“He’s a big fella,” he said.

“Who’s that?”

“Ralph.”

“Toughest guy I know.”

“I’d hate to have to fight him.”

“So would I.”

Greer was single and in the dating scene, so as we started toward the briefing room, I asked if he had any suggestions for a good place for a romantic dinner.

“Romantic, huh? So something beyond your typical pub and grub?”

“Yeah. Somewhere special.”

“Giuseppe’s in the Village. I was there last week. The place is amazing. That’s where you need to take your woman. When are you wanting to go?”

“That’s the thing. It’s a bit last-minute. Tonight. You think it’s too late to get a reservation?”

He scoffed lightly. “There, you’d be lucky to get one a month out. But I know someone who knows the manager. Maybe I can call in a favor.”

“Not if it’s any trouble.”

“No trouble at all. What time?”

“Seven. A reservation for two.”

“Don’t worry, Pat.” He congenially slugged my arm. “We’ll get you two taken care of.”

41

Blake stared at the email.

It was a photograph of Julianne Springman, the young woman who’d come to him the other night asking for his help, asking if he knew someone she could work with. Now, in this picture, she was in the trunk of a car, and based on the color of her skin, she was deceased.

The reddish tinge spoke to carboxyhemoglobin, which might come from carbon monoxide poisoning, or possibly, smoke inhalation.

Okay.

Interesting.

There was a message typed beneath the photo: I’d like to speak with you.

Was this the work of Timothy Sabian? Was that possible? How else would she suddenly show up dead right after having his name passed along to her?

Although it wasn’t by any means conclusive, the timing certainly spoke to a connection.

It appeared that Mr. Sabian was mentally deranged and of murderous intent after all.

Well, you did warn Julianne. You did do that.

But how did Sabian get this email address? And why would he have sent this photo? What was the point? Was it meant to be a threat?

Blake couldn’t come up with any good reason why the psychotic novelist would’ve sent him a photograph of Julianne Springman’s dead body. If it was a taunt, it was not well-advised.

Over the last eighteen months, Mannie and his hacker friends had proven to be invaluable to Blake, so now he called him into the room and showed him the picture. “I want to know where this email originated from. Can you figure that out for me?”

“I can.”

“Do it. Whoever sent this deserves a little visit.”

Mannie left for his workstation.

Blake had moved his team to the old greenhouse facility just over the line in Connecticut.