He wasn’t surprised.

Now at least he understood why the victims went along with their killer’s need to have them in bridal dresses. It explained why Camille was found in the chapel, apparently of her own free will, and why Asteria died in the cemetery. But it didn’t tell him who had drugged them and forced them into being an integral actor in his bizarre play.

Drugs were easy to get these days. They could be bought on the street, stolen, or even purchased on the Internet. How many times had he, a cop for crying out loud, been bombarded with offers for GHB, another date-rape drug, in his personal e-mail account. “Son of a bitch,” he said under his breath.

It was hours later, and he’d gotten through the last of his paperwork and was no closer to figuring out what had happened to the victims than he had been.

Stymied, he stared at the images on his computer screen. Camille lying dead near the altar and Asteria in the cemetery, her gaze fixed on the night sky and the angel over the tomb where she lay.

Both orphans from St. Elsinore’s.

Both enamored with the same priest.

Both joining the convent because of trouble with men. He tapped his fingers and hadn’t noticed that beyond the window, night had fallen, darkness above the glow of city lights.

“Hey!” Montoya appeared in his doorway. Without his jacket, stubble darkening the usually shaved area of his face, looking as rough around the edges as Bentz felt.

“Yeah?”

“Look what I got in the mail.” He slid a prepaid cell phone wrapped in an evidence bag across Bentz’s desk.

“Camille Renard’s?”

“Yep.”

“Who sent it?” Gingerly, Bentz picked up the bag.

“Anonymous.”

“You check it out?”

“The info on the phone? Yeah.”

“Anything good?”

“Not sure yet, but it’s something.”

Bentz nodded. “Yeah, it’s something.” The trick was to find out just what.

“The lab’s going over it, see if they can come up with prints or even DNA from the saliva used to seal the packet, but that’ll take time.”

Which was fast escaping, Bentz thought. Still, it was something. “You think the killer sent it in? For attention? You know, playing games, showing how smart he is, smarter than us?”

“Could be.”

At that second, Brinkman poked his head through the doorway, forcing Montoya aside. “Just caught a call,” he said. “Homicide. Single white female. Working girl.”

“Prostitute.”

Brinkman offered a smug little sneer. “See, Montoya, you are smart after all. She’s been picked up before. Gracie Blanc, aka Grace La Blanc and Grace Lee Blanco. One and the same.” His grin was hideous. “As if an alias would throw anyone off track.”

“Any sign of the killer?”