Sean, Brian, and Rafe Montoya all arrived at the sheriff’s department at eight o’clock the next morning. Sean climbed out of his car and approached the other men as they stood at the far end of the parking lot, staring at the crowd gathered at the main entrance. Multiple news vans occupied the lot as cameramen and reporters littered the front walkway of the building.

“This can’t be good,” Sean murmured.

Brian rolled his eyes. “You think? Let’s just hope it doesn’t have anything to do with our serial.”

“Twenty bucks says it does,” Rafe dared.

His partner snorted. “Even I’m not crazy enough to take that bet. And speaking of which, you still owe me twenty from the game the other night.”

“Yeah, I’ll get right on that. I forgot to roll my loose change for you.”

“Asshole. Don’t laugh, Sean, but this jackass did that to me once,” Brian complained. “Paid his fucking $50 bet in dimes, nickels, and pennies.”

Sean shook his head. The two of them sound more like an old married couple than coworkers. But the thought of pennies had his mind going back to the case, and it was hard to laugh while thinking about that.

The lawmen managed to make their way through the chaos unnoticed. Although Sean was dressed in a dark suit, and the other men in sports coats, their weapons and badges were concealed, leaving no outward sign they were in law enforcement. As a result, the press didn’t question them as they entered the station. Showing their ID’s to the deputy at the front desk, they were buzzed into the back hallway and went straight to Griffin’s office. His secretary, Nancy Kessler, was simultaneously talking on the phone and writing on a memo pad when they entered the reception area. Her husband taught history at the local high school and had coached both Brian and Sean in football when they were younger. Nancy recognized the brothers immediately, smiled, and gestured for the men to take seats for a moment.

The sheriff’s door was closed, but they could hear him yelling through the frosted glass. “I want to know who the fucking leak was and I want to know now! All hell is breaking loose out there and we’re no closer to finding this son of a bitch than we were two months ago. I’ve got every goddamned politician in Dare County demanding answers and I’ve got nothing for them.

“Brooks, I want you to pass the word that no one . . . I repeat . . . no one is to talk to the press about this case without permission from me. And, Dworski, since every pain-in-the-ass reporter and news station in the area is outside, you might as well make a statement.”

Another male voice responded, “What do you want me to say? Or not say?”

“Say we have three homicides that may be related. We’ve formed a task force which includes state and federal investigators. Everything possible is being done to catch this bastard. No specific details about the murders. The pennies and the carvings are to be kept under wraps. Tell them we’ve stepped up patrols, women should take extra precautions, yada yada. You know the fucking routine.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You can also tell them we’ll be holding daily press conferences at 11:00 a.m. starting tomorrow. If we do that, hopefully that’ll stop some of those reporters from snooping around. I doubt it, but it’s worth a shot.” The man paused. “And if I catch anyone from this department talking to any reporter without permission, I swear there’ll be hell to pay. They’ll be cleaning every patrol car and piece of equipment with a goddamned toothbrush for the next three years. Dismissed.”

The door opened suddenly and two uniformed captains exited the office followed by the sheriff. “Nancy, hold my calls for the next hour or so unless it’s an emergency. I’ve got a pounding headache.”

His secretary nodded, the phone’s receiver still held to her ear. She opened the top drawer of her desk and handed her boss a bottle of ibuprofen. Griffin grunted his thanks as he took it from her before turning to the three men waiting for him. “I was wondering when the damn press was going to come knocking. Come on in, guys. Join the party.”

Entering the office, they found one other man sitting at the conference table. He stood as they approached and Sean immediately recognized him as Jack Lynch’s father.

Griffin introduced all of them. “Brad Lynch, you already know Brian and Sean Malone, and this is Rafe Montoya, also from the SBI.”

The men all shook the detective’s hand and then Brad grinned at Brian. “Hey, nice drug bust a few weeks ago.” Sean knew he was referring to a huge bust that had gone down that had included Brian, a team from the state police, and some DEA agents. They’d taken a million dollars’ worth of marijuana, cocaine, and ecstasy off the streets. Brian nodded his thanks as Brad turned to his brother. “Good to see you again, Sean. It’s been a long time.”

Sean nodded. “At least five years. How’ve you been?”

“Good, good. Just got back from Jack’s wedding.”

“I heard. Give him my congratulations.”

“I will.” The detective continued as they all took seats around the conference table, “Your Uncle Dan told me you were moving back here.”

“Took a post in Greenville to be closer to the family.”

“Yeah, he also told me KC and his wife are expecting. That’s great.”

From his seat at the head of the table, Sheriff Griffin cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, you can catch up with each other later. Let’s get through this, so I can get rid of you and this fucking headache at the same time.”

Brian tossed his notepad on the table in front of him. “How bad is the leak?”

Scowling, Matt ran a hand down his face. “I’m not sure. The press doesn’t seem to know many details, but somehow they got a hold of the victims’ names and where they were dumped.”

“Shit,” Montoya murmured.

That was putting it mildly. It was obvious from the sheriff’s expression and demeanor that when he found the leak, he was going to plug it . . . permanently. Whoever was spouting information was potentially putting a conviction in jeopardy if an arrest was ever made. “I agree. Anyway, let’s get this show on the road. Brad?”

The lead detective recapped for everyone what they knew about the first two murders. “Two months ago, Becky Travis, twenty-two, left a friend’s party after drinking almost half a bottle of vodka by herself. She apparently did a disappearing act on them without saying goodbye and was walking home, three blocks away. From what we can tell she never made it. Two days later she was found in an alley by sanitation workers in Kitty Hawk. Naked, ligature strangulation, ‘slut’ carved into her torso and a penny on her forehead. No witnesses. Videos from local businesses were scarce and revealed nothing that seemed out of the ordinary.

“Three weeks ago, Shannon Emerson, twenty-four, was at a bachelorette party at a place called The Toy Box in Elizabeth City. They have a male strip show at nine—get the girls all hot and bothered—then open the place up to men at ten thirty. Her friends never saw her leave. Apparently everyone was pretty toasted and didn’t realize she was gone until around 1:00 a.m. She was supposed to be the ride home for two of the other women. Her car was still in the parking lot.”

“Any surveillance video?” Montoya asked.

Lynch shook his head. “The video from inside is black and white, and very grainy. We were able to pick her out a few times, but she was still with her friends at that point. After it got crowded in there it was hard to tell one person from another. The outside cameras hadn’t been working for weeks and management hadn’t gotten around to fixing them.

“Anyway, the vic was found at the edge of a wooded area next to the soccer field of Manteo High School. The gardener was mowing the grass and spotted the body an hour before students started showing up, so we were able to isolate the area. Her condition was the same as the other one. No clothes recovered from either scene, but from photos taken at both parties the vics were dressed to impress. We checked out the ex-boyfriends on both women and didn’t come up with any leads. Neither one told family or friends about any stalkers or problems with anyone. And as far as we can tell their lives didn’t intersect with each other.”

Sean took over from there, giving the two detectives the information on the latest homicide and what they’d uncovered about the victim so far. “It sounds like he’s going after blonde party girls. Daphne was all dressed up, too, according to her roommate. Also no stalkers. Last steady boyfriend was a year ago. It ended amicably when he moved to California for business. No other leads yet. It’s possible these woman were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Victims of opportunity.” He paused, then added, “I’m curious about the dump sites. The first two were left in places where they would be found relatively fast. But Daphne was left in a wooded area. If it wasn’t for the dogs, she wouldn’t have been easily spotted from the trail. It could mean something or absolutely nothing.”

Griffin reported that they still hadn’t located Stuart Crowell, but patrols were actively looking for him.

“What are the chances he’s our killer?” he asked, directing his question to the federal agent.

Flipping his hand in a “who knows” gesture, Sean frowned. “Slim. He doesn’t really fit the profile of a serial killer, but we have to rule him out. His print could have ended up on the penny anywhere. The other pennies had smudges, nothing to confirm he’d handled them.” Hank Cunningham had called him late yesterday afternoon with that information. The pennies hadn’t been cleaned with anything they could detect, either.

“So where do we go from here?” Montoya asked.

Leaning forward, Brad rested his arms on the table. He was in charge of the task force, so he’d be the one handing out assignments. While usually a federal agent or at least a state investigator would be heading the team, both Sean and Brian were comfortable with ceding command to the man they’d known and respected for years. “We’ve got the surveillance tapes from Visions, so I’m going to review those with our video expert. Each camera angle is on a different disk so it’ll take most of the day.”

Sean handed the lead detective a photo of Daphne Jones. “Her roommate gave me this. She took it at the restaurant the night Daphne disappeared. It’ll help you find her on the video.”

Brad nodded and added the photo to the folder in front of him. “Sean, can you patch into the FBI database and see if there are any similar homicides in any other states? It’ll be faster than putting in a formal request.”

“Consider it done. My laptop’s in the car.”

“And maybe start working on a profile of our UNSUB,” the detective added. “Brian and Rafe, why don’t you guys check with BCI, see if Hank has anything new for us. Detective Vic Emory stopped by Vision’s for us last night and came up with a list of employees who were working on Saturday night, along with their contact information. When you’re done talking to Hank, getting statements from them is all yours.” Brad rattled off his cell and office phone numbers for the others and then took down their contact information. “Keep in touch. We’ll meet back here . . . say around five for a roundup. By then it’ll be on every news station so get ready for the stampede of crazies, psychics, and general ‘I want to get involved’ people crawling out of the fucking woodwork.”

Most law enforcement officers hated when an open case was aired on TV. Ninety-nine percent of the resulting callers had no real information pertaining to the case. You just had to be patient and weed through all of the false leads to get to the one that might solve the case. It was a tedious, yet necessary process.

While the others headed off for their own assignments, Sean grabbed his laptop computer from his car and returned to the conference room they had used the day before. The sheriff had told the task force it was theirs for the duration of the case. The room had several dry erase boards and corkboards on the walls that were perfect for organizing victims, suspects, locations, and timelines. They were currently empty, but Sean planned on spending the day filling them up with the data they had already gathered. It would help him try to find any other similarities between the victims and develop a basic profile.

As he waited for the department IT tech who would interface his laptop with the department’s system for easier access, his first order of business was pinning photos of the three victims onto one of the boards. In the top row, he placed pictures of the women as they had been in life—vibrant and alive. In the middle was a copy of their individual crime scene photos and the bottom row contained photos of the victims in the autopsy suite. Next he turned to one of the dry erase boards and picked up a black marker sitting on the metal shelf beneath it. He spent about an hour listing what they already knew about each victim and their crime scenes. By the time he was done with that, his computer was ready to go. A department computer, fax machine and printer had also been set up for the task force to use. As the technician left the room, Sean thanked him, then sat down at the conference table in front of his laptop and signed himself into the FBI’s National Data Exchange.

Most law enforcement agencies reported all major crimes in their jurisdiction to the FBI, whether they were solved or not. It wasn’t mandatory nationwide and some smaller police departments with low personnel numbers, crime rates, and financial budgets didn’t have the resources to enter information into the system. But now, as more and more agencies moved forward into the computer era, very few major crimes escaped entry. The N-DEx database could be used to search for crimes with similar characteristics, such as DNA, weapons or vehicles used, and modus operandi. Serial murderers, rapists, and other criminals tended to follow a pattern, or MO, when committing their crimes. The patterns might change slightly as the perpetrator honed his skills, but the basics tended to stay the same.

Once Sean entered the information they had gathered on the three murders into the program, the system would search for similar homicides throughout the United States. Young, blonde females, ligature strangulation, pennies, and “slut” carved into the torso—that was enough for a start. He set the program to compare those parameters with hundreds of thousands of cases in the database and spit out any that had at least three of the four catchphrases in them. Depending on how many cases were found, he would adjust the parameters.

It would take the program at least an hour to compile a list for him to start working on, so he moved to his next assignment, developing a basic profile of the UNSUB. Although Sean wasn’t an FBI profiler, he had taken several courses on the subject provided by the bureau and had worked with a few of the FBI’s criminal psychologists over the years. He pulled out his phone to call Dr. Suki Ralston, his favorite shrink, who was stationed in the Quantico, Virginia FBI headquarters. He’d worked with her on three cases in the last two years and found her profiles of the suspects to be spot-on after they had been caught. A Hawaiian native, Suki was a petite, dark-haired beauty with soft, caramel colored skin who gave most men whiplash when she walked by. But while working on their first case together, Sean quickly found there was plenty more to the brilliant woman with a PhD in criminal psychology than just her looks. She had a fun personality, a deep love of her career, and a wicked sense of humor. After six weeks of long hours working together and then relaxing after hours over several meals the two had established a closeness similar to that of a brother and sister. They’d kept in touch since their first case together and phoned each other a few times a month. He last spoke to Suki two weeks earlier while he was packing to move back north and had made tentative plans to meet her for dinner while he was still on vacation.

Finding her name in his list of cell phone contacts, he pressed send and waited for the call to go through. She picked it up on the third ring. “Hey, hot stuff, what’s up?

Sean smiled at her teasing. “Aloha, Doc. How ya doing?”

“Great! How’s your vacation going? Have you gone stir-crazy yet?”

“Actually, I’m working.”

“What? You’ve got to be kidding me.” After he told her he wasn’t joking, she asked, “Didn’t anyone teach you the definition of a vacation, Malone? You’re what? Not even one week into a four week stint? How the hell did you manage that?”

Sean took a moment to fill the profiler in on how he ended up with the case, then spent the next five minutes giving her the basic details of the murders. “That’s it in a nutshell. So I decided to call my favorite shrink to see if she could do a full profile for me. I’ve got just the basics.”

“Favorite, huh? Well, flattery only gets you so far.”

He laughed. “Uh-oh. What’s it going to cost me this time? A king’s ransom?”

“Nah. Just dinner, maybe dancing.”

“Dinner, yes. Dancing—only if you don’t mind getting your feet crushed. I’m a lousy dancer or so my prom date told me way back when.”

Suki giggled. “What? A stud-muffin like you doesn’t have rhythm?”

His smile grew wider. “Oh, I’ve got rhythm, baby, just not on the dance floor.”

The two chuckled with amusement. There was always innocent flirting going on between them, yet it’d never gone any further than that. Sean often wondered why he never asked her out. If Suki had been taller than her five foot three, she could have been a supermodel. He didn’t deny the woman was gorgeous, but after working together, she had quickly become a good friend, and he didn’t want to ruin their relationship over a short fling. He knew it wouldn’t last long—his relationships never did—and losing her friendship wasn’t worth it to him. Besides, it was never a good thing to get involved with someone from the agency.

“Anyway,” she said, after she finally stopped laughing. “I’ve got a meeting in the morning at headquarters, but my afternoon is light and can be cleared. I’ll fly down to you after the meeting, and you can show me what you have. I’ll get a hotel room somewhere and start on the profile after you treat me to dinner. Sound good?”

“That’d be great, but you don’t have to get a room. You can stay in the spare bedroom at my uncle’s cottage.”

“You don’t have to put me up. I’ll be fine in a hotel,” she told him.

“I don’t mind at all and there’s plenty of room. Besides you haven’t seen the place yet and I know you love the beach. No more arguments.”

“Okay, but if I get in your way, feel free to kick me out. Where should I meet you tomorrow?”

Sean gave her the address for the Dare County Sheriff’s Department for her GPS. “Call me when you’re almost here and I’ll meet you at the station.”

“Perfect. Talk to you then.”

After disconnecting the call Sean looked up to find Deputy Montgomery walking into the room. “Got some good news for you, Agent Malone. Patrol found Stuart Crowell. Apparently he ran after spotting them. Had some burglary tools with him. They got him though. Should be pulling into the sally port just about now,” he said, referring to the drive-in garage where prisoners were brought into the station, away from public view. The locked area also prevented suspects from trying to flee. “Detective Lynch is already on his way to booking; he asked for you to meet him there.”

As Sean stood, the deputy handed him an electronic passkey. “The sheriff told me to give you this. It’ll get you into most areas of the department without asking one of us to let you in.”

He took the flat, plastic card and tucked it into his pants pocket. “That’s great, thanks. How do I get to booking from here?”

“Far end of this hall, take the stairs down, make a right, and a quick left. You’ll see the sign.”

Before leaving the room, Sean left his computer program running, but locked access to the laptop. Although it seemed silly since it was sitting in a police station, it was always better to be safe than sorry. One never knew who could be wandering around the halls—and they still didn’t know who the leak was. There were also civilians working in various jobs in the department. He also locked the conference room door on his way out since the files were now spread out and information was on the boards.

He made his way through the station and walked into the booking area right behind Lynch. A sergeant and booking deputy were already waiting for the prisoner when the door to the sally port opened and two deputies entered, escorting a thin, white male wearing baggy clothes with his hands handcuffed behind his body. All three men were covered from head to toe in dark brown mud and the two deputies looked ready to spit nails.

The sergeant took one look at the motley bunch and burst out laughing. “I can’t wait to hear this one. What the hell happened?”

The two scowling deputies remained silent as they put the suspect in a holding cage and removed his handcuffs. The cage door was then slammed shut after they stepped back out. The shorter and older of the two cocked his head toward the suspect. “We were driving around looking for this knucklehead and finally spotted him coming out of an alley off King Street. Took one look at us and ran toward the high school. We caught up with him on the football field, which, thanks to a broken sprinkler system, was a hundred yards of nothing but mud.” The deputy looked at his partner’s clothes and then his own. “Needless to say Crowell here is also being charged with resisting arrest.”

The other deputy snorted at his partner. “Johnson, man, I know you’re not big on cursing, which in this job is unheard of, but at a time like this feel free to call the guy a fucking asshole.”

The rest of the men chuckled as the sergeant ordered, “You two go get cleaned up and into new uniforms before you do anything else. The detectives want to talk to him first anyway.”

Crowell spoke up for the first time since walking into the station. “Hey, what about me? Don’t I get to clean up too? I’m freezing. This is false arrest. I know my rights.”

Both arresting deputies and the sergeant barked in unison, “Shut up!”

Johnson handed the booking deputy a plastic bag containing a wallet, a pack of cigarettes and a few other items. “Here’s his personal property. The rest of what we found on him will be logged into evidence.”

“Hey, that’s my stuff;” Crowell whined. “You can’t take my stuff. I have rights you know.”

Complaining suspects were always annoying, and at this point everyone in booking yelled, “Shut up!” simultaneously.

The suspect mumbled to himself but wisely quieted down.