Grant considered correcting him but figured the title “Commander” or “Chief Inspector” would seem pretentious and curb no favor from either man. He nodded thanks to the uniform and turned his attention toward John Frankel.

The detective had his feet up on the desk, a huge file in his lap, and was sipping from a blue-and-white pinstriped coffee cup with a Yankees insignia. Frankel gave Grant a good once-over and didn’t bother to suppress a grin.

“We could’ve sent you a car, Inspector.”

Now he tells me.

“Seemed silly to waste funds and manpower on a six-block jaunt.”

“Six blocks in Midtown during the holidays can seem like a suicide run.”

“I prefer to consider it a character builder, Detective.”

“Let’s make it John,” suggested Frankel. “And I’ll call you Austin?”

“Might as well. Everyone else will come the first of January.”

“I heard you were retiring. How many years with the Yard will that be?”

“Thirty-four, Detective.” Grant corrected himself. “I mean, John.”

“Well, they picked a hell of a case to send you out on.” He glanced at the file on his lap. “You’ve come to the same conclusion about the Fifth Commandment?”

“I’ve no doubt of it.”

Frankel nodded. “Since every single person in the five boroughs is a potential victim, I’m not even sure where to begin.”

“There’s no guarantee the killer will limit himself to the island of Manhattan. I was certainly wrong about him sticking to Central London.”

“Where would you suggest us starting?”

“With what we already know—the latest victim,” answered Grant. “What I don’t understand is how the killer isolated Father Peters like that. Isn’t Saint Patrick’s open twenty-four hours a day? Surely there would have been witnesses.”

“He pulled the fire alarm. Then he got even more daring.” Frankel tapped his keyboard and swiveled the computer screen around.

A surveillance camera tape from Saint Patrick’s began to play. The time code read 9:58 P.M. Two dozen people were milling around the sanctuary. Frankel fast-forwarded to fixate on a portion where the visitors suddenly scurried into motion.

“Obviously in response to the alarm sounding.” Frankel tapped the left corner of the screen. “I imagine this is the person you and I are looking for.”

A hooded, robed figure entered from the wings. The shrouded person waved their arms toward the exit, beckoning for everyone to head for the street.

“I presume you’ve tried to enhance this?” asked Grant.

“Of course.” Frankel punched more buttons until the cloaked figure filled the screen. “He seems to be wearing some kind of full-face covering.”

Frankel freeze-framed the image. The hood and robe concealed a lot, but Grant could make out an ebony full-face mask deep within the folds of the cowl.

“Clever. Didn’t anyone find that sort of mask strange?”