“Staged. Everything about the crime scenes, the rose, the champagne, the handcuffs, the flaying . . . It’s the killer making us see what the killer wants us to see. So we won’t notice the rest of the details. For example, the victims were asleep, their deaths quick. It’s not a crime of passion or bloodlust. It’s calculated. Staged. Frankly, I’m beginning to wonder if the first two murders weren’t simply a ruse to cover Janet Sgarzi’s death. To make it look like she was the random victim of a serial killer instead of a targeted prey.”

“Except she was already dying of cancer.”

“Maybe not fast enough. Charlie’s asking questions now, not later.”

“I can tell you one winner from all of this,” Alex said with a sigh. He moved her feet off his lap, rose to standing.

“Who?”

“Harry Day. Thanks to Sgarzi’s blog comparing the Rose Killer to Harry Day, news stations are going nuts resurrecting details from Harry’s homicide spree. Frankly, he’s gone from a nearly forgotten serial killer to front-page news. Not bad for a guy who’s been dead forty years.”

D.D. looked at him. “Told you we were stupid!”

She scrambled off the sofa, jarring her shoulder, further aggravating Melvin. But he was gonna have to live with it, because she needed her computer tablet—now.

Alex went to the kitchen to fetch a glass of water. By the time he returned, she was already Googling merchandise from murderers. Four sites popped up. She went with the top one on the list and started scrolling.

Alex came to stand behind her, as she remained rooted in the middle of the family room.

“What is that?” he asked in horrified fascination, as the page loaded up with images of skulls, bloody daggers and yellow crime scene tape.

“A website for murderabilia. Incarcerated killers write notes, paint pictures, and other people hawk it to collectors online. Apparently, when the Night Stalker died last year, purchase prices tripled for a month.”

“Are you buying or selling?”

“Window shopping. Check it out. Handwritten confession letter from Gary Ridgeway, aka the Green River Killer. One hundred percent authentic, the seller assures. Or, get this, a letter from Jodi Arias. With sexually explicit details. Holy crap, that’s going for six grand from some seller in Japan with a five-star rating.”

Alex made a face. “Seriously?”

“Face it, the Internet is nothing but a giant shopping mall. Given these kinds of items are banned on eBay, they were bound to find another outlet.”

“A signed confession letter, original art, Christmas cards,” Alex was now reading over her shoulder. “A dozen custom-designed cards from your favorite killers. Because nobody says Merry Christmas better than Charles Manson? How does someone even get such stuff?”