“No. Just that.”

Madigan disconnected without saying good-bye. He immediately called the station and got put through to the studio, told Bevo it was police business and asked that the email be forwarded to him. As they waited, he muttered, “And, hell, you know, we’re still looking for the connection between Simesky and Myra Babbage and the other killings—Bobby and Blanton, that file sharer, the attack on Sheri Towne. But nobody’s found anything yet.”

A moment later a flag popped up on his computer screen. The email request to the studio from a cryptic account, of random letters and numbers, was nothing more than what Lopez had already told them. Madigan called the Computer Crimes Division and forwarded it. A few minutes later they learned that it was an anonymous free email account and had been sent from a hotel in the Tower District.

“Let’s get the list of guests staying there,” Madigan said.

But Dance frowned. “Won’t do us any good. He won’t be a guest. He would’ve just picked up the wireless signal in the lobby, or even from the parking lot. Probably he’s got some connection with the area. But not the hotel.”

“You think that the assassination plot was just a coincidence? And there really is a stalker?”

“Well, we know it can’t be Edwin. He has an alibi. And it doesn’t need to be a stalker. It could be anybody, trying to frame Edwin to cover up the attacks—of Bobby, the file sharer or Sheri Towne….” She shook her head. “Or maybe those were just to establish a pattern … and the real intended victim’s next on his list.”

“Shit. How’d we miss this? … But who’s the new vic? What’s the fourth verse?”

Dance recited,

You can’t keep down smiles; happiness floats.

But trouble can find us in the heart of our homes.

Life never seems to go quite right,

You can’t watch your back from morning to night.

Madigan sighed. “Kill somebody in their home. That’s like the other verse, about the road—not very fucking helpful.”

“There’s the reference to ‘floating.’ Another river, pool, some other body of water?”

“I don’t have a clue. We’ve got a dozen lakes around here, nothing big close to town, though. Hundreds of miles of riverbanks. And must be a thousand pools. More.”

“Okay, maybe there’s some connection with the Tower District. But we’ve got to narrow it down more.” Dance thought for a moment. “You know, there was some physical evidence that Charlie’s people found that we never really looked at, because we had enough to figure out what Simesky and Myra were up to.”

Madigan called Charlie Shean, at CSU, had a conversation with him and jotted notes. After hanging up he said, “What wasn’t accounted for was gangue … industrial by-product stuff, or whatever it is. Never heard of that before. Human bone dust too. And Marlboros. Did Simesky or Myra smoke?”

“I never saw them.”

The chief glanced at his notes. “Also the boot print, with the really sharp toe. And some neatsfoot oil—leather treatment for baseball gloves. Maybe the dearly departed Peter Simesky played on a fascist softball league.”