“I think we should check out Samuel Hayes,” Phil announced as they finally reached his vehicle. “Seventeen-year-old boy at the time of the murder. Clearly had some kind of relationship with Shana given that the foster mom caught the two of them together. Probably has his own past, being a teenager in the system. Definitely old enough and big enough to kill a twelve-year-old. And maybe still thinking about Shana after all these years. His first girl, the one who got away, the one he can never forget. He researches her obsessively, learns everything there is to know about her infamous father, Harry Day. . . . Embarks on his own crime spree. Hell, maybe the rose and champagne aren’t for the victims at all. Maybe they’re really for Shana. These murders are his love letters to her.”

“That’s creepy!” D.D. said, but she was shivering, and from more than the night air.

Phil’s phone rang. He paused in the process of unlocking the doors to take the call. D.D. and Adeline waited patiently on the curb, as Phil nodded, listened, nodded some more, then exclaimed, “Shit!”

D.D.’s eyes widened. Family man Phil hardly ever swore. That was generally her contribution to their squad.

“Charlie Sgarzi has organized a protest in front of the MCI,” Phil announced, ending the call and pocketing his phone. “Apparently, he wrote some blog this afternoon, giving away all the details from his mother’s murder—”

“Shit,” D.D. moaned.

“Including the removal of skin, the possible homage to Harry Day, a serial killer no one could even recall until about four P.M. this afternoon. Except now, thanks to Sgarzi, all the major news stations are leading with we have a copycat predator, imitating a legendary serial killer as he picks off vulnerable women all over Boston. And, oh yeah, Harry’s equally infamous daughter Shana Day seems to have insider’s knowledge of the crime, including knowing ahead of time how many strips of skin had been removed from the bodies—”

“How did Charlie know that?” D.D. exploded. “We never told him that.”

Phil shrugged. “He’s a reporter. I imagine he did some investigating. And you know the ME’s office . . .”

“Shit!” D.D. said again. Because lately, the ME’s office had been leaking like a sieve. Ben Whitley hadn’t pinpointed the leak yet, but he’d better figure it out soon, before the higher-ups had all their heads.

“Well, Charlie’s now at the MCI, and apparently he’s whipped into quite a frenzy demanding justice for the victims. Are you up for one last field trip?” Phil asked Adeline, as they’d left her car downtown.

“I’ll go.”

“I fucking hate reporters,” D.D. muttered as she climbed gingerly into the car.

“Shit,” Adeline agreed.

• • •