“And doesn’t Sammy J sound like someone else we know?”

Traffic was light, so Howie risked taking his eyes off the road. Connie strained against her shoulder belt, leaning toward him intensely, staring as if she could burn the answer into him with her eyes. “What are you talking about?” he asked. “Why are you all freaked out all of a sudden? It’s just a nickname.”

“Sammy J. J,” she said, emphasizing the last letter.

The connection clicked. “Jesus, Connie. You think Sammy J is Ugly J? Just because they share an initial? That’s crazy.”

“I’ll tell you what’s crazy: Auto-Tuning your voice if there’s no reason to. Billy wouldn’t do it because I already know who he is. The only reason for someone else to disguise it—”

“Is if you know the voice already,” Howie interrupted. “But you’ve never met Sam.”

“Or to disguise your gender,” Connie told him. “And yeah, I’ve never met her, but I might. As long as she’s in town, staying at Jazz’s, the odds are I would meet her. And hear her voice.”

“That’s nuts,” Howie said in a tone that wasn’t convincing even to him.

“Who’s new to town who I haven’t met yet, but probably will at some point? Who’s the only person in this whole mess who would have a reason to disguise her voice from me?”

“You’re assuming a lot. I mean, Mr. Auto-Tune—”

“Or Ms. Auto-Tune.”

“—could be anyone. I mean, maybe he—or she,” he amended quickly, “is just worried that you’re recording your conversations. Or just doesn’t want you to be able to identify him or her by voice someday. Or…”

“You can keep throwing ‘or’ out there as much as you want, but face it—the most likely scenario is that it’s someone known to me. Or to us. Maybe that’s not one hundred percent guaranteed, but come on, Howie.”

Howie hated to admit it, but she had a point. And all he could think of, suddenly, was the photo album Gramma had showed him. The pictures of Sam as a little girl. I was a late bloomer….

“We know Billy had a confederate out there,” Connie went on. “Someone who coordinated his escape from Wammaket. Someone who was in contact with the Impressionist. What if it was his sister?”

Howie shook his head. “No. I don’t buy it.”

“Because you want to sleep with her.”

“That’s beside the point. I don’t buy it because Sam hates Billy. You should see her when he comes up. She despises that guy. Jesus, she said in public that she would pull the lever if they executed him.”

“Yeah, and I just told my parents that I would never speak to them again if they called the cops on me. I sounded serious enough that they didn’t.”

Howie said nothing as he guided the car into the drop-off lane and stopped. “God,” he said at last. “Have I been macking on a serial killer’s right-hand man? Woman? Are there even… is there even such a thing?”

“I think so. Jazz mentioned one once. Some woman in England, I think. Sam could be a serial killer.”

“Watch it. That’s the mother of my illegitimate children you’re talking about.”

“Howie.”

“But really—what are the odds of a brother and sister serial-killing tag team?”

“Same parents. Same genetics. Same environment. I don’t know the odds, but it’s not impossible.”

“How do we find out? Do we just ask her?”

“Not a chance. There’s got to be some way to find out without confronting her directly.”

“I’ll ask Gramma,” Howie joked.

“Hell, what if she’s involved? I was thinking that before—what if she’s been faking all this Alzheimer’s crap, hiding in plain sight?”

“No way, Connie. Uh-uh. You haven’t been around her as much as I have. Trust me—the woman’s nuts. And not in the way you mean. Not in like an evil mastermind–slash–Hannibal Lecter kind of way. She’s completely off her rocker. Sometimes Jazz has to change her adult diaper, for God’s sake. You think she’s gonna go through that just to keep up a cover story?”

They sat in silent thought in the car, staring at each other until a horn honking from behind them brought them out of their reverie.

“Maybe I should stay here….” Connie said hesitantly, almost unwillingly.

“No. Go to New York. Figure out this bell thing. Get the other clue. This stuff is all connected. What’s happening in New York is connected to what’s happening here. You work the New York angle with Jazz and I’ll figure out what’s going on here.”

“Are you sure?” She was worried, that much was obvious. Howie didn’t blame her; he was worried, too. He sort of liked being alive. He also thought Sam was hot and it would really suck if she turned out to be crazy like her brother.

“Sure? No. But go.” He popped her lock and the horn from behind blared again. “You better get going. And for God’s sake, be careful! There’s crazy-bad juju going down.”

“Howie…”

“I’m serious, for once. Now go. It’ll be all right. I’m not as fragile as I look.”

“I know. That’s the problem—you’re more fragile.”

“This is true.” He leaned over impulsively and kissed her cheek. “Get out of here. You have a flight to catch.”

Once she was through security, Connie had to run for her plane, boarding right before the door closed. She apologized to her row mates and slid into her middle seat.

Was she doing the right thing? She had left Howie—Howie!—completely unprotected, with Gramma, who was crazy enough for any three people, and Samantha, who quite possibly could be crazy, too. Even though he’d encouraged her to go, was it the right thing to do?

She dug into her purse. Howie was right. Time to set aside pride (no matter how righteous) and anger (ditto) and call Jazz. See what he thought. Didn’t it make more sense for him to go to JFK, after all? Sure, it would be a distraction from the Hat-Dog Killer, but Howie was right—these cases were interconnected. It was all interconnected, as cables stretched from the past to the present, from Lobo’s Nod to New York, entangling and binding all of them: Jazz, Billy, Sam, Howie, the Hat-Dog Killer, the Impressionist, Connie herself, the victims…. She couldn’t untangle the knots just yet and see where they’d come from, but she knew they were all connected.

“Miss, no electronic devices,” a flight attendant said just as Connie hit the Call button under Jazz’s name.

“But—”

“Off, please. Now.” Said with a grim little smile that seemed to broadcast Try me, sister.

Connie ended the call before the first ring, then made a show of shutting down her phone. Now she had the entire flight to think about how she might have sent Howie to his death.

And how she might be voluntarily winging her way to her own.

By five that evening, Jazz’s hotel room looked like an evidence locker had exploded inside a math classroom.

But he had the answer. It all worked out.

He stared at the new app on his phone, then shifted over to the sheet of paper covered with his most recent scribbles. Yeah. Yeah, it all made sense.

Crazy sense. But sense nonetheless. Somehow, it was fitting that Billy and G. William had said the things that made it all click for him.

Hughes had warned him away from the precinct, but this was too big.

He gathered up a few critical pieces of paper, double-checked his phone, then grabbed Belsamo’s disposable cell before heading out the door.