“I hope you get a chance to return to that.” Frankel deposited his plate with Grant’s in a nearby trash can. They headed back for the sedan.

A few minutes later, Frankel pulled up in front of the London.

“I talked to Harris right before we left Far Rockaway,” Frankel said as he placed the car in park. “He’s arranged with Little for a press conference at eleven in the morning. They’re insisting the two of us be there.”

“Inevitable, I guess.”

“It’ll be a shit show for sure. Starting with your friend Ferguson, I imagine.”

“I haven’t heard a peep out of him since we found Leeds.”

This time it was Grant who was rubbing his stomach, wondering what had just hit it. He unbuckled the seat belt and thanked Frankel for the ride and late-night meal.

“Hope it doesn’t keep you up,” Frankel told him.

“I’ll be asleep before my head hits the pillow.”

Of course, two hours later he was still wide awake.

It hadn’t been the chicken and rice roiling around keeping Grant from falling asleep. Whenever they would treat themselves to a five-course meal at a fancy restaurant, Allison used to marvel at how Grant could just roll over and be out before she could even utter “good night.”

Grant knew it was the enormity of the case and its rapidly increasing body count that was causing this bout of sleeplessness.

His first mistake had been turning on the television and catching the tail end of a local newscast reporting the discovery of Timothy Alan Leeds’s dead body. The anchor informed Grant’s fellow insomniacs that NYPD was conducting a press conference later that morning and the station would be there to cover it live with all the other networks.

So much for the idea of sleep coming any time soon.

He spent a half hour scrolling through news blogs and internet sites to see what was being reported. No one had any more information than the newscast. Ferguson, the British tabloid writer, was curiously silent. This worried Grant—he couldn’t imagine Monte staying on the sidelines knowing what he already did about Leeds. It was only a matter of time before Ferguson dropped some bomb—the only question was how and where it would detonate.

By three in the morning, he had come to terms with suffering through this night by himself. He suddenly realized it was past eight in the morning in London. He picked up the phone and dialed a particular number. It rang once, and the call was picked up with a distinct click.

“I was wondering when I’d hear from you,” said Everett.

“How’d you know it was me?” Grant asked.

“The wonder of caller ID. Who else would call me from America at—what is it over there—half past three in the morning?”