Michaels vehemently shook his head and turned to Grant. “You’ve talked enough to Monte Ferguson to know how distinctive his voice is.”

“If by that you mean annoying, yes, I most certainly do. Where is he now?”

“I haven’t a clue,” said the editor. “I’ve tried his mobile at least a dozen times, dropped by his flat, even the Chelsea pub where he drinks himself into a stupor most nights, thinking he’d gone there to celebrate. But he’s nowhere to be found.”

“He’s probably hiding out knowing the commander will haul him into jail for interfering with a police investigation,” surmised Frankel.

“He’ll be lucky if that’s all I do to him,” said Grant.

Grant asked Michaels a few more questions but there wasn’t more to tell. He insisted the editor get in touch immediately once he heard from Monte Ferguson. Michaels promised to do so. The editor wouldn’t make the same mistake twice and apologized for any damage that he might have done.

The editor left, and Grant considered the apology. The truth be told, any fallout from the interview had probably been minimal. Except for letting the public know the killer was leaving his calling card on the foreheads of his victims, the story was just a madman boasting with pride about his horrendous accomplishments.

This led to Grant wondering once again why Silver had gone to such lengths to set up the interview with Ferguson. It was hard to believe it was just so Prior Silver could share his twisted journey to salvation with the world.

Grant firmly believed that once he caught up with Silver or, for that matter, Monte Ferguson, he could finally get the answer to that question and others that were nagging him.

Of course, that meant finding them first.

It certainly wasn’t how Grant had planned to spend the rest of the holiday.

Back at the Yard, Grant knew he hadn’t done anything to ingratiate himself among his colleagues. He had pulled constables and detectives away from their families, unwrapped boxes filled with cuddly sweaters and scarves, gathered carolers, and anything else that went with the spirit of Christmas.

It also wasn’t quite what he’d envisioned for the end of a three-plus decade tenure at the Yard. He’d imagined the time would come when he’d just clean out his desk and quietly move on to the next stage of his life.

Instead, there was now a chance his legacy would be letting a serial killer run rampant all over London (and don’t forget, New York City), thus doomed to live out his life with a reputation as a colossal failure.

At least he could be thankful that Allison wasn’t around to see it.