“That’s it,” Dino said.

Stone, Dino, and Holly had spent a lot of time in Washington, D.C., the previous summer while Dino and Stone investigated a year-old murder and a suicide, which turned into a string of five murders, all women. Turned out, the murderer had been in their midst all along.

“Holy shit!” Holly said. “Shelley is in New York?”

“What are you going to do about it, Dino?” Stone asked.

“What the hell can I do about it?” Dino asked.

“The woman is a serial killer,” Stone reminded him. “You can’t ignore this.”

“What do you suggest?”

“You might keep that recording for later,” Stone said.

“Okay, I’ll do that. What else?”

“You’re right, I’m stumped, too. If I were you, I’d give Kerry Smith at the FBI a call tomorrow morning and tell him about this.”

“Okay, I’ll do that, then I’ll forget about it.”

“Sleep tight,” Stone said, then pushed the speaker button again to disconnect.

“So she’s still out there?”

“Shhhhh,” Stone said, kissing her, then he moved on to other things.

2

STONE WOKE at his usual seven a.m., but worse than usual for the wear. “Groan,” he said.

Holly stirred beside him. “Groan here, too. What were we drinking last night?”

“Bourbon and Dom Pérignon,” Stone said, “and I think there was some red wine in between.”

“My head remembers them all,” Holly said. “Aspirin?”

“In your medicine cabinet,” he replied, and Holly padded across the bedroom to her bathroom. “Bring me three,” Stone called out. “And some water.”

Holly returned with the aspirin bottle and a glass of water, and they both partook.

“A good breakfast will chase away the hangover,” Stone said, picking up the phone and buzzing Helene, his housekeeper. He ordered eggs scrambled with cheese, bacon, English muffins, orange juice, and coffee, then hung up.

“Thank God we don’t have to fix breakfast,” Holly said.

“Or go out for it. Dino does that every day—goes to some diner near his apartment.”

“Couldn’t face it.” Holly pulled the covers over her head.

“Didn’t we have some sort of conversation with Dino last night? Something about Shelley Bach?”

“Groan again,” Holly said, her voice muffled. “Don’t want to know.”

“There’s been a nationwide APB out for her for what—nine, ten months? How can she elude law enforcement for that long in this day and age?”

“Can’t be done,” Holly said, still muffled.

Stone pulled down the covers far enough to expose her lips, then kissed her. “Tell me how you’d do that, if you were Shelley.”

“Well,” Holly said, “she was an assistant director of the FBI, after all. That means she knows how law enforcement finds fleeing felons. Also, she had access to equipment and computers that would allow her to make fake IDs, driver’s licenses, et cetera—probably even passports. We know she switched cars early in the chase—she probably bought a car under a false name—and she must have had some sort of hideout ready, something out of the way and quiet. She’s got to be calling Dino from a throwaway cell phone—the greatest aid to criminal conduct since the blackjack. The FBI would have to be very lucky indeed to catch her.”