“He arrived early last Saturday, the fourteenth,” Rachel told him, providing the specific airline (British Airways) and time (ten in the morning).

Frankel nodded. “Giving him an opportunity to check out Saint Pat’s, then come back the following night and kill Peters.”

“His return trip is scheduled for this coming Tuesday—the twenty-fourth.”

“Wonderful,” said Grant. “Back home just in time for Christmas.”

“At least New Yorkers and tourists would be safer over the holidays,” Frankel pointed out, looking for something to feel good about.

“It’s only Friday,” countered Grant. “At the rate he’s going, Silver could have already dispatched the final five before he takes a plane for Heathrow on Tuesday.”

“It could only be four,” reminded Rachel. “Remember, he might have already killed number six; we just haven’t been able to find that victim yet.”

“Aren’t you both just rays of fucking sunshine?” grumbled Frankel. He asked Grant if he’d heard from Ferguson since yesterday.

“Not a bloody peep,” answered Grant.

Grant hadn’t really expected to. The chances of the Mail man running down an unknown killer or finding a body first were slim to none with most of the NYPD looking for the same thing. Grant had essentially wanted to put the journalist on a wild-goose chase; if it brought back an unexpected dividend—so be it.

“Unfortunately, the ticket was paid for in cash, so we don’t have a credit card yet for Silver,” Rachel informed them. “But Hawley and the Yard are working on it.”

Ten minutes later, the sergeant had come up with a debit card issued to Silver that had been used three times in New York City over the past week. The first time was at a JFK fast-food restaurant shortly after Silver landed, the second for a cab ride into Midtown minutes later, and the third as a guarantee hold for a room at the Hotel Pennsylvania that same evening.

“A hold means he hasn’t checked out yet,” Grant surmised.

“There’s an easy way to find out,” said Frankel.

The Hotel Pennsylvania, commonly referred to as the Penn, had one distinct advantage over every other hotel in Manhattan. It was the closest to Penn Station, situated directly across Seventh Avenue from the massive underground terminal.

“Makes it easy for anyone staying at that dump to get as far away from the place as soon as possible,” Frankel told Grant on their way.

Once considered one of Manhattan’s Grand Dame hotels, the Penn had fallen on hard times over the years and didn’t even qualify as a tourist trap; it was only booked if someone didn’t know better or was the first thing one spotted getting off the train from Wichita, Kansas.

Rachel had wanted to come along, but Frankel and her father convinced her this was when reporters did their thing while cops did theirs.