She was suddenly completely convinced that her family was dead.

Isn’t that what would happen? she thought. Lure me out of the house and then—

She didn’t let herself think further. Paranoia pumped through her like blood and she struggled against it, stripping off her clothes and slipping into boy shorts and a T-shirt for bed.

No one is dead. No one is dead. Stuff like that only happens in movies and in books.

And in real life.

Even as she told herself that she wouldn’t do it, she sneaked out of her room. Just going to the bathroom, is all. That’s all. And the bathroom is next to Whiz’s room….

She put an ear to Whiz’s door. Heard nothing.

Cranked the door open a bit, wincing at the slight creak. Why was the creak absent during the day, present only when she needed to be absolutely quiet?

In the glow of a street lamp coming through the window, she saw a lump under the covers.

Doesn’t mean anything. Could still be dead. Might not even be him.

Stop it, Connie. Stop being so ridiculous.

It’s not ridiculous. Billy Dent has done worse, hasn’t he?

She didn’t want to, but she suddenly remembered something Billy had done as Satan’s Eye. Jazz wouldn’t talk about the things Billy had done—not to her, at least—but she’d done some research. She couldn’t help it. And she remembered how in one night, Billy had kidnapped two women, murdered them, and then put them into each other’s beds, where they were discovered the next day by a husband and a boyfriend.

I’m doing this.

She crept into Whiz’s room. The form in bed seemed not to move, but as she came closer, she was relieved to find that it was, in fact, moving—the rhythmic, soft up and down of sleep-breathing.

The street lamp picked out her younger brother’s face, so much less obnoxious and peaceful in repose. Connie sighed.

Whiz’s eyes snapped open so suddenly that Connie almost screamed. She gasped and took a step back in shock.

“What are you doing?” he whispered accusingly, as if he’d caught her emptying his piggy bank.

“I… thought I heard something.”

“You’re a freak,” Whiz shot back, then rolled over to face away from her. “Get out of here.”

I love my brother, and I’m glad he’s not dead, Connie told herself as she went back to her room. I love my brother, and I’m glad he’s not dead.

She intended to repeat it over and over in her head until she believed it, but she fell asleep first.

CHAPTER 31

Lips on his

(oh, yes)

down farther

Touch me

says the voice

again

His fingers

Oh

so warm

Oh

Jazz woke early. Not because he wanted to and not because he felt compelled to, but rather because Hughes shook him roughly by the shoulder and said, “Wake up,” in a commanding voice devoid of sympathy. The detective was already dressed.

Tangled in the sheets, clutching a pillow, Jazz blearily looked around the room. “What time is it?”

“Five of seven. First suspect is scheduled for interrogation at eight. And you still have his file to look at.”

Groaning, Jazz rolled over and pulled a pillow over his head. Hughes snatched away the pillow and tossed it over his shoulder.

Fifteen minutes later, Jazz was on his way to the precinct, flipping through the files on the dozen men suspected of being Hat-Dog. They all lived in Brooklyn, well within a specific computer-plotted jeopardy surface that contained most of the crime scenes thus far. The two extreme outliers were Coney Island and the S line in Midtown. “Why Coney Island?” Jazz asked. “Why Midtown? Why go outside his comfort zone?”

“Midtown, we’re thinking it’s a crime of opportunity. The girl lived nearby. We think maybe he works in Midtown, stays late at the office or something, sees the girl…”

“Hmm.” Jazz didn’t like that theory. Hat-Dog had been at this too long to go off half-cocked like that. He was too organized, too mature. But sometimes the impulses could scream and hoot and holler like monkeys in a cage, and the only way to shut them up…

I had to go and get me one, said Dear Old Dad.

That’s what Billy had said the night he’d returned from killing Cara Swinton. He had drummed into Jazz from an early age that “we don’t crap where we eat,” meaning “no prospecting in Lobo’s Nod.” And then one night, soon after Jazz’s thirteenth birthday, Billy went out and did exactly that, crapping right there where he ate, killing poor Cara.

The only explanation he ever offered: “I had to go and get me one.”

The compulsion. The urge. The need.

“… Coney Island,” Hughes was saying. “We’re thinking he might have been on vacation….”

“Any of these guys married?” Jazz asked, refocusing on the present and the suspects. “Kids?”

“Six married. Four divorced. Couple girlfriends. That’s the profile, right? Highly organized, probably married or in a relationship. Four of ’em have kids.”

“Start with those guys.”

“We plan to.”

“Do these guys know they’re suspects?”

“Nah. We’ve talked to all of them informally. They all had quote-unquote legitimate reasons for being around one or more of the crime scenes, so we’re pretending we just want to clear some things up. And then we get them nice and relaxed,” Hughes said grimly, “and we pounce.”

The precinct had transformed when they arrived. No longer chaotic, it now looked like something out of a movie or a TV show—two giant HDTVs showed crime-scene evidence in a sort of animated PowerPoint presentation. The men had shaved; the women had done their hair. Jazz felt the undercurrent of tension and chaos, but it was well-suppressed. The precinct had the air of a crisp, flawless operation. Evidence boxes were neatly stacked, and the whiteboard with the victimology chart had been redone to look so professional that it almost seemed to be selling something.

“This is good,” Jazz said. “Show the evidence against them. Are your people instructed how to act when the suspects come in?”

“They’ll get real quiet and murmur among themselves,” Montgomery said, walking over to him. “We know what we’re doing. A show of overwhelming evidence and force. Make these guys feel like we know everything, even the things we don’t know.”

“Billy would laugh at it.”

“Not every serial killer is your dad.” The captain put a hand on Jazz’s shoulder. “Let me show you our fine accommodations.”

He guided Jazz to a small observation room. Through a one-way mirror, Jazz could see into the interrogation room, a dingy, dull-walled box with a table and three chairs. There were more boxes stacked around here. For all Jazz knew, they were packed with old take-out menus and blank copier paper. But what mattered was that they were all labeled HAT-DOG. If Hat-Dog came into this room, especially after being walked through the “command center,” he would be overwhelmed by the mountains of evidence accumulated against him, possibly so shaken that he would confess. Or at the very least, drop some sort of clue.

That was the theory. Jazz wondered if it would actually work. Billy had once been interrogated by the police, in association with a Green Jack murder. They thought they had me fooled, he said, but all they did was show me how desperate they were.

Jazz realized his upper lip was damp. He wiped at the sweat. Montgomery was right—not every serial killer was Billy. Billy was the exception, not the rule.