Monte Ferguson got barely a mention, merely as “first reported by a British journalist.” But Ferguson must have loved the coverage, which had the network’s “crack news team covering the story from every angle!” They had already acquired photos of Father Peters along with Lionel Frey, Melanie Keaton, and the Blasphemers’ Billy Street. The dead never looked so good, like they’d been airbrushed by some Hollywood art department. Someone had even dug up Billy’s not-so-euphonious hit, “Ain’t I Good Enough for You,” and played it in the background of the field reports about a “homicidal maniac preying on New York City.”

Harris muted the replay with the remote. “The job is hard enough without these wannabe actors spreading panic in the streets.”

“That wasn’t the intention when we fed the story to the British reporter,” said Frankel.

Grant was taken aback to see Frankel share responsibility for the deal with Ferguson. He couldn’t let the detective take heat from his superior for something he’d only agreed to but hadn’t instigated.

“I was actually the one who gave Ferguson permission,” Grant told Harris.

“And why the hell would you do that?”

“He was ready to print the story a few days ago in England, even before the priest was murdered. I was able to hold him off at the time, but he quickly made the connection when Father Peters died, and then there was no stopping him.”

Harris shook his head. “If he’d just gone lone wolf with a random story for that rag of his instead of us corroborating it, we could have issued a flat-out denial. Now we have to spend valuable man hours fending off the national media.” He swiveled toward Little. “How many calls have you gotten since this broke?”

Little finally spoke up. “Over three dozen since it went online an hour ago.”

Grant’s eyes drifted back to the muted television. His very own Sergeant Hawley stood on the steps at the Yard holding up a hand to fend off the barrage of questions from the horde of British reporters.

Explains the missed call and voice mail Hawley left me thirty minutes ago.

He’d have to apologize to the sergeant when he called him back. Clearly this was avalanching beyond any control that the men in this room possessed.

“No one talks to this man Ferguson again unless it’s cleared by me or this office,” said the lieutenant. “Is that clear?”

“Gotcha, Loot,” Frankel replied. “In the meantime, should we scrap the ‘denial’ idea and just go with ‘no comment’ when asked?”

“Not so funny, Detective,” Harris told Frankel.

Grant looked over at the television again to avoid a fuming Harris seeing the smile on his face. The newscast had moved on to the next story. The red-haired talking head had swiveled in her chair to another camera as a new chyron flashed just below her plunging neckline: Not So Welcome Homecoming.