It was after midnight now, but sleep was out of the question. Gurney got a notepad and pen from his desk in the den and spent some cramped time under each car, copying down the information printed on the trackers so he could look up their performance parameters on the manufacturer’s website. GPS-based trackers all worked pretty much the same way, transmitting location coordinates that could be displayed as an icon on a map, viewable through appropriate software on virtually any computer with an Internet connection. The cost variability among the commercially available systems related to range, positional precision, software sophistication, and real-time accuracy. The technology had become, even at high levels of performance, fairly inexpensive—and therefore accessible to just about anyone who wanted it.

As he was pulling himself out from under the Miata for the second time that night, Gurney felt a vibration on his right hip, which startled him. He instinctively linked it to what he was doing, thinking it was somehow caused by the GPS device. A moment later he realized it was his phone, which he’d earlier set on vibrate to avoid waking anyone in the house if and when Hardwick got back to him.

As he scrambled to his feet, he pulled the phone from his pocket and saw Hardwick’s name on the ID screen.

“That was fast,” said Gurney.

“Fast? The hell are you talking about?”

“Fast answers to my questions.”

“What questions?”

“The ones I left on your voice mail.”

“I don’t check my voice mail in the middle of the night. That’s not why I’m calling you.”

Gurney had a sickening premonition. Or maybe he just knew the shifting tones of Hardwick’s voice well enough to recognize the sound of death. He waited for the announcement.

“Lila Sterne. Wife of the dentist. On the floor, inside their front door. Ice pick to the heart. That makes three current, plus the six oldies. Total of nine. No end in sight. Thought you’d want to know. Didn’t think anyone else at this point would bother to tell you.”

“Jesus Christ. Sunday, Monday, Tuesday. One every night.”

“So who’s next? Any bets on Wednesday’s ice pick?” Hardwick’s tone had shifted again—this time into the cynical register that went through Gurney like nails on a blackboard.

He understood the basic police need for detachment and black humor, but Hardwick always seemed to go beyond the necessary. That excess was the surface reason for Gurney’s reaction, but he knew there was something deeper, something in that tone that reminded him of his father.

“Thanks for the information, Jack.”

“Hey, what are friends for, right?”