I wanted to keep him on the line — the lifeline, as I now thought of it. “A few far-flung possibilities in the Far East, Bangkok, the Philippines, Malaysia. Women abducted and murdered, all Jane Does. To be honest, nothing too promising at this point.”

I imagined him pursing his thin lips and nodding thoughtfully. “I understand, Alex. Please keep giving me whatever you get from your sources. It’s difficult for us to get help outside this small island. My calls for assistance frequently aren’t returned. I sincerely wish that I had some good news for you on my end, but I’m afraid I don’t.

“Other than Perri Graham, no one saw the man with the van. No one seems to have seen Christine Johnson in Hamilton or St. George, either. It’s truly a baffling mystery. I don’t believe that she ever got to Hamilton. It’s frustrating for us, too. My prayers are with you and your wonderful family and, of course, John Sampson.”

I thanked Patrick Busby and hung up the phone. I went upstairs and dressed for work.

I still had nothing really substantial on the murder of Frank Odenkirk, and The Jefe was contacting me daily on e-mail. I certainly knew how the Odenkirk family felt. The media heat about the homicide had died down, though, as it often does. Unfortunately, so had the Post stories about the unsolved murders in Southeast.

While I was taking a hot shower, I thought about DeWitt Luke and the mysterious “watcher” on S Street. What was the man in the Mercedes doing out there for so long? Did he have some connection with the murders of Tori Glover and Marion Cardinal? None of this was making complete sense to me. That was the truly maddening thing about the Jane Doe murders and the Weasel. He wasn’t like other repeat killers. He wasn’t a criminal genius like Gary Soneji, but he was effective. He gets the job done, doesn’t he?

I needed to think more about why someone had been lurking outside Tori Glover’s apartment. Was he a private detective? A stalker? Or was he actually the murderer? One possibility hit me. Maybe the man in the car was an accomplice of the killer. Two of them, working together? I’d seen that before in North Carolina.

I turned up the water, made it hotter. I thought it would help me to concentrate better. Steam out the cobwebs in my brain. Bring me back from the dead.

Nana began banging on the pipes from downstairs in the kitchen. “Get down here and go to work, Alex. You’re using up all my hot water,” she yelled above the noise of the shower.

“Last time I looked, my name was on the water and gas bills,” I shouted back.

“It’s still my hot water. Always was, always will be,” Nana replied.

Chapter 61