Detective Bushing dug his fingers into his open briefcase and pulled out a photograph, which he laid on the coffee table in front of me. The picture showed a pretty twentysomething blond woman in a jogging outfit. In the background, I spotted Lake Michigan and the planetarium.

“Do you recognize this woman, Mr. Moran?”

“No.”

He extracted another photograph from his briefcase. This one showed another young, attractive blonde, seated in a restaurant with a drink in front of her.

“How about her?” he asked.

“No.”

He dug into the briefcase again. Another photograph, another blonde.

“This one?”

“No,” I said again.

And once more. Again I told him I had no idea who the woman was. That was the truth. They were all strangers to me.

“None of these women look familiar?”

“No, they don’t.”

“It seems to me they all look a lot like your wife,” Detective Bushing said.

I glanced at the photographs again, and I realized that he was right. There was no denying the resemblance. The hair, the look, the smiles—they definitely all had a touch of Karly in them.

“A little, I suppose. Who are they?”

“They’re murder victims, Mr. Moran.”

I began to feel dizzy. “Murder?”

“Yeah. All four stabbed to death in the past few weeks. We figured the cases were connected, because the method was the same and the victims all looked so much alike. We couldn’t figure out what they had in common, though. Their homes, work, background—all different. It was driving me crazy, because I couldn’t find any overlap, nothing that would suggest how the same killer would have come into contact with them. Until very recently, that is.”

“I hope you don’t think the connection is that they look like Karly. Because they look like a million other blond women, too.”

“True. That’s true. No, that wasn’t the connection. I mean, it’s interesting, but only because of what else we found. Actually, I stumbled onto it mostly by accident. A witness mentioned something to me in passing, and that tied in with a restaurant receipt I remembered from one of the other victims. See, what links these women together is that they all attended an event in the ballroom of the LaSalle Plaza Hotel within a few days of when they were killed.”

I couldn’t stop myself. I gasped. “What?”

“That’s right. So I’m sure you see the problem here, Mr. Moran. Four women who look an awful lot like your wife got murdered right after they went to your hotel. And now your wife is dead, and so is the man who slept with her. Stabbed. Just like my other vics. To top it off, today we get a 911 call from someone calling himself Dylan Moran and saying he’s ready to confess to murder.”

I bolted out of the chair.

“You going somewhere, Mr. Moran?”

“I need to use the bathroom.”