Gino looked over at McLaren’s desk. The young detective’s red hair was standing straight up from where he’d been messing with it, and he was talking earnestly into the phone. ‘Looks like McLaren’s working something.’

‘Actually, he’s working his stockbroker. We’re out of murders, unless you want us to go back further than ten years.’

‘Christ, no.’ Magozzi sagged back in his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘We’ve already wasted most of the day. Sorry, guys. I led us down the wrong road.’

‘Looking at the families was a good idea,’ Gino told him. ‘And it’s not like we had anywhere else to go. Question is, where do we go from here? We just ran out of suspects.’

Peterson handed over a fat file folder. ‘Here’s the fax from the Brainerd sheriff. Maybe we’ll get lucky with that one.’

Gino tossed the folder aside. ‘Not likely. The sole survivor in that family is in Germany. I just talked to him a while ago.’

Peterson flapped his arms. ‘So now what?’

Magozzi looked up at him with bleary eyes. Peterson was frustrated. They all were. Frustrated, tired, and hungry, he realized, listening to the growl of his stomach. It was time to call it a day. They’d followed every lead, every theory, cleared them all, and at this point, there didn’t seem to be anyplace left to go. But admitting that was an acknowledgment that all they could do was sit on their hands and wait for the killer to hit again, and that was a homicide detective’s worst nightmare – when solving a case depended on another body turning up. Jack Gilbert was an apparent target, and they had him covered, but what if he wasn’t the only one? What if the killer skipped Jack and went on to the next one on his list? All they could hope for at this point was that whatever Jack Gilbert knew would lead them to a viable suspect, and that Marty could somehow get him to talk.

Over at his desk, McLaren slammed down the phone. ‘You know what that son of a bitch did? Put in a margin call on some piece of shit stock out of Uruguay. I fired his ass. So what’s up?’

‘Absolutely nothing,’ Gino said miserably. ‘We’ve trashed every lead.’

‘So we’re where? Waiting for the guy to take another shot at Jack Gilbert?’

‘Gilbert’s covered,’ Magozzi said. ‘I talked to Becker a little while ago. He’s shadowing Jack, and apparently they’re all checking into a hotel tonight to make Becker’s job a little easier. I’m more worried about our killer moving on to another target we don’t know about yet.’

Gino’s cell burped in his pocket. ‘That’s Angela, and I’m outta here. She’s stuck at home with two kids, a couple of sloshed parents, and a storm on the way.’ He took the call and headed out, phone pressed to his ear, then turned around and held up one finger, still listening.

Magozzi started paging idly through the Brainerd fax while he was waiting. Had to be at least a hundred pages of police reports, autopsy results, interviews, newspaper clippings…

‘You’re the man, Marty,’ Gino said into his phone, then signed off with a grin for Magozzi. ‘Marty pulled through, got Jack talking. They’re in the office at the nursery, and he says if we can get there before Jack sobers up or passes out, he’ll give us an earful that might point us in the right direction.’

‘Thank God,’ Peterson said. ‘You want us to stick around?’

Gino shook his head. ‘Just keep your cells on in case we learn something we want to move on right away.’ He pushed speed dial for Angela to tell her not to wait up, and frowned at Magozzi while it rang. He should have been hopping all over the place, halfway to the door by now, but he was just hunkered over the desk, staring at something. ‘Hey, Leo, did you hear me?’

Magozzi raised a hand without looking up, picked up a piece of paper and stared at it. It was a photocopy of an obituary from the Brainerd newspaper, showing a photo of the recently deceased William Haczynski, owner of Sandy Shores Resort, with his son, Thomas. The old man and the fresh-faced blond kid had their arms hooked over each other’s shoulders. They were beaming for the camera, cradling rifles in their armpits.

Magozzi had only been looking at the picture for a few seconds, but it felt like he’d been swimming in it for hours. He looked once more at the old man’s son, the light eyes, and the innocent face of a kid he knew as Jeff Montgomery. ‘Jesus Christ, Gino. Thomas Haczynski isn’t in Germany.’

They were all over Magozzi in an instant, looking at the picture. Gino saw the Montgomery kid and said, ‘That little son of a bitch,’ before he realized he still had the phone in his hand, and Angela on the other end. He stepped away from the desk and started talking low and fast, then clicked off.

Langer, Peterson, and McLaren were all frowning at the picture. ‘I don’t get it,’ McLaren said. ‘How do you know he’s not in Germany?’

Magozzi stabbed at the photo. ‘That kid calls himself Jeff Montgomery. He works at the nursery, Lily Gilbert treats him like a grandson, and Morey was paying his tuition.’

Langer exhaled sharply. ‘And he’s the son of a man Morey Gilbert killed last year?’

‘Sure looks that way.’

McLaren shivered. ‘He’s gotta be our guy. Jesus, that’s cold. Morey’s paying his tuition while he’s plotting his murder and a few others to boot. The kid’s a killing machine.’

‘I suspect he had a good teacher,’ Langer said quietly.

‘Goddamnit I just talked to him this afternoon,’ Gino said. ‘It was an overseas connection, I swear to God. You can’t fake that delay…’

‘Maybe he’s got someone covering for him in Germany, but however he did it, it doesn’t matter now,’ Magozzi said, his words clipped and urgent. ‘We’ve got to move on this right now. Gino, call Marty back and give him a heads-up and then do the same for Becker.’

‘I’ll take care of Becker,’ Peterson volunteered, hustling over to his desk while Gino punched frantically at his cell.

Magozzi turned to Langer and McLaren. ‘The kid’s probably at one of two places – his apartment or the nursery – and we need to cover both simultaneously. You two pull together a team and hit the apartment, and don’t be shy with the backup. I have a feeling this kid isn’t just going to roll over.’

‘Will do.’

Gino was stabbing buttons furiously, listening, then stabbing them again. ‘Goddamnit, Marty isn’t answering his cell.’

Magozzi was moving fast, checking the load on his 9-mm, holstering it, snapping cuffs on his belt. ‘Try the nursery, Lily’s house, Jack’s cell. Do we have a cell number for Jack?’

‘Dispatch can’t raise Becker,’ Peterson called out, tension in his voice.

Everyone in the room froze for an instant. Becker, like every officer on the job, had a car unit and a shoulder unit, and non-response was one millimeter away from officer down.

Two seconds later Gino and Magozzi were out the door, their shoes pounding on the tile, the sound of panic echoing in the empty hallway.