By the time he was finished, Frankel had contacted his half of the list as well. They met up and compared notes in the ubiquitous coffee corner, where Grant was pleased to see the fresh box of Lipton English breakfast tea that Frankel had requisitioned.

But unhappy to learn they were pretty much where they started.

With close to six hundred men and women interviewed, there wasn’t a definitive person to single out as the most likely target. Over ninety-five percent of the residents were automatic throw-outs for one reason or many, and the few they gave a second look were long shots at best.

“I wouldn’t be upset if you’ve been holding on to a major lead, Commander.”

“I wish I had one.” Grant proceeded to share the ideas he’d kicked around with Everett the previous evening. Frankel paid close attention but each seemed to be its own haystack devoid of needles.

Grant was replenishing his tea when someone cleared their throat behind them. Both men turned to see a younger detective holding an iPad.

“What’s up, Morton?” asked Frankel.

“Thought you’d want to see this, sir,” Morton responded.

Frankel took the tablet and quickly glanced at it.

Grant would need to have been blind to miss the glower. “What is it?”

“The shit hitting the fan,” answered Frankel. He handed over the iPad.

Five seconds later, Grant was sharing the same grim expression.

It was the web page for the Daily Mail. A headline screamed out that would have been well above the fold in the print edition.

Serial Killer Takes His Act on the Road.

Monte Ferguson’s byline wasn’t quite the size of the headline, but close.

Here we go, thought Grant.

Moments later, Grant and Frankel were in the Media Relations office, having been called on the carpet by its head, a man named Little, and Frankel’s superior, Desmond Harris, a Black lieutenant in his fifties. Harris told Grant his closely shaved, more-salt-than-pepper hair was due to putting out fires that Frankel had started.

“Like the current one,” Harris added.

He indicated a flat screen on the wall that was playing back a just-aired noon newscast. Unlike the stick-to-the-point BBC broadcasts, Grant couldn’t help but be aghast at the sensationalistic display that was the norm on America’s airwaves. Half a dozen field reporters who looked like rejects from a runway model audition had been deployed to every borough. For a station that plastered red chyrons like STORM WATCH or DEADLY WEATHER, the news that an “international serial killer is on the loose” was like reporting on the End of Days.