Back in the city, they returned to the morgue to check in with Marcus. Frankel had worked it out with Barnes to get Leeds’s body transferred. The sheriff was happy to turn over the dead parolee; his sleepy department was ill-equipped for a case this size and Frankel had caught the priest murder to begin with.

Marcus had already ID’d the blood samples from the Sonata as type B, the same as Leeds. He wouldn’t have a definite match for a while, but that was enough for Frankel and Grant—especially coupled with the newspaper found on the front seat. As suspected, Marcus hadn’t found any trace material from the saw used to decapitate Leeds. But the blood on the Sonata’s door lined up with the bruise found on one side of Leeds’s head.

Frankel and Grant returned to the precinct and ran into Little the moment they arrived. The media man looked ready to tear out the little hair he had left.

He had a stack of different newspapers under his arm and thrust them in their faces. “Just got these.”

Each had its own seventy-two-point headline.

THOU SHALT KILL! FIVE AND COUNTING? MURDER, I COMMAND THEE!

“You can only imagine the internet,” said Little. “It’s completely blowing up. Please tell me you’re closing in on this maniac.”

Grant didn’t think telling the media liaison that the killer was leaving messages all over New York (and specifically for the Scotland Yard Commander) would make him feel any better.

Frankel and Grant watched the harried man move down the hallway. Grant couldn’t be sure, but he thought he could hear Little mumbling to himself.

“This is just the tip of the iceberg,” Frankel said, watching Little depart. He turned back to face Grant. “That sergeant of yours. . .”

“Hawley.”

“We need that list he’s been working on pronto,” said Frankel.

Grant nodded.

The restaurant Orso was on Forty-Sixth Street just west of Eighth Avenue, situated on the edge of the Theater District. It was always packed prior to Broadway curtains being raised and after they fell. But in between, Rachel told them, you could shoot a cannon through the place and not hit a soul. Plus, the food was good and you could hear what the other person was saying.

When Frankel and Grant stepped inside shortly after eight, Rachel was one of only five diners. She was halfway through a glass of chardonnay and the cops didn’t need any convincing to get drinks of their own.

“It’s been that kind of day,” Frankel said, taking a seat.

That kind of month, thought Grant. He sat down on his daughter’s other side, then glanced at his watch and the date in the Tag’s little window.

The nineteenth.

Only twelve more days and I’m retired.