“Fuck BCI!” growled Hardwick.

Esti emitted a small sigh and turned to Gurney. “Dave? What do you say?”

Gurney said nothing. His mind had been ambushed by too vivid a memory. A sickening thump. A red BMW speeding away from the scene … down a long city street … turning a corner with squealing tires … disappearing … forever. Except in his memory. The victim of the hit-and-run lying twisted in the gutter. The little four-year-old boy. His own Danny. And the pigeon Danny had followed, unthinking, into the street—the pigeon rising on a flurry of wings, alarmed but untouched, flying away.

Why hadn’t he commandeered a car right there on the street?

Why hadn’t he pursued the killer, right then and there, to the gates of hell?

Sometimes the memory triggered tears. Sometimes just an aching in his throat. And sometimes a terrible anger.

The anger was what he felt now.

“Dave?”

“Yes?”

“Do you think it might be time to hand the case over to BCI?”

“Hand it over? And stop doing what we’re doing?”

She nodded. “It’s really within their—”

He cut her off. “No. Not yet.”

“What do you mean, not yet?”

“I don’t think we should let Panikos escape. And if we stop, that’s what will happen.”

Whatever remaining desire she might have had to argue the point seemed to melt away. Perhaps it was the granite in Gurney’s voice. Or the determination in his eyes. The message was clear. He wasn’t about to hand anything over to anyone.

Not while the killer was still within reach.

Not while the red BMW was still within sight.

After they took a break to check and respond to texts and voice mail, Gurney put on a third pot of coffee and opened the double doors to let in the balmy August air. As usual, he was surprised by the fragrances of warm earth, grass, wildflowers. It was as if he were incapable of remembering what nature smelled like.

When they were all resettled at the big table, Esti’s gaze met Gurney’s. “You’re the one who seems sure about how we should proceed. You have some specific steps in mind?”

“First we need to decide on the content of our message to Panikos. Then the channel of communication, the identity of the target we want him to zero in on, timing, necessary preparation, and—”

“Slow down, please, one thing at a time. The content of the message? You mean telling him we know something about this secret he’s protecting?”

“Right. And that we’re about to reveal it at some specific time.”

“And the channel? You mean how we actually get this message to him?”

“You said it yourself this morning. Criminal Conflict. Brian Bork. I’d bet that Panikos saw Bork’s interview with Lex, and he probably also saw Bork’s interview with Jack after the Cooperstown fires.”