“How about you?”

“I’m thinking after this I might retire for good. Nothing I hate more than having to answer to a bunch of suits.”

I pause. “Can I ask you for a favor?”

“Hell yes, you can.”

“Go to Skid’s cube. See if you can find the list of snowmobiles registered in the two-county area. Scan it and fax it to me, will you?”

“I can do that.”

It’s a comfort knowing I have someone inside the department I can count on. In the back of my mind I wonder if Mona will copy the file for me. “What else is going on?”

“Glock is sending everyone out to recanvass. It’s a good call, but they’re batting zero, Chief.”

I want to remind him I’m no longer chief, but it feels inordinately good to be called that right now. “Thanks, Pickles.”

“My pleasure.”

I hang up and go back to my laptop. To my surprise, the Coshocton County clerk has e-mailed me the names of people who sold property from 1993 through 1995. There are seventeen names. I want to run the entire list through OHLEG for a cross-check. I wonder if my OHLEG account has been disabled. Curious, I pull up the site and enter my user name and password. I let out the breath I’d been holding when the law enforcement main menu appears. I go directly to OHLEG-SE, the search engine, and enter the names. I do the same with SORN, Ohio’s Sex Offender Registration and Notification database. It’s a long shot, but you never know when you might catch a break.

Knowing I’m in for a long wait on my inquiries, I go to the Holmes County Auditor Web site and begin the tedious process of searching for people who sold or transferred property from 1993 through 1995. It’s probably a waste of time; even if my suspicions are correct and the killer changed locales, he could have rented an apartment. He could have owned property in another county. Or the property could be listed under the name of a family member. The variables are seemingly endless. That’s not to mention the small problem that I’m no longer a cop. Even if I do find some connection, I’m going to have a hard time doing anything about it.

I stumble through the Web site, netting a total of four names. A knock at the door startles me. In the living room, I put my eye to the peephole to see John Tomasetti standing on the porch with his collar turned up against the cold. White specks of snow cover his shoulders. His expression is grim. Taking a deep breath, I open the door.

His eyes meet mine, then skim the length of me. “I’d ask how you’re doing, but that glass in your hand gives it away.”

“How much did you have to do with it?” I ask.

“I’m not that big a hypocrite.”

“The timing is just coincidence, huh?”

“That’s right.”

“Here’s a newsflash for you, Agent Tomasetti. I don’t believe you.”