“You guys ready?” Horton said.

“Sooner the better, Chief,” someone called out. “We’re trying to make the noon broadcast.”

The camera lights went on and Horton blinked in the glare. “Karen here has kept you all up to speed on the details so far in these three murder cases,” Horton began, nodding to his PIO.

“But I am here today to announce the formation of a task force,” he went on. “Its purpose is to better coordinate the efforts of the three law enforcement agencies involved in the case, and to make better use of our manpower. We’ve also established a hot line for tips, so we can coordinate our information. That number will be given to all of you at the conclusion of this press conference.”

Louis, standing behind Wainwright, watched as Horton went on to introduce Wainwright and Mobley. Wainwright stepped forward to add a few innocuous standard comments, looking ill at ease. Mobley took his turn before the mikes, cool as a Beltway pol, adding his assurances that the killer would be apprehended.

“Chief, who are your other players here?” a reporter asked, pointing a pencil at Louis and Emily.

Horton motioned to Wainwright. “This is Louis Kincaid, a special investigator temporarily attached to my office,” Wainwright said, drawing Louis forward by the arm.

Wainwright paused. “To my right is Agent Emily Farentino, a forensics psychologist with the FBI.”

Louis saw the cameras swing to Emily. “Spell the last name, please,” someone called out.

“F-a-r-r-e-n-t-i-n-o,” Wainwright said.

Emily leaned into the mike. “One R. Farentino with one R.” She backed away.

“Chief, do you have any new leads since Roscoe Webb’s escape?”

“We have a good lead on a new suspect we are looking at, but I can’t give you any details,” Horton said.

“Does he live here?”

Louis tensed, his eyes going to the Mayo sheet still in Mobley’s hand. He prayed Mobley had enough brains not to say anything. The last thing they needed now was for Gunther Mayo to get squirrelly and move on to new hunting grounds.

“No details,” Horton said.

Mobley didn’t move.

“Chief, have you figured out yet why all the murders have taken place on Tuesdays?”

“No, not yet. We’re still working on it.”

“Chief Horton,” a woman called out, “do you have any response to the NAACP charges that these are racially motivated crimes and your department is not doing enough?”

Louis could see Horton’s neck muscles tighten. “I gave you my response to that when it came out, Cheryl,” he said calmly. “This new task force is evidence that we are determined to do whatever it takes to catch this murderer. Now, if there’s nothing else—”

“I have a question for Agent Farentino.”

Louis blinked in the glare of the lights, finally seeing the source of the voice, a tall man standing in the back.

“What exactly is your role in this investigation?” the reporter asked.

Emily hesitated and slowly came to the mike. She had to stand on her tiptoes to reach it. “My role is to assist the officers in any way I can,” she said.

Louis glanced at Wainwright. He was staring at the floor.

“You do what’s called profiling, right?”

All the heads in the room had swung to the reporter now. Louis heard a Nikon motor drive whir off a couple of frames.

“Profiling is a layman’s term,” Emily said. “I—”

“What kind of man do you think this killer is?”

Emily glanced at Wainwright, then cleared her throat. “Serial killers are usually white men, twenty to thirty years old, unskilled workers, and loners.”

“But what kind of man do you think this killer is?”

Emily hesitated again. Louis could see a bead of sweat on her forehead. Shit, they were all sweating. Stay cool, Farentino, stay cool.

“I think he is a man who will eventually make a mistake,” Emily said. “A mistake that will lead to his apprehension. That’s all I am prepared to say right now.”

Louis let out a breath.

Horton took a few final questions and then turned it over to the PIO. They filed out of the room through a back door and paused in the hall.

“Next time you call a press conference, Al, I want more notice,” Mobley said. “And I want to be brought up to speed on everything you have—now.”

“You know where my office is, Lance,” Horton said. “I’ll be right there.”

Mobley stalked off, Driggs at his heels. Horton turned to Wainwright. “You don’t need to stay. I’ll handle this,” he said.

Wainwright nodded. Horton left, leaving the three of them standing alone in the hall.

“The press conference went well,” Louis said.

Wainwright looked at Emily. “It could have been worse. Come on, we’ve got work to do.”

Chapter Thirty-three

Damn it. Where’d the game go?

He squinted up at the television above the bar. Who the hell was this asshole?

He looked down the bar, but nobody else seemed to care. He took a quick drink of beer and looked back up at the television.

What the fuck was this? An old man that looked like an army guy. A stupid-looking guy in a cop uniform. Some bitch with red hair. And a black guy standing in the background.

He strained his ears to hear what they were saying.

Task force. Cops. FBI. Task force?

For me?

He resisted the urge to smile, resisted the urge to laugh.

They were so stupid.

He heard the word “Tuesday.” They were telling people he killed on Tuesdays. But they didn’t know why.

Stupid fuckers. It was his day off. It was the only time he had. What other reason could there be?

The bitch was talking now . . . she was calling him a serial killer. She was describing the killer. Describing him.

White, twenty to thirty, unskilled work. What the fuck did they mean, unskilled work? It was his work. His life. Unskilled. Like it meant nothing. Fuck them.

He took a drink.

But she did say white. That was important.

Last week he had read they thought he was black.

They were learning.

His eyes focused on the black man again. The camera came in for a quick close-up.

Wait . . . wait . . . .

Yes . . . yes!

The camera picking up the white cop now. Damn it! No! Go back to the black guy!

There! There he is again, in the background.

He looked . . . what? Uncomfortable . . . nervous . . . like he didn’t belong. That tan face there among the other white faces. He knew he didn’t belong. Oh, yes, he knew. He just didn’t see it yet.

He wouldn’t be easy.

He’d have a gun.

And he’d fight back.

But that was okay. That was part of the plan.

He took another drink, staring at the black cop over the rim of his glass.

Yes. Perfect. He’s perfect.

The army guy finished talking. He was asking the public for help. He was done. He was fucking done!

The paint!

They didn’t talk about the paint! Why didn’t they talk about the paint?

He gripped the glass.

What the fuck was wrong with them? Didn’t they know? Didn’t they see it?

It was everything . . . the paint. It was everything!

He tightened, glaring into his beer.

Maybe the paint had washed off. Maybe he shouldn’t have gotten them wet. But he had to get them wet.

Fuck.

Maybe he should tell them.

No. It didn’t matter. They weren’t important. They weren’t part of the plan and they didn’t matter.

He looked up, his eyes boring into the black cop.

He mattered.

But still . . . the paint was important.

His brain started pounding. This wasn’t supposed to happen now.

No . . . not now. Stop. . . .

He put his hands to his temples. Stop. Stop.

Water. He needed the water. The sound of the water.