Like the one about to occur a dozen steps away—where Monte Ferguson sat in a wingback chair sipping coffee. The reporter had obviously chosen that spot as it was situated between the main entrance and elevators. Unless Grant used the fire escape, Ferguson knew he’d eventually have to pass him.

“Buy you breakfast, Commander?” Ferguson asked.

They ended up at the Astro Diner—the coffee shop Grant had gone to with Frankel on his first night in Manhattan. Grant knew he could avoid Ferguson for only so long. Might as well get a meal out of what was sure to be an uncomfortable chat. As they reached the coffee shop, Ferguson indicated Grant’s carry-on luggage.

“Giving up the ghost already?”

“No room at the inn, I’m afraid. That time of year,” Grant told the journalist, who still had enough good breeding to hold open the door.

“Any idea where you’re moving to?”

“Not yet. But I’m sure you’ll find me when I do.”

They settled into a booth. Ever since the news conference, Grant had expected to be confronted by Ferguson. The man didn’t disappoint—they had been seated less than a minute when he asked Grant how long he’d known the killer was selecting victims according to the Book of Exodus. “You certainly did when you closed down all those churches.”

“We suspected it then,” Grant admitted. “But it wasn’t until Father Peters’s murder that we knew for sure.”

“And you still didn’t think it was worth sharing with the public?”

“We were trying to get a handle on what we were dealing with. It didn’t make sense to send Londoners into an all-out panic when the killer had come over here. And there’s no telling he’ll stay put in America.”

“So, you’re confirming it’s a man you’re hunting,” Ferguson asked, jumping on Grant’s pronoun usage.

“I can’t confirm that, no. But statistically—”

“I know—men are more likely to go on killing sprees than women.”

Phyllis, the waitress who had served him and Frankel, picked that time to take their order. She smiled at Grant. “Nice to see you again.”

“Nice to see you as well. I’m surprised you remember me.”

“It’s the accent. Plus, the detective usually eats here by himself.”

“I thought you worked evenings.”

“I basically come with the place, darling. What’ll you boys have?”

Ferguson ordered scrambled eggs, crisp bacon, rye toast, and coffee. Grant said he would have the exact same except he’d prefer English breakfast tea.

“It’ll be up in a jiffy,” Phyllis told them and moved back to the kitchen.

“You and Detective Frankel seem to have hit it off,” said Ferguson, picking up on Phyllis’s mention of the NYPD man. “Two peas in a policeman’s pod.”

“We have a similar goal in mind.”

“And the ability to cover for each other as well.”