Frankel and Grant moved with Barnes toward the Hyundai Sonata. “Kelly was the one who found the car. It’s not like we get tons of stolen vehicles this time of year. Having just been reported, my guys were keeping their eyes out for it.”

Barnes slipped on plastic gloves, then dug out pairs to give Frankel and Grant. The sheriff nodded at the steering column. Josephine’s keys dangled from the ignition. “I imagine that’s what your fellow hoped to find when searching for a car. Didn’t even have to hot-wire it.”

He pointed a gloved finger at the beige faux leather directly below the passenger window. Specks of red and a similarly colored small blotch were on it near the door handle. “Here’s the blood I mentioned.”

Frankel took a closer look. “Hardly anything to write home about.”

Barnes nodded. “We’re assuming he didn’t cut off the man’s head here.”

Grant took his turn examining the stains. “The ME told us Leeds was hit twice in the head. The first blow probably happened right here.” He straightened up. “Delivered from the driver’s side; Leeds’s head would have hit that spot below the window. It certainly would account for the blood traces.”

Barnes walked around to the driver’s side. “Fact is, Kelly didn’t notice the blood right away. He only started to look around more carefully after seeing this.”

The sheriff pointed to a folded newspaper lying on the driver’s seat.

The paper’s masthead could be easily seen.

The Daily Mail.

Barnes let Grant lean in and carefully remove it with his gloved hands.

The now-familiar headline Serial Killer Takes His Act on the Road screamed up at him. Monte Ferguson had managed to get his name above the fold.

Grant flipped the paper over to find the story’s copy and a few photos. One was from the Saint Patrick’s crime scene, another of the dead Father Adam Peters. There were also pictures of the two cops leading the investigation—NYPD Detective First Grade John Frankel and Commander Austin Grant of Scotland Yard.

Grant’s picture had been X-ed out repeatedly with a black marker.

Practically obliterated beyond recognition.

Frankel peered over Grant’s shoulder. “Looks like someone doesn’t like you very much.”

Grant was starting to feel like a genuine New York commuter. For the third time in four days, he found himself back on the LIE into the city. With rush hour approaching, it gave him and Frankel plenty of time to discuss the killer’s latest parting gift.

“We’re getting stuff from this lunatic on a daily basis,” said Frankel, inching the sedan along. “I’m starting to think he’s confusing the Ten Commandments with the Twelve Days of Christmas. All we’re missing is an Advent killing calendar.”