

“I have his class schedule,” Angie said. “He only has one class today and it was over five hours ago.”

“Our client received a similar photograph weeks ago,” I said. “Of her son.”

“We’ll be in touch. Stay there. Don’t worry.” Angie hung up the phone. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she said.

“Let’s go.” I stood up.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Bolton said.

“Arrest me,” I said and followed Angie out the door.

18

We found Jade, Gabrielle, and Lauren dining together in the student union, but no Jason. The women gave us “Who the fuck are you?” looks, but answered our questions. None of them had seen Jason since this morning.

We stopped by his dorm room, but he hadn’t been by since the previous night. His roommate stood in a haze of pot fumes with Henry Rollins’s pissed-off wail booming through his speakers and said, “Nah, man, I got like no idea where he’d be. ‘Cept with that dude, you know.”