“Record?” I ask Herb.

“In for ten and out in five. One count unlawful restraint. One count deviate sexual assault. One count aggravated criminal sexual abuse.”

“Our vic is a rapist,” I say, staring down at the body. “Herb, get the information on the woman he assaulted, and her family.”

“You think they hired a hitter?” Sakey asks.

It’s the first assumption he may have gotten right, but he says it to my back – I’m already at the window facing the street, letting my eyes roam back and forth, up and down. I find it at nose level.

The bullet punched through neatly, leaving a hole the size of a dime. No cracked pane or shattered glass – another indicator of a very fast round. I stand in front of it and face the apartment, looking from the window to the victim, and then down the hallway. I follow the path, scrutinizing the far wall, and locate the bullet’s final resting place; another small hole, this one ringed with specks of blood.

I scan the CSU officers in the room and see one that I know, Dan Rogers. I call him over.

“Bullet wound up over here,” I tell him. “But before you dig it out, I need to borrow your laser pointer.”

I have no idea if he actually has a laser pointer in his box full of stuff, but he does, one of those thin models the size of a AA battery. I jam it into the depression in the wall, have Herb stand next to the window, and spend a minute lining up the holes.

“Who was first on the scene?” I ask Sakey.

“Beat cop named Rory. Out in back losing his lunch.”

“Do you know when the call came?”

“A minute or two after five. Multiple 911s.”

I nod, then throw him a bone. “Want to help find the hide?”

“Uh, yeah, sure.”

I point to Jenna. “That poster still has the cardboard backing, so it should be stiff. Take it off the wall and meet us outside.”

He immediately hops to it. I leave the house, put my plastic booties and latex glove into a different box by the entrance, then organize three teams of uniforms to do door-to-doors, checking for wits. When that’s finished I take out a slim note pad from my clutch and jot down: 911 tapes, PO, priors, family, and freelance assassins/ViCAT. Much as I loathe to get the FBI involved, their database will give me access to similar murders.

Herb and I meet Sakey where we’d originally found him, near the police tape. He doesn’t seem pleased to be carrying a poster of a topless woman. Especially since there’s a crowd of onlookers, including a few members of the press.

“Why did I bring this?” he asks.

“Hold up the poster,” I say.

Sakey does as he’s told, and the TV cameras catch his frown. “They’re filming us.”

“No they’re not,” Herb says. “They’re filming you. You’re the one waving around the giant picture of the naked lady.”

Sakey’s unhappy face deepens, but he keeps the poster raised. “Now what?”

“Follow us,” I tell him.

We push past the crowd, ignoring the questions being shouted at us, and stand on the opposite side of the street. I hold Sakey’s shoulders, moving him left and right until the red dot from the laser pointer appears on Ms. Jameson’s stomach. The TV crews creep closer, capturing our every move.

“Man,” Sakey groans. “My mom watches the news.”

Herb waves at the cameras and says, “Hi, Mrs. Sakey.”

I tap Sakey on the back. “Just keep the dot on the poster and keep walking.”

Sakey marches on, though he doesn’t seem thrilled about it. Like many beat cops, he’s probably fantasized about getting into Detective Division, working a major homicide. I guess I’ve deglamorized it for him.

We continue walking, following the sidewalk about a hundred yards down, then hop over a waist-high wrought iron fence surrounding a duplex. A slight breeze with a pinch of winter chill tussles my hair. Sakey’s blows around as well, then springs right back to his original curls. I wonder what conditioner he uses.

“What’s a hide?” Sakey asks. He holds the poster in front of his chest, the dot now on Jenna’s hip.

“Where a sniper shoots from,” Herb answers. “Now the problem is finding the catway.”

“What’s a catway?”

“About eight pounds.”

Sakey doesn’t laugh. Neither do I, having heard that joke several dozen times during the years Herb has been my partner. He also can’t pass a cemetery without quipping, “People are dying to get in there.” I never laugh at that one either.

We walk along the front of the building, up to a cluster of evergreen bushes. They’re thick enough to hide a man. My gun comes out, a.38 Colt Detective Special snubby, my sights locking on the plant. A quick peek inside finds the bush to be devoid of snipers.

“Found brass,” Herb says. He grunts, kneeling down on the lawn, teasing a spent cartridge into a clear plastic evidence bag with his fingernail. It’s gold, shiny, almost three inches long.

“Three oh eight?” Herb guesses.

“I don’t think so. Read the bottom.”

Herb squints at it, peering down the front of his nose and making a farsighted face.

“The writing is scratched out.”

Sakey nods his head and says, “Smart.”

I’ve corrected him enough today, and he spared me the indignity of walking down the block with a nude porn star, so I don’t give him a lecture. Instead I tell him to tape off the area and find out where the homeowners are so they can be informed their house is now part of a crime scene.

“You sure they aren’t home?” Sakey asks.

I point. “Morning paper is still on the porch.”

He looks at me with what might be admiration, then goes on his way.

“Don’t forget your date,” Herb calls after him.

Sakey picks up the poster and takes it with him, making sure Jenna faces him rather than the press. I turn my attention back to the bush, not expecting to find anything else, and being surprised when I see a white business card on the ground. I ask Herb for another bag and use the barrel of my Colt to nudge it inside. The front reads:

ONE MORE DEAD PERVERT

Courtesy of

TUHC

The ink on the card is slightly smeared, and the edges have a fine perforation to them. The killer probably printed it himself using his home computer and those blank business card sheets available at office supply stores.

I frown, not liking this at all. In my experience, killers who leave messages aren’t likely to stop any time soon. I have a bad feeling that there’s more to this than hiring a mercenary to avenge a rape.

I stare back at the apartment, viewing the line of site. Perhaps two hundred yards. With the proper rifle, not a difficult shot at all. My mom, a former Chicago cop herself, used to have a Winchester Model 70 she’d inherited from her father. During my teenage years we’d go on afternoon excursions down to southern Illinois farmland and regularly hit ears of corn from four hundred yards, and probably farther, with thirty-aught-six rounds. She’d sold the gun de cades ago – not much use for long arms in an urban environment.

Herb gives the card the same treatment he gave the bullet, holding it at arm’s length to read it. Glasses are in his future.

“TUHC?” His voice registers the same displeasure I feel. “I hate it when they leave us notes.”

My cell buzzes. I free it from my inner jacket pocket and slap it to my face.

“Daniels.”

“Lieutenant? This is Bobalik, Homicide from District 20, Ravenswood. Heard you got a sniper.”

“News travels fast.”

“Let me guess – one shot to the head, through the window from a few hundred yards away, vic was a sex offender?”

News must travel even faster than I thought.

“Yeah. How did you know?”

“I’m at a scene on Leavitt,” she says. “Victim’s name is Chris Wolak. Same MO.”