Fiona took off her glasses and rubbed first her eyes and then her temples. She was bone tired, after having spent the last three days and two sleepless nights in Dutton gathering information on Calvin Adams, but for Fiona, fatigue was welcomed. It was her guarantee of a decent night’s sleep. She was packing up her photos when the phone rang.

“This is Sam DelVecchio,” a deep male voice announced. “I’m trying to get in touch with Fiona Summers.”

“This is Fiona.” She frowned.

“Agent Summers, I used to be with the Bureau, and now-”

“I know who you are.” Didn’t all the single-and some not-so-single-women at the Bureau know who Sam DelVecchio was? And didn’t every one of them know his sad story and long to comfort him? “How did you get this number?”

“From Miranda Cahill.” He paused. “I hope that was all right?”

“I guess it depends on why you’re calling. If you’re going to try to sell me something, then no, it’s not all right,” she said drolly.

“I’m not selling anything.”

Fiona rolled her eyes. Had he really thought she’d been serious?

“I wanted to talk about a case I’m handling for the Mercy Street Foundation.”

“Who?”

“My new employer.”

“Right. I did hear that you had resigned. Weren’t you on a trip or something? Extended vacation?”

“Yeah, but I came back and realized I needed a job.” He explained to her the way the Foundation worked.

When he finished, she said, “So what’s the case you’re handling for them, and what does it have to do with me at”-she glanced at the clock on her oven for the time-“eleven thirty at night.”

“Oh. Sorry. I didn’t realize how late it had gotten. I apologize.”

“Accepted.” Fiona stifled a yawn. “So what’s the case?”

“My case involves a homicide in Lincoln, Nebraska, over a year ago. Volunteer at a soup kitchen found behind the building-”

“Ross Walker?” She snapped to attention. “Are you talking about Ross Walker?”

“Yes.”

“Explain to me how that is your case?”

“The victim’s widow requested that the Foundation become involved.”

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to become uninvolved. This case is part of a federal investigation.”

“Well, now it’s also a private investigation,” he told her.

“I’m sorry, Sam, but you’re going to have to back off.”

“I can’t do that. We have a contract with Lynne Walker.”

Fiona fell silent. “What exactly is the nature of your investigation?”

“Same as any investigation. We’re trying to get to the bottom of Walker’s death.” He cleared his throat, then asked, “This case is obviously connected to others. How many others?”

“What makes you think that there are others?” she asked guardedly.

“Fiona. You just said the case is part of an FBI investigation. Part implies one of several making up the whole. So what does it hurt to have me working one part?”

“Until I have a handle on this, I don’t want anyone else involved.” She bit her bottom lip. “I prefer to work alone, frankly.”

“Well, we have that much in common.”

When she didn’t respond, Sam’s voice softened. “Come on, Fiona. It’s no skin off your back to be nice to me. Maybe I have some information that might help you with your case.”

“Do you?”

“Not yet, but I will. I’m good at what I do.”

“So am I.”

“So maybe we’ll be even better if we share what we have. What we might have in the future.”

“What exactly do you want?”

“I want to know about the other cases. How many. Where. If the victims fit a profile.”

“I can tell you right now, they do not.” She reached into the envelope where she’d tucked the photos of the three victims and dumped them onto the counter. The lifeless eyes of Ross Walker stared blankly back at her. “As a matter of fact, I was just looking over the three cases, trying to figure out what I’m missing. Why I can’t get a handle on it.”

“Three? All male?”

She hesitated. There really was no good reason to cooperate with a private detective. Then again, this PI had the reputation of being one of the best profilers the Bureau had had, and she could use his insight. Add that to the fact that if he went to John Mancini, his former and her current boss, John would probably side with Sam and tell her to talk to him anyway. Might as well cut out the middleman.

“Three,” she told him. “Different ages, socioeconomics, you name it. They have nothing in common except the manner in which they died.”

“Can I meet you somewhere, Fiona? Can I see your files? Can we talk about this?” Sam sounded excited in a way that she, herself, could relate to. Nothing got her going like the nuts and bolts of a case.

“Where are you?”

“I’m about seventy miles from Philadelphia.”

“I need to be in Philly first thing on Monday on another matter. I was planning on driving up on Sunday. Maybe I could meet you someplace…”

“I can meet you in a restaurant partway between here and Philly, if you like. There’s a diner out on Route 30…”

“If you’re thinking of looking at these photos-and you are going to want to do that, side by side-you’re going to want to do that in private. These are not pictures you want John Q. Public getting a glance at over his meat loaf and mashed potatoes. Maybe I should meet you at your office.”

“I’m not sure what goes on around here on Sundays. I’ve only been here for a week. Our offices are in Robert Magellan’s house,” he explained.

“You work in Robert Magellan’s house? Is it fabulous? What’s he like?”

“Why, Fiona, you sound like a fan.”

She laughed. “I suppose I do. Sorry. It’s just that he’s such an enigmatic figure.”

“So enigmatic that I haven’t even met him yet,” Sam admitted. “He’s been away, working with a search group to look for his son. I guess you’ve heard about that.”

“I have. Crazy business, finding the car with the remains of the wife, and no trace of the baby. I’m sure he’s going out of his mind, trying to find his son. I’m surprised he doesn’t have you working on that case for him.”

“One of the investigators is with him. He has a team of local volunteers combing the woods and the ravine where the car was found. Whether the boy is dead or alive, the word around the Foundation is that he will keep looking until he finds out what happened.”

“I hope he does. Anyway, about Sunday…”

“I’ll check on the protocol for meetings on Sundays, and I’ll get back to you.”

“I’ll wait to hear from you.” She hung up the phone and tucked the photos back into their envelope. As hard as it was going to be for her to share, it would be worth it if Sam lived up to his reputation and gave her some insights into the killer she was determined to find.

She turned off the kitchen light, and yawning, climbed the stairs to the second floor, and the bed she hadn’t slept in for the past two nights.

EIGHT

Susanna Jones sat on the trunk of a fallen tree and held her head in her hands. It was almost four o’clock in the afternoon and she and the other searchers had walked every inch of today’s grid three ways from Sunday and hadn’t found a clue to what might have happened to Ian Magellan. Once the local police had released the crime scene-the area where Beth Magellan’s car and remains had been found-Robert had organized a group of local citizens who’d been eager to help look for the missing child. They’d been at it now for three days, and Susanna’s head, feet, and back hurt, although perhaps not as much as her heart.

The crunch of hiking boots on the forest floor drew her attention, and she looked up to see a very solemn Robert coming into the clearing. He held a bottle of water out to her, and she took it gratefully.

“You about ready to turn in for today?” he asked.

“I am if you are.”

“We still have a few more hours of daylight.” He looked around. “We could make the grid for tomorrow’s walk.”