“She probably gave him time to chill a little after the crying jag,” Diesel said, although he feared there was more to it than that.

“I hope you’re right,” Deacon murmured.

Ohio River, Cincinnati, Ohio
Saturday, March 16, 4:15 p.m.

Cade got out of his car, giving his padded gut a surreptitious pat. He was armed to the teeth. Just in case. He pushed his sunglasses up his nose, then tugged on his knitted cap, making sure it was snug. His bald head would stick out like a sore thumb here. It was cold enough for a cap, so he wasn’t obvious.

He needed to remain that way. He’d parked at the end of a very long row of police and crime scene investigation vehicles, all pulled into an orderly line at the edge of the gravel road that was little more than a trail. Seemed all these investigators had hiked from here to where he’d parked his SUV when he’d dumped his newest bodies, twelve hours before.

Shit. There were three cops standing guard along the crime scene tape and five CSU techs wearing coveralls, their shoes protected with booties.

They’re looking for evidence. Of me. Shit. He fought the urge to swipe his hand over his bald head. That would be obvious. He knew he’d left no body hair behind, because he had none, but who knew what else they might find?

Like tire treads. Shit. Some guy was squatting next to where he’d parked while dumping Brian Carlyle and Paul Engel early that morning. The guy, who wore an FBI jacket over his coveralls, was making a plaster mold.

Cade glanced at the tires of his SUV. Shit, shit, shit.

Terror caught hold of his lungs and for a moment he couldn’t breathe. Get out. Get out of here. Now.

But that would also look suspicious. Drawing deep breaths, he calmed himself. What was I thinking, coming here?

He hadn’t been thinking at all. He’d panicked. He’d searched online for the fisherman’s name and found it nowhere. Nowhere. That meant it was being withheld by the cops. Which meant the man had seen something.

Which means he saw me.

Shit.

No. Do not panic. That’s what got you here. Don’t run, it’ll get you noticed. Just breathe. And wait. And listen.

He got his best information by simply listening.

And sure enough, a young man approached with stumbling steps, stopping at the crime scene van. He reached inside the front passenger door and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. His hands shaking, he took out a cigarette and tried to light it, but his finger kept missing the lighter’s wheel. He was clearly distressed.

Cade took another deep breath, gathered his composure, and approached. “Can I help you with that?”

The man glanced up, his eyes a little wild, his face alarmingly pale. “Thanks.”