“You’re probably right,” Everett replied. “There are obscure references to try—the numbers for californium and radium on the periodic table of elements, ninety-eight degrees in a normal temperature Fahrenheit, eighty-eight keys on a piano . . .”

“Are you suggesting I should be searching for a radioactive Steinway?”

Everett chuckled. “Who knows how this bugger thinks?”

Grant smiled as well. The next night was supposed to be his weekly rendezvous with his brother. He actually found himself yearning to be seated opposite Everett, getting obliterated by a confounding series of chess moves.

Still, Grant found it edifying to review the case with him, much as they had that night—Was it only a week ago?— in Everett’s study when his brother had helped discover the crimes were being plucked directly from the Old Testament.

They spent a few more minutes debating various parts of the investigation until Grant remembered the voice messages that Everett had left earlier.

“You said it was important I should call—no matter what time,” Grant reminded him. “What did you want to tell me?”

Everett hesitated. Then he cleared his throat and began with, “I need you to listen to me for a minute, Austin.”

Uh oh, thought Grant. This can’t be good. But he listened anyway.

At first, Grant tried to go to sleep but he couldn’t get the end of the conversation with Everett out of his head.

So he distracted himself by looking up the date: 9/8/88.

On that day, Yellowstone Park was closed for the first time in history due to massive forest fires. Bart Giamatti was unanimously elected the Commissioner of Major League Baseball. Grant couldn’t see either event spurring the killer to take out a particular sinner, be it an arson-setting park ranger or irate fan who didn’t approve of the baseball vote, let alone relating those things to dishonoring a parent. He searched crime blotters and, like any day in America, it was filled with atrocities. On that September day in the tristate area there had been three armed robberies, a nasty home invasion killing a couple on Long Island, and a rapist caught after an hour-long chase through Central Park. All horrendous occurrences, but trying to connect them to the present just made Grant’s head hurt further.

He should have nipped Everett’s idea in the bud. But he was often cowed by his younger brother, who was so much smarter that it was difficult for Grant to stand up to him.

So, naturally, he had agreed to do what Everett had asked.

The dining room at the Surrey reminded Grant of a London hotel tearoom. The finest china, silverware, and linens were on display, with each table featuring a simple but elegant flower arrangement that wouldn’t distract a conversation or the bite of a delectable dish. The walls were adorned with Impressionist-style drawings that could have been masterpieces for all Grant knew.