The Odenkirk murder case? The Jane Does? Perhaps even Christine’s disappearance? Was Interpol or the FBI getting close to something that had scared them? We weren’t close to anything that could solve any of the cases, and I knew timing was critical.

Early Wednesday morning, Sampson and I drove to Eckington. A woman over there knew where a purple and blue cab was garaged. We’d followed up a dozen or so leads like this already, but it didn’t matter. Every lead had to be investigated, every single one.

“Cab owner’s name is Arthur Marshall,” I told Sampson as we walked from my car toward a redbrick garden apartment that had seen better days. “Trouble is, Arthur Marshall seems to be a false identity. Landlady has him working at a Target store. According to Target, he doesn’t. Never worked at any Target store. Hasn’t been seen around for a while, according to the landlady.”

“Maybe we spooked him,” Sampson said.

“I hope not, but you may be right.”

I glanced around at the lower-middle-class neighborhood as we walked. Overhead, the sky was a bright-blue canvas, nearly empty of clouds. The street was packed with one- and two-story homes. Bright-orange fliers were sticking out from the mailboxes. Every window was a possible lookout for the Weasel. “Back away,” he had warned. I couldn’t. Not after what he’d done. I knew I was taking a risk, though.

He probably spotted us canvassing the streets. If he was responsible for the Jane Doe murders, he had been working undetected for a long while. He was skillful, good at killing, at not getting caught.

The landlady told us what she knew about Arthur Marshall, which wasn’t much more than the information she needed to rent him a one-bedroom apartment and the attached garage. She gave us a set of keys for the place and said we could go look for ourselves.

The second house was similar to the landlady’s, except that it was painted Easter-egg blue. Sampson and I entered the garage first.

The purple and blue cab was there.

Arthur Marshall had told the landlady that he owned the cab and operated it as a part-time job. That was a possibility, but it seemed unlikely. The Weasel was close. I could feel it now. Had he known we would find the cab? Probably. Now what? What came next? What was his plan? His fantasy?

“I’m going to have to figure out how to get some techies in here,” I told Sampson. “There has to be something in the cab, or maybe upstairs in the apartment. Hair, fibers, prints.”