“You already know what I’m saying. Now, call your partner in, and your uncle. I’m tired.”

Alex stood, but before he reached the door, Wilder said, “What’s your partner’s problem, do you think?”

“Old men,” Alex said, and walked out, hearing Wilder laugh and cough behind him.

When they came back in, Wilder began by saying, “I want more time,” then seemed to find this a good joke, so that they had to wait for him to stop coughing. When he was able to speak again, he said, “I suppose, Detective Morton, you will want my rough guesses now, because you lack your partner’s patience. All right, I’ll give them to you. You must let me know if the gentlemen with the FBI agree.

“These killers are probably highly intelligent males-plural, because I agree there is probably more than one, but I’m not sure there are only two-you could easily be looking at a close-knit group. Ages-I’ll need more time. Some factors say older, some younger.”

“Twenties? Thirties?” Ciara asked.

He ignored her. “They are intelligent, but they probably didn’t do well in school. They would have exhibited behavior problems. They have difficulty with authority.

“They feel superior to law enforcement and are proving it. ‘Above the law’ is more than a phrase-they are not only not subject to it, they can do better without it. They have had problems in the past with the Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department-they may have been rejected from the academy, or something of that nature. A little more difficult to know about the FBI, but the same thing may hold true there. Or, it may simply be that they consider the Most Wanted list to be the ultimate way to prove their point-these are the criminals most wanted by all the law enforcement agencies in the U.S., and they are smarter and better at catching them than the FBI is.”

“So far, Shay,” John said, “they seem to be making a good case for that.”

“Yes,” Wilder said slowly. “Curious, isn’t it? It argues tremendous long-range planning-such as putting someone into the staff of that television program as a mole of sorts, finding a victim for the theft of the license, and so on. And I would guess that to drug and transport two individuals to Catalina, to buy pharmaceutical blood-thinning agents-if that’s indeed what they used-to get someone inside Adrianos’s organization to betray him-all of that took some money, don’t you think?”

“The kind of money Christopher Logan has now?” Ciara asked.

Wilder’s brows pulled together as he frowned at her. “Have you located him?”

“Not yet. His lawyers say he’s not currently available to talk to us.”

Wilder was silent for a moment, then said, “I interviewed him, you know. Years ago. After he killed Naughton.”

“And?”

“He was remarkable. Extraordinarily intelligent. IQ off the charts.”

“And used it to kill someone.”

Wilder shrugged. “I think he found a way out of a horribly abusive situation, and it’s just a damned shame he didn’t get a chance to do so earlier than he did.”

“Agreed,” Ciara said, “but he has the capacity for violence-he went way overboard when it came to killing Naughton. I read the reports on that. He went berserk, bashed the hell out of his stepfather’s skull with that shovel.”

“Overkill is not at all unusual in that type of situation,” Wilder said. “Teenagers or children who kill an adult abuser will often not believe their abuser can be killed. Think how much power the abuser has had over them-and yes, pent-up rage is part of it, too. But that doesn’t necessarily argue continued violence.”

“How could a kid like that not end up twisted?”

Wilder gave her a look of impatience. “You don’t believe that Naughton had a contagious disease, do you?”

“No, but-”

“And since Kit Logan was Naughton’s stepchild, you obviously aren’t arguing that he inherited some physical impairment from his stepfather-some brain dysfunction that would predispose him to violence.”

“No-I meant-”

“You meant that during his tender adolescent years, Kit Logan was both physically abused by Naughton and continually exposed to his stepfather’s obsessions, and that he can’t now be a normal man.”

“Something like that,” she said flatly.

“You may be right-it would be remarkable indeed if he survived that childhood without being damaged to some degree. But I don’t think that’s what’s going on here-too much in these crime scenes doesn’t fit.”

Ciara frowned. “What do you mean?”

“One always has to ask-why this victim?”

“If the killers are trying to look like heroes,” Alex said slowly, “the mimicking of Naughton doesn’t fit.”

“Exactly. There is a desire to be seen as heroes, or they wouldn’t be killing those on the FBI’s list-the victims would be different if you were truly trying to emulate Naughton. And Naughton was no hero to Kit Logan. I spoke to him often enough to feel confident that there was nothing about Naughton he wanted to emulate.”

“But isn’t it true that his history of abuse could have led to a sense of rage?” Ciara said.

“If he felt some sort of displaced rage, I would think Kit Logan would have chosen a target who reminded him of Naughton-a way of killing Naughton again and again. Or worst case, his mother, who failed to protect him. That would be more typical.”

“But didn’t he get to be a hero when he killed Naughton?” John asked.

“His grandmother made sure he stayed out of the spotlight,” Wilder said. “But I have to say, John, you make a good point. Maybe he felt as if he was a hero, even if he didn’t get attention for it.”

“And law enforcement failed to protect him, too,” Alex said.

“Yes. In fact, Kit did say to me that for a time, he hoped the police would catch Naughton and that he would be rescued. By the time he killed Naughton, he had stopped believing it was going to happen.” Wilder began coughing again. “As I said, I need more time. But frankly, I still think it would be foolish to focus on Kit Logan. Look for this other young man, the one who posed as Eric Grady.”

As they were going toward the front door, Alex felt Wilder take hold of his arm. “Let me lean on you a little,” Wilder said. Alex slowed his pace.

“You miss J.D.,” Wilder said.

“Yes.”

“So do I. It will get easier, Alex.”

“I know.”

When Ciara and John were some distance ahead of them, he said, “Do you climb these cliff faces alone or with a climbing partner?”

“I have a partner-a teacher, really. He introduced me to climbing. He’s a much better climber than I am.”

“You aren’t bothered by the difference in your skill level?”

“No, we’re friends, and it’s more a matter of attitude, I guess. It’s cooperative, not competitive, between us. Besides, even if I learned everything I could, because of my work schedule, I couldn’t get in as much time with him as his other partner can.”

Wilder held up one of Alex’s bruised hands. “You’ve climbed recently?”

“Last weekend.”

“Good, so you got a climb in before all of this happened. I have a feeling it may be a while before you get time to do so again.”

“You’re probably right.”

“You should ask among your other friends who climb-try to discover if anyone has been asking about you lately.”

“I appreciate the concern,” Alex said.

“But you don’t believe me. Do you think that a killer careful enough to take three FBI fugitives in hand-careful enough to vacuum an attic-left pieces of a rappelling rope at each scene by chance? Or that it’s a fluke that he is bringing his trophies to the sheriff’s department?”

“I wondered about that. Not in Lakewood, of course. But Catalina Island…”

“Yes. Too much trouble to leave a body there unless one has a message to deliver with it. When are you going to get the message, Alex?”

“Are you so certain it’s addressed to me and not the sheriff?”