Jazz stared at the envelope in his hands. The one with the wrong name. “C. D. Williams.” A mash-up and switch-around of Billy’s own name, William Cornelius Dent. It wasn’t a misdirected piece of mail or something for a previous resident. It was an alias.

The return address said it was from something called U-STORE-IT-ALL.

I was wondering where his trophies were. Not enough room here. And we might come here. So he stored them somewhere else. That’s where he is now.

“He’s not here,” Jazz said. “We spooked him today. At the precinct. So he went to visit his trophies, didn’t he? It calms him, I bet. Always worked for you.”

“We? You still thinkin’ you’re on their side, Jasper? Not enough to catch that poor jackass thought he was me? Now you gotta come here and catch this other guy?”

“That’s the game, isn’t it?” He caught Belsamo’s laptop out of the corner of his eye, still open on the floor. He closed it with his foot and nudged it back under the bed. He contemplated tucking the envelope into his pocket, but realized someone as OCD as Belsamo would notice it missing. He snapped a quick picture of it with his phone, which had booted up by now.

Then, just out of curiosity, he squeezed the envelope, just enough to get the plastic window to lift away from the contents so that he could get a peek inside. All he saw was another line of text: Re: Unit 83F.

Good to know.

“That’s the game,” he said again to his father. “You put another serial killer in play and goad me into catching him. You must have been pissed when the cops jumped the gun and brought me onto the court before you were ready. Were you really running all of this from prison? You never answered any of your so-called fan mail, so how did you do it?”

Billy chuckled. “You know what I love most about you, boy?” he asked as Jazz once again left Belsamo’s apartment. Jazz started a text to Hughes: I have billy on phone!!!!! and included the names of the street signs he finally spied across the way. “I’ll tell you. It’s this: You’re so goddamned smart, but even so, you’re only about half as smart as you think you are.”

“So educate me.” He watched the blue meter on the screen fill—slowly—as his text crawled through the ether to Hughes. He realized now that Belsamo would probably notice the missing disposable phone, but he wasn’t about to surrender this line of communication with Billy.

“It’s a game, but not the kind you think. There’s no court. And it’s not about you. Not at all.”

“Sure it is. I know all about Hat-Dog now.” Time for another knife lunge in the dark, bluffing: “I know about Ugly J.”

At that, Billy burst into raucous laughter. It wasn’t Billy’s usual laughter, the fake crap he used to catch people off guard. No, Jazz detected genuine amusement. Billy was laughing involuntarily because he thought something was truly funny.

“Glad to amuse you,” Jazz told him. His phone buzzed in his hand. From Hughes: WTF??? On my way.

“Oh, Jasper. You have no idea. About Ugly J. But I’m impressed you got far enough that you know the name.”

“I know more than the name,” Jazz lied. Fast. Smooth. Sure. Best lie he’d ever told. Hell, he believed it.

“You don’t. Because if you knew anything about Ugly J, trust me—you wouldn’t be on this call with me. You’d be curled up in a corner somewhere. Or you’d be sitting in a dark room with a knife and some pretty little girlie’s toes piled up next to you while she begged you not to cut anything else off.”

“You talk big, Billy, but I’m still working with the cops.”

“Not for long. You’ll come around. You’ll see how the crow flies.”

Just then, a bright light exploded around Jazz; his heart flopped madly in his chest, a strangling fish desperate for water. Billy had found him.

No. Not Billy. Headlights. Hughes, behind the wheel of an unmarked car. Jazz gestured frantically at him.

“What about crows?” Jazz asked. “Why is Belsamo obsessed with them?”

“He’s not,” Billy said, sounding hurt for the first time. “Don’t you remember the story I used to tell you? About the Crow King?”

The Crow King… the dove…

“Of course. That’s what this is all about?” Maybe Dear Old Dad was crazier than Jazz had imagined. “You’ve got this guy all twisted up over that old fairy tale?”

“Not a fairy tale,” Billy said angrily. Lecturing. “And not a fable. Those are magical BS. I told you folklore, Jasper. I told you myth.”

“And this myth is supposed to mean what, exactly?”

“If you ain’t figured that out yet, well… well, then maybe my parenting was a little subpar. I’ll take that. But maybe, just maybe, Jasper, you’re out of your depth here. Ever consider that? Think maybe you’re in over your head?”

Hughes had gotten out of the car and was rushing toward Jazz. Jazz froze, his attention split between Hughes and his father’s voice. He needed to keep Billy talking until… until… he wasn’t sure. Somehow he had imagined Hughes would know what to do when he got here.

“Into the car!” Hughes stage-whispered, gesticulating with wild, overblown motions. Playing the biggest, worst game of charades ever.

“I think we’re done for now,” Billy said.

“No!” Jazz said, headed for the car. Right. Get in the car. Get to the cops. Maybe they could trace—

“We’re done,” Billy said. “But keep this phone, Jasper. We’ll talk again. Soon.”

“Billy!” Jazz shouted even as Hughes flung open the passenger door.

But it was too late. His father was gone.

CHAPTER 40

For some period of time Jazz couldn’t determine, the two of them sat in the car as it idled along the sidewalk. Jazz had gone numb, and he didn’t know why.

Ever consider that? Think maybe you’re in over your head?

You’re the one in over your head, Dear Old Dad. You’re the one I’m closing in on.

But he knew it wasn’t true. Not even remotely. He hadn’t really been close to catching Billy just now. The disposable cell phone he’d swiped from Belsamo’s was disposable for a reason: so that it could be tossed and never traced. Billy would have one just like it, and the instant he hung up on Jazz, he’d probably tossed it into the… the…

“What’s the name of that river again?” he asked Hughes, his voice somewhat subdued.

“Which river?” Hughes asked.

“The one we drove over. To get to Manhattan.”

“The East River.”

Jazz nodded. He could easily imagine Billy’s disposable cell phone sinking into the East River, bound for the Atlantic Ocean and its endless anonymity.

“You kept him on the phone as long as you could,” Hughes said, soothing, proving that if the cop thing didn’t pan out, he could always fall back on being a phony psychic. “We probably couldn’t have traced the call. Maybe gotten a ping off a cell tower, but Billy’s smart—he would have been long gone by the time we—”

“He said for me to hold on to this phone,” Jazz said. “Said we’d talk again.”

Hughes pursed his lips and nodded. “Okay, then. We’ll take it to the TARU kids. They can clone it so that the next time he calls, you can talk to him and they can be tracking him at the same time. We’ll get him, Jasper. He’s playing with the big boys now. The NYPD doesn’t mess around.”

Jazz snorted laughter, then stopped himself immediately. He didn’t mean to sound disrespectful, but this was Billy they were talking about. Billy didn’t mess around, either. Billy had gotten the local and state police forces of sixteen separate states, to say nothing of the FBI itself, all tangled up in knots. A career that spanned more than two decades. The NYPD could not “mess around” all it wanted.