“Be careful,” I told him. “After escaping from the FBI Field Office, getting out of a local police station might just be a cakewalk for him.”

“I hear you. I’m not leaving his side until he’s locked up tight. By the way, you know those sounds we heard coming from inside the truck?”

“Yes.”

“He busted up a bunch of the mannequins and laid out the limbs and heads.”

“What?”

“Some sort of design on the floor of the semi. Filled half the truck.”

“The limbs and heads in a pattern?”

“Yeah.”

Or a code.

“Send me a picture of it.”

“We’re en route.”

“There are officers on-site, right? Call them. I need to see what Mannie left in there. If I’m right, it might be a message.”

“For who?”

“Me.”

++++

Thurman met me in the lobby. “The senator and Rockwell are waiting upstairs,” he said.

“Walk with me. Tell me everything you know about the charities and the donations.”

As we rode the elevator, he filled me in on what he’d discovered.

In the first two instances, the donations had been made before the deaths to nonprofits that the victims supported and that were doing research that would benefit a sick relative—cancer research in one case, AIDS research in another. In the third instance, the donation to a hospital was sent after the suicide.

It seemed extraordinary to me that the money alone would’ve motivated the victims to take their own lives, but their visits to the Matchmaker’s website indicated that they might’ve already had suicidal ideation and Thurman speculated that the money ended up just being the tipping point the victims needed.

Motives. What a tangled mess they were. I was just glad it wasn’t my job to make sense of them.

“And Jon Murray? Was it the gambling debts?”

“His dad’s bookie has connections to Sheldrick.”

Why didn’t that surprise me.

“How much money are we talking about?”

“Almost a quarter of a million dollars. Enough to torpedo his career if it became public knowledge.”

The senator had assured me that his debt wasn’t significant, that it was under control.

“All paid off?” I said to Thurman.

“In full. Anonymously, three hours before Jon’s death.”

We came to the conference room, excused the agent who’d been waiting there with Rockwell and the senator, and, knowing that I’d been at the hospital, they asked if I was okay.

“Yes,” I told them. “I’m fine.”

The blood on my pants might not have inspired too much confidence in what I was saying, but they left it at that.

There he was: Marcus Rockwell, the billionaire. Blonde. Wearing black skinny jeans, canvas tennis shoes, and a stylish sweater. My eyes were on his Chuck Taylor All-Stars—the same type of shoe that’d left sole impressions outside the window at Senator Murray’s house.

“Now, how can we help you?” the senator asked.