Ethan welcomed the morning bleary-eyed and surly-tempered. Sleep had been difficult to summon. Enough so that he’d finally given up at one point and gone back to work for a few hours, poring over the earliest homicides attributed to The Tailor, looking for ways the offender had evolved until his eyes burned and his brain could no longer process information. And even then, when he’d tried sleep again, it’d been a long time coming. And he knew the blame for his fitful slumber was the woman across the hall.

It had been the glasses that did it. When she opened the door, tendrils of hair spilling from the knot she’d put it in, reading glasses perched on her perfect nose, he’d had a technicolor image of the first time he’d seen her in the Truro library. When he’d spoken to her then, she’d taken off the glasses self-consciously, fiddling with the bows during the whole conversation. She’d since lost that self-consciousness. The glasses were different. But she was still gut wrenchingly sexy in them, and his response pissed him off.

His second marriage had been as ill-fated as the first. In the four years since it’d ended, there’d been women. Nothing serious, because his batting average in that area wasn’t exactly stellar. But it wasn’t lack of female companionship that made him hyperaware of Alexa Hayden.

Hayden. The unfamiliar name meant she’d remarried. Which was yet another reason there shouldn’t be even a hint of the personal between them. They’d both moved on. A chance meeting decades after they’d parted wouldn’t change that.

An icy shower did nothing to improve his mood. Neither did his first glimpse of Alexa, when she slipped into the room they used for their conference area. The slight shadows under her eyes were probably due to her late night the last two evenings. He didn’t flatter himself that she’d spent the hours she could have been sleeping last night tossing in the bed, her mind returning again and again to memories that should have been long forgotten.

Nyle had obviously risen earlier and purchased Danishes and coffee. Ethan set his laptop on the table, booted it up and set the briefing agenda next to it before making a beeline for the caffeine to grab a cup. The first scalding taste was much-needed fortification. The unexpected addition of Alexa Hayden to the team was a distraction he could ill-afford. And he was damn well not going to waste any more time delving into memories that had been locked away long ago.

He took another long gulp and decided to cut himself a break. It’d been less than twenty-four hours since he’d come face to face with the biggest regret of his life. A response was normal. But they had a killer to catch, and like it or not, Alexa was a member of his personnel-strapped task force. From now on, that was all she was.

Ethan turned to the laptop and opened the group video conference software. One by one, the rest of the task force appeared on the screen. Captain Campbell, based in Ottawa, his expression stoic as he waited for the newest update. Ian McManus, Steve Friedrich and Jonah Bannon, the team members left behind in New Brunswick. Steve, the youngest of the three, was unshaven and chugged from a water bottle like a dying man in a desert. Ian and Jonah were RCMP veterans ten and fifteen years Ethan’s senior. Jonah held a coffee cup in a death grip, his bald dome glistening in the overhead lighting. They were using the conference room in New Brunswick’s J Division RCMP Headquarters in Fredericton. Ian sat next to him, one foot bouncing in a show of nervous energy.

Captain Campbell spoke first. “Commissioner Gagnon wants another national news conference, Ethan. The press won’t be put off indefinitely with daily written updates on the investigation. We need regular face time with the investigators to convey a forward progression in the case.”

A dull throb started in Ethan’s left temple. “I’ll assist in that with all the information at my disposal.”

“No, Gagnon also wants you in front of the cameras this time.” Campbell’s wiry gray hair always looked like he’d just run a frustrated hand through it. This morning was no exception. “You’re the face of the investigation. Not that he expects you to fly back to Ottawa, of course. But you’ll do a remote segment during the interview, once we get it set up. We’ll work on what to release beforehand, of course.”

The pain in Ethan’s head increased. This likely meant dropping everything on a moment’s notice and wasting a couple of hours in a news station. But he couldn’t fault the commissioner’s decision. The media was a fanged beast that had to be fed regularly during a high-profile case. The Tailor’s return had made national headlines. It was good PR for them to shape the narrative as much as they could, calm the fears of a jittery public and convince the press that they had the matter well in hand. Based on the UNSUB’s long criminal career so far, that would be an uphill battle.

“And we’ll want Dr. Hayden at your side, of course,” Campbell added.

“Of course.” Ethan managed to keep the irony from his voice. Forward progression meant a show of all the resources the Force was throwing at the investigation; in this case, a fancy consultant from the States. Far better to have the media talking about those extra efforts than having them speculate that not enough was being done.

“That’s all I have. I’ll contact you when we have a date and time set up.”

“I’d like to take this opportunity to introduce our consultant, Dr. Alexa Hayden.” Ethan motioned Alexa over to sit next to him so they could more easily share the screen. “She’s already identified the insects left with the last three victims and has developed a theory about the UNSUB’s use of them and how they tie into the torture. I’ll let her lay it out for you.” He nudged the computer screen toward her.

“Good morning. I’ve written up my initial notes and they’ll be added to the updated case file Officer Samuels will be uploading shortly. I’ll give you a brief summary, however.” Alexa appeared poised, despite being thrust into the spotlight without warning. She launched into a succinct account of her findings, and her conjecture about the offender’s reasoning for both the insect and victim selection.

Ethan found himself focusing more on her impact on the other men than on her words. Steve stopped fidgeting with the water bottle, sitting up straighter. Ian, who invariably chose the most butt-ugly tie he could find as in silent protest for having to wear suits, smoothed a big paw over his eye-popping neon green and red tie and buttoned his suit jacket. Even the normally stoic Bannon appeared enrapt. Given the fact that the team members had been as unimpressed with Gagnon’s decision for a consultant as Ethan, it wasn’t hard to understand where their newfound interest stemmed from.

Alexa was clad in a tailored blue blouse and black slacks, her hair pulled back into a knot at her nape. She didn’t have to try to capture male attention. She never had. Her unawareness of the impression she made on the opposite sex was genuine. Which was probably what made it so irresistible.

But resist was exactly what he was going to do, he reminded himself, shifting uncomfortably in the chair beside her. Her value to the team was the only thing that mattered. They’d done perfectly well going their own separate ways for twenty years. After the case was over, as far as he was concerned they could go twenty more.

“Interesting theory,” Jonah put in, after she finished. “Especially in light of the fact that we got an alert from CPIC this morning about a missing person in New Brunswick. Details match our John Doe.” He consulted a sheet in front of him. “Henry Paulus from Edmonton. According to a co-worker, he took a two-week vacation to go backpacking and camping in Fundy National Park. He never returned to work and no one has reported seeing him since.”

“His co-worker reported it? Where does he work?”

“That’s the thing.” Jonah Bannon looked up at Ethan’s question. “He’s a firefighter for the city. He was part of a group that traveled to British Columbia to help battle the forest fire in the Kamloops region recently. I just faxed a photo of John Doe to Edmonton’s police headquarters. Waiting to hear on the tentative ID.”

Ethan slid a look at Alexa. She looked completely composed at the news but he was feeling more than a little stunned. Sure, her idea had sounded plausible when she’d run it by him yesterday, but if the unidentified New Brunswick victim turned out to be Paulus, her theory became much more than speculation. And might give them their first solid lead on the UNSUB’s motivation.

“Let me know as soon as you hear about the ID. If it does turn out to be Paulus, I want you to do some digging into his background. Dr. Hayden is speculating that the victims are selected because of some wrongdoing they are involved in. In this case, the most obvious conclusion in his situation is something arson-related.” It was a well-known fact that a small percentage of fire fighters were active arsonists. The problem was so persistent that fire departments received training in identifying and preventing the phenomenon.

“If the ID is positive for your victim,” Alexa moved closer to Ethan to share the screen, “a search of his home might be fruitful, especially his computer history and any forums he regularly visited. Keep in mind he may not have been a serial arsonist. Arson is also committed for profit, revenge, vandalism and to cover up other crimes.” Ian McManus was nodding as he scribbled some notes. “We don’t know exactly what the UNSUB was telling us about the victim. We’re making educated guesses at this point.”

“Seems like the offender is saying these guys deserved to die,” Steve Friedrich said bluntly. “So why start leaving these clues now? Why weren’t the previous victims tortured? Why didn’t they have the second bug in their mouth? Is he choosing different types of targets this time around? Because not all those killed in the past had a criminal record.”

“I think something significant happened to the UNSUB during the three years he was inactive,” Alexa responded. “It triggered his need to tell us why the victims were selected. He’s likely excusing his actions, as you mentioned. Or setting up a dichotomy whereby he’s telling us that his is a moral evil.”

“They’re worse than he is?”

She nodded in response to Steve’s question. “Something like that, yes. I believe this offender has never struck at random, at all. And the one thing his victims may have in common is something in their history that the UNSUB finds unforgiveable. Perhaps something the victim was never suspected of doing.”

“If we get a positive ID,” Ethan said, “I want the three of you to split up the duties of notifying next-of-kin, obtaining necessary warrants and going through the victim’s home and car. Check with DMV for his vehicle plates and search campgrounds near Fundy National Park, see if we can find his car. Talk to friends, neighbors, colleagues…I want to know everything about this guy. Text me regular updates. If the ID isn’t a match, I’m going to want a sketch of our John Doe to use at the next news conference.” They’d held off doing that until now out of consideration for the deceased’s family members. “Someone knows this guy.”

He glanced down at the agenda he’d put together. “We’ve identified the victim found in Nova Scotia as Felix Simard.” He summarized the man’s criminal past and the rumors about his involvement in the snuff movie industry. “Alexa believes changing the manner of death for this victim signifies his personal importance to the UNSUB. Our next task is developing a timeline of the events leading up to his death. The travel manifests have arrived for Nova Scotia New Brunswick. We’ll be trying to find Simard’s date of entry here, and also comparing passenger names for anyone who traveled to both provinces within the relevant window of time.”

“I’ll take our tasks today over yours, anytime.” The two older officers nodded at Steve’s remark.

Captain Campbell put in, “Seems like that’s a chore that could be parceled out to local law enforcement departments, Sergeant.”

“Believe me, I plan to hand it off to them as soon as possible,” Ethan replied. “Just as soon as we look check the lists for Simard.” He glanced down at his agenda. They’d hit the bullet points. Looking up, he said, “That’s all I have for today. Any questions?”

Steve Friedrich waggled his fingers. “Just trying to wrap my head around this. Everything I’ve ever heard says serial offenders don’t change their ritual. Their MO, yeah, evolves when it suits their need. But not their signature. Dr. Hayden seems to be saying just the opposite.”

Alexa moved back into the screen. “What you’re saying is correct, as far as it goes. Simard is an outlier because he was killed in a different manner. Maybe he and the offender had a relationship. Perhaps Simard’s suspected occupation is a hot-button issue for the UNSUB. We’re not going to know the answer to that until we get closer to the killer. However, the torture of the last three victims serves the offender’s purpose, just as the addition of the second insect does. He wants us to know why they were chosen.”

When she sat back, Ethan added, “I don’t have to tell you that the clock is ticking. Either the UNSUB is finished and already on his way out of the area, or he’s lingering to strike again.” Five years ago, such a thought wouldn’t have occurred. But that was before the offender went after multiple victims in a short period of time. “Either way, he has to be stopped.” The expressions on the screen went grim. Because unspoken was the knowledge that had the last task force captured the UNSUB, another three lives would have been saved.

The briefing concluded, Alexa and Nyle gathered up their things while Ethan closed out of the group video window and took a moment to check the emails that had come in during the meeting. “Simard’s financials,” he said over his shoulder, a zip of excitement shooting up his spine.

Nyle came over to peer at his screen. “This just might save everyone a bunch of trouble.”

“He’d have needed a credit card to reserve his room,” Ethan muttered as he clicked on the copy of the most recent statement. But a quick scan of the transactions showed no travel or hotel arrangements. A search of the previous two months’ statements was similarly fruitless.

“No credit cards in the aliases we were given?” Disappointment tinged Nyle’s words.

“Apparently not.” Which might well mean that Simard no longer used those aliases. “Still ways a person can use cash for an airline ticket, though.” He clicked out of the statement and opened up the bank statement. He scrolled down rapidly, seeing frequent use of a debit card, but no transactions for travel arrangements. The account seemed to be mainly used for routine household payments.

Ethan went back and read through the email the forensic accountant had sent. “He almost certainly has another account. They’re looking for a bitcoin wallet or something overseas.” He’d reach out to the RCMP Montreal detachment for officers to dig into Simard’s occupation and property holdings. If he was still in the porn business, he’d need a place to film. “Unless we’re to believe he’s left his more unsavory pastimes behind him, he’s got some place he’s conducting his business. In another name, probably and maybe he pays cash for those expenses.”

“Or has an alias we know nothing about,” Nyle said gloomily.

“Simard’s selection as a victim likely means he continued that activity, or something similar,” Alexa put in. “That’s what the second insect sample left with him tells us.”

Ethan nodded slowly. He’d delve further into Simard’s financials later, looking for a possible link to the man’s killer, but right now they were useless when it came to tracing Simard’s final steps.

Nyle pursed his lips and, eyeing the last two doughnuts, picked up the box to carry to the car with him. “Guess that would have been too easy. We’ll continue doing it the hard way. Wading through the leads that come in on the tip line from area motels.”

Ethan had a half-dozen police officers running down those leads, but nothing had panned out yet. Maybe their lack of success meant Simard had been staying with a friend, or had been killed before he’d even checked into a hotel.

They were on the road heading to the dumpsite before Alexa spoke. “Do you think his hotel room could be the crime scene?” He shifted to look at her in the back seat, noting Nyle’s stealthy move toward a second doughnut as the man drove.

“I doubt it. Too many people around. We’ve never found the crime scene in any of the other cases, although we’ve discovered a couple of the abduction sites—both alleyways, where traces of the victims’ blood turned up. Which means the UNSUB had a lair close by, or, more likely, a vehicle to transport them to one. Given the autopsy results, maybe Simard was taken close to wherever he ate his last meal. Or near a bar where he’d stopped.”

“That would make the offender highly adaptable, wouldn’t it?” He raised a brow and waited for her to go on. “It’d be much easier to plan the abduction from a place he could scout ahead of time. But he’d have to react quickly if he’s snatching them whenever he gets the opportunity.” She frowned slightly before going on. “He stalks them. Physically, of course, prior to abduction, but almost definitely online, at first. We can discard the notion that the victims were chosen at random. This UNSUB seems to know too much about them, and we give up much more privacy than we intend to online. People tend to reveal themselves when they believe they’re anonymous.”

That was especially true of the darkest corners of the web, Alexa thought, where there were forums and chatrooms for every type of paraphilia. “I think we’re looking at a killer with better than average technology skills. The victims may well be selected based on what he learns about them online. Then he learns their habits, where they go, what they do. Arming himself with that information gives him an advantage. He chooses the time and place of the abduction.”

“So his motivation is to punish them? People he doesn’t even know?” Nyle took a bite of his pastry.

“There’s more to his motivation than that, I expect.” There was a note of weariness in Alexa’s answer. “There always is. And it makes sense only to the killer.”

Minutes later Nyle slowed to pull over at the side of the road. “I hate to get too far off the road. Ground’s still pretty soggy.”

Ethan hadn’t yet seen the dumpsite in the daylight, and took a moment to take in the scene. A gauzy morning fog was lifting off the Shubenacadie River below. The weatherman had forecast an extended break from the rain, but as they got out of the vehicle, the air felt damp. Not for the first time, Ethan wondered why this spot had been chosen. A bird’s eye map of the river showed mostly flat land adjacent to it for miles, punctuated with stands of thickly wooded areas. There were far fewer steep embankments in this area along the river. Why would the offender choose the most difficult terrain to get to the river? Maybe that meant he’d used a boat. A canoe or flat bottomed fishing skiff would work. And it could have launched from anywhere upriver.

He tried—and failed—to imagine the UNSUB wrestling a body into a boat. But then, there was very little about the offender’s actions that made sense to him. One of the things that had made Ethan a success in IHIT was his ability to put himself in the killer’s mindset. This one, though, was in a category of his own.

He led the way, scanning for an easier place to descend than the way he and Nyle had found a couple nights ago. A moment later, that thought was wiped from his mind when his gaze settled on the sight below.

A tent was pitched along the river. Smack in the center of the sagging crime-scene tape that flapped gently in the slight morning breeze. It was enough to undo the slight improvement coffee had made to his disposition. Alexa forgotten for the moment, Ethan looked over his shoulder, caught Nyle’s eye and jabbed an index finger to the right, while he veered left. They’d come at the tent’s occupant from opposite directions.

His mind was racing as he descended the steep river bank with as much stealth as possible. There was almost zero chance that the killer had returned to the scene. There was an excellent possibility, however, that whoever had pitched that tent had done so with the express knowledge that he or she was compromising an active crime scene. And he wasn’t in a particularly forgiving mood.

He was three-quarters of the way down the slope when the tent’s entrance opened. A head poked out, followed by a thin lanky figure, all legs and elbows. A kid. Or, given his height, a teen. He stretched, then looked out over the river for a moment before turning back toward the tent. He caught sight of Ethan approaching and froze. Then he bolted to the right, tearing off along the riverbank with surprising speed. Ethan and Nyle gave chase.

If the kid wasn’t on his school’s track and field team, he was depriving them of real talent. He sailed over a fallen log with the ease of a hurdler and then headed for a thicket of overgrown bushes surrounding a dense copse of trees.

Ethan ran for exercise, focusing more on stamina than speed. The knee injury that had ended his hockey career had healed, but he’d never regain complete strength in it. Neither he nor Nyle were going to be able to outrun the kid, although the distance between them wasn’t widening. Glancing at the other man, he pointed toward the thicket. The other Mountie grimaced, but plunged in after the kid. Ethan stopped, bending over to pick up three fist-sized rocks before speeding after the other two.

He ducked a thorny branch that could have raked at his face, but felt something catch on his suit jacket. Heard the rip when he tore away. When he came through the bushes, he could see the other officer, still stalwartly running after the kid, but lagging.

“Nyle!” He waited for the other officer to look back at him. “Move away.” With alacrity, the man veered right and Ethan stopped. Hefted one of the rocks in his hand. Then cocked back and threw it at the fleeing kid. It hit him squarely in the back of one knee, which crumpled beneath him, taking him to the ground. Nyle raced over as the teen struggled to his feet and continued running, but he was limping now and the other Mountie easily caught up with him. He grabbed the kid’s shirt, yanking him to a stop and was restraining him when Ethan jogged up to them.

Nyle’s teeth flashed. “Impressive. Thought you were just a hockey plug. Didn’t know you played baseball, too.”

“My fastball was clocked at eighty-one miles per hour senior year. But I just lobbed that one to slow him down.”

“That’s police brutality,” the boy said sullenly. His face was red from exertion and he had a bad case of acne, his hair shaved close on one side, with a hank of long brown hair hanging from the other. He gave his head a toss to get the hair out of his eyes. “It was a punk move.”

“You think?” Ethan asked conversationally as they made their way back toward the tent, walking around the thicket this time. “Me, I tend to think of a punk as someone who runs away. Guess it’s all a matter of perspective. What do you think, Nyle?”

The agent had one hand on the kid’s bound arms and another on his shoulder as he guided him around the log the boy had sailed over earlier. “You know what a real punk move is? Deliberately setting up camp in an active crime scene.”

The kid lifted a shoulder. “How were we supposed to know it was still active?”

“The police tape should have been a tip-off,” Nyle was saying, but Ethan had seized on one word. We. Dammit. The kid wasn’t alone.

He started running back toward the tent, although he had little hope that the boy’s companion was still in the vicinity. There hadn’t been any vehicles around as they’d approached the slope, and he tried to recall whether there’d been a boat of some sort. Ethan couldn’t remember. Like a dog sighting a rabbit, once he’d seen the kid take off, his focus had only been chasing him down.

He burst out of the trees, scanning the shoreline. Then felt his blood freeze.

“I’m telling you, bitch. Let go or I’ll knock you out cold.”

There was a canoe in the water, ten feet or so from the bank. Another boy was standing in it, an oar cocked at a threatening angle. And Alexa… Jesus. She was waist-deep in the water, both hands grasping the stern of the canoe, walking backward as she pulled it and its occupant toward shore.

“I don’t think that would be wise.”

“Oh, really?” the kid sneered. “I swear to God, you take another step and I’ll…”

Ethan opened his mouth to disrupt the scene. But before he could say a word, Alexa stopped. Then, with a quick twist of her hands, she flipped the canoe over. The kid dropped the oar, his arms wheeling comically as he hit the water. When he came up for air, sputtering and swearing, Alexa was behind him, wrenching one arm behind his shoulder blade and propelling him toward shore.

Ethan grinned, delighted. As a girl, she’d been intriguing. Delightful. Full of surprises. Some things hadn’t changed.

The teen started to struggle. “Consider that a lesson,” he called, strolling toward the two as the canoe floated down the river. “Never threaten a woman.” Her shoes were on the shore. She must have toed them off before wading into the water.

He waited, fists propped on his hips until Nyle and Alexa had both kids back at the tent. Alexa and the boy she’d dumped in the water were soaked, and the kid was complaining bitterly. “That’s a nine-hundred-dollar canoe. You gotta let me get it. My step-dad’s gonna kill me.”

“I’m betting he’ll be unhappier when we show up at your place and tell him where we found you two camped today.” The boys exchanged a glance. Relying on memories of his own teenage years, Ethan said “He didn’t know you were camping at all, did he? What’d you do, tell your parents you were staying at the other’s house and then come here instead?”

Canoe-boy was a half head shorter than his friend, with a thick crop of wet dark hair and what looked like a perpetual sneer on his face. “We didn’t even see the tape. It was dark when we got here and pitched the tent. You can’t prove otherwise.”

Nyle snorted. “Try again, kid. You had to pull down one side of the perimeter tape to even get inside the area.”

Smugly, he shook his head. “No, it’s hanging pretty low from the rain. Easy to overlook it.”

“Nyle, why don’t you get some pictures?” Ethan gestured toward the tent and tried not to notice the way Alexa’s wet black slacks clung to her thighs. “I’m sure their proud parents would be interested to know what their kids were up to last night.” The other man stepped away from the kid they’d chased and dug his cell out of his pocket.

“Uh…” The tall kid’s head bobbed as he looked at his friend and then at Ethan. “Listen, I know it was a dumbass move. We just did it on a dare.”

“Shut up, Sean.”

Ignoring his friend, the boy plowed on. “But my dad will ground me for like the whole rest of the summer if he finds out. We didn’t mess things up. Anything still here had to be washed away by the rains. It’s not like we spoiled any evidence.”

“But you could have.” The forensic ident investigators had returned in daylight after the body had been removed, but according to the call Ethan had gotten yesterday, their efforts had been in vain. Like the kid said, the rain had been an accomplice in destroying any physical evidence the offender might have left behind. Ethan had intended to remove the tape when they stopped here this morning. That didn’t mean, however, that he was willing to cut these punks any slack. At the very least, he’d put a scare into them that might serve as a warning the next time they decided to insert themselves in a crime scene.

“Naw, those forensic ident guys are pretty thorough. And it’s been raining for like four

days. Even footprints would’ve been wiped out.”

Ethan cocked his head and studied the boy more closely. “You police now?” With the explosion of crime shows on TV, everyone was an expert these days.

Sean ducked his head. “No. My dad’s a constable, though. That’s why he’d rip me a new one if he heard about this. I know we shouldn’t have done it. I’m just saying…there was no harm done. We come here a lot to fish during the day and sometimes camp out. It’s the most isolated part of the river around here, so we don’t have to worry about anyone bothering us.”

Isolated came in handy if they’d come to engage in illegal activities. On the heels of the thought came another. Isolation might also have been what drew the offender to this spot. “Ever see anyone in the area?”

Sean shook his head. “The easiest way to this place is by water.”

True enough, Ethan conceded silently. But the forensic ident unit had searched the shoreline for nearly a mile downriver to no avail. The weather had destroyed any trace of the UNSUB.

“There was a van parked up there a few days ago, though,” Sean continued. “Saw it when we were coming across in the canoe. Figured it was a couple fu—…uh…screwing or something.”

Interest flaring, Ethan asked, “A van. Anyone in it?”

Shrugging, the boy said, “I don’t know. Didn’t really pay attention. I guess there was, because it was gone by the time we pulled the canoe to shore.”

“What day was that?”

“Uh…” He screwed up his forehead. “Saturday?”

“Friday,” the shorter kid put in with an air of resignation. “It was a white Ford Econoline with lettering on the side. Or maybe one of those magnetic signs that companies use. 2014 or older.”

Ethan narrowed his eyes. “You got a better look at it than Sean?”

The sneer was back, in the kid’s voice and his expression. “No, I just know the vehicle. My stepdad’s got a plumbing business and had a van like that, except it was navy. He waited until 2015 to replace it because that’s when Ford changed to the Transit.”

To Nyle he said, “Take off Sean’s cuffs.” He reached in his pocket for his cell and snapped a couple of pictures of both boys. “Tell me your names.”

“Rick Anthony,” the shorter kid said resignedly. Ethan observed Sean’s gaze darting to his friend and knew the kid had given him a false name. Being a smartass was going to get the kid in trouble, probably sooner rather than later.

“Sean Blanchett.”

“Detective Samuels will take your addresses and phone numbers in case we need to contact you again. Should we discover you gave us false information, we’ll show your pictures at the local police station.” Rick’s expression stilled. “We’ll be a lot less patient in that case.”

“Uh…it’s Rick Anthony…Sibbits.” The kid turned to shade his eyes as he tracked the canoe’s progress downriver. Then groaned. “Man, I gotta go. It’s half a mile away already. How am I supposed to get to it?”

“You know how to swim, don’t you? Give your information to Detective Samuels and you can go.” The kid didn’t wait another second. He reeled off his address and phone number before beelining for the river bank and descended it, his gaze trained on the canoe.

Nyle finished writing down the information then flipped his notebook shut. “You can join your friend,” he told Sean. “But you need to start making better choices if you want to enjoy your freedom this summer.”

Relief flashed over the boy’s face. “I do. I mean, I will.” He nearly tripped over his feet as he headed down the slope.

“I don’t have a teenager yet,” Nyle muttered, “but if either of my kids turn out like those two you might have to get me out of lock-up.”

Alexa smiled. “Especially Rick. That attitude would be tough to live with.”

Nyle eyed her with interest. “Do you have any children?”

She shook her head. “I was widowed before we could start a family.”

Her words hit Ethan like a well-placed punch. Whatever he’d felt toward her after she’d left him, he would never have wished her more suffering. Surely there was a limit to how much loss one person should have to live through.

Switching his regard to Ethan, Nyle asked, “Think this will lead to anything?”

Ethan opened his mouth to respond, then lost his train of thought as Alexa peeled away from them. She retrieved her shoes, taking her cell out of one them, and balanced on one leg to slip one on, then the other. “It’s a long shot,” he said, forcing his gaze away from her. “Any number of people might park in a scenic area for a bit, take in the view.” Or, he added silently, to find privacy for other types of activities. “And the UNSUB was just as likely to access the site by water as land. But let’s take another look at the embankment. See if there are any indentations the rain didn’t wipe away.”

“Forensic ident guys would have found them if they were there,” Nyle muttered, but he and Alexa fanned out from Ethan to examine the rocky slope.

A half hour later Ethan admitted failure. They headed back toward the vehicle.

“If the offender did drive into the province,” Nyle said, “the only passenger list he’d show up on would be the ferry. But without a name, we have no way of identifying him.”

“Right. We have the airline, bus and train manifests for entry into New Brunswick shortly before the victims there were killed. We can compare them to the ones for Nova Scotia and see if the same name pops on any of them.”

“It has to be done,” Nyle said resignedly as he rounded the hood of the car. “But that doesn’t mean I’m looking forward to it.”

Neither was Ethan. It was a mind-numbingly tedious task. Which pretty much summed up the nature of police work. Sporadic bouts of action punctuating days of dead-end interviews, or poring over documents and grainy video. Nine times out of ten the trail to the killer surfaced from one of the deadly dull chores. Maybe they’d catch a break this time around. They were certainly due one.

* * *

They stopped at a gas station so Alexa could change, and an hour later Ethan nosed the vehicle into the parking lot of RCMP’s H Division Headquarters in Halifax’s Burnside Industrial Park. The building was multi-leveled red brick, fronted by an arc of mirrored windows. It was minutes away from the forensic suites where they’d attended the autopsy. He pulled into a parking space in the crowded lot. “Captain Sedgewick is our contact here. He has the manifests and he’ll allot us some workspace.” His cell vibrated as he got out of the car and he answered it as he waited for Nyle and Alexa.

“Manning.”

“Sergeant Manning, this is Officer Baxter of the Halifax Police Department. I’m in charge of the tip line handling the recent homicide victim’s ID.”

Adrenaline did a fast sprint up Ethan’s spine. “Hello, Officer Baxter.” He thumbed on the speakerphone as Alexa and Nyle joined him.

“I know we’ve been running down lots of false reports,” the officer said, “and maybe this is just another one. A woman working as a maid at the Claremont Towers on Broadway called it in. No match on Simard’s name or aliases, but she recognized the picture. Said he’d propositioned her when she went in to clean room seven-fifteen.”

Ethan reminded himself how faulty eyewitness accounts could be. The reminder didn’t temper his response. “When was this?”

“The call came in about ten minutes ago.”

“Thanks. I’ll look into it.”

After getting the address of the hotel, Ethan disconnected, and looked the address up on his phone. GPS claimed it was twenty minutes away. He mentally tacked on another ten, fifteen minutes based on the traffic they’d experienced on the drive to headquarters.

“Even a dead end would be more exciting than poring over manifests,” Nyle said hopefully.

“We can do both. You and Alexa go in and meet with Captain Sedgewick. I’ll check this out. Probably be back in an hour to help out.”

“Okay,” Nyle agreed, “but Alexa and I are going to save the pages with the smallest print for you.” She nodded in agreement.

The corner of his mouth pulling up, Ethan turned back toward the vehicle. “I’d expect nothing less.”

* * *

“Obviously, I can’t offer to open the room, Sergeant.” The hotel manager, Lon Haskell, was politely apologetic. “We can’t be certain Louise identified room seven-fifteen’s occupant correctly, and an error like that could cost us a guest.”

“I understand that. But perhaps I can verify the maid’s ID. Do you have security cameras on that floor?”

“Yes, of course.” The hotel manager smoothed the garish pink paisley tie he’d paired with a sober black suit. “They’re mounted at each end of the floor with another outside the elevators.”

“I want to see the footage from the cameras for that floor beginning with the date Simmons checked in.”

Relief flashed across the man’s expression. “That I can arrange. If you’ll follow me to security?” As they strode toward the bank of elevators in the lobby, Haskell pulled a radio from his pocket and spoke quietly into it.

Security turned out to be two cramped adjoining rooms on the far end of the fifth floor. Stepping through the doorway after Haskell, Ethan took in the rows of cameras that lined one wall. “Do you have the playback for seventh floor ready, Phil?” The manager addressed the young balding man who’d bounced up nervously at their entrance from his chair facing the screens.

“I’ve got the film from all seventh-floor cameras starting at four-twenty last Saturday, when you said Simmons had checked in.”

“Concentrate on the camera near the elevator,” Ethan said. Room seven-fifteen was likely in the middle of the floor, too far away for clear images on the cameras mounted at either end of the hall.

The younger man bent over a screen, punching some buttons to fast forward the digital footage on one screen. After a couple of minutes, he pressed another key to halt it. Backed it up for a moment and then stopped it again. “Here’s four-twenty.”

The three of them stood staring at the screen for long minutes. Every time the elevator doors opened, Ethan leaned forward to scan the faces of the disembarking passengers. It was exactly thirty-two minutes after four according to the time-stamp on the screen when the elevator doors slid open and three people stepped out, one a dark-haired man.

Identification was difficult from the man’s profile alone. Ethan stared at the film. Turn toward the camera, dammit. A young blond woman took the elbow of the elderly woman at her side and led her slowly down the hall. The man turned his head to watch their progress, his gaze focused on the blonde. “There. Right there.” Ethan stabbed his finger at the screen. “Halt it. Can you freeze it where his face is turned directly toward the camera?”

“Sergeant, I can do about anything with these cameras,” Phil said happily, his fingers dancing over the keys. “State-of-the-art system, you know?” A moment later he had an image frozen, and then, focusing on the face, enlarged it, distorting the image a bit with each magnification.

But that didn’t matter. Because it was still easy to tell that the man on the camera was Felix Simard.

* * *

Haskell stood behind Ethan, wringing his hands. “I’d feel so much better if you had a warrant.”

They stood outside room seven-fifteen, the manager making no move to open the door.

Ethan reached for professionalism. “Sir, I’m an officer of the law and I’ve made a positive ID on an image taken on your hotel camera that matches a homicide victim discovered yesterday. I can assure you, Mr. Simmons isn’t his name and he’s not able to complain about our accessing his room. He’s deceased. Please open the door.”

After a moment, Haskell handed the card to Ethan. Clearly he wanted to shield himself as much as possible from any repercussions. So much so, that when Ethan waved the card over the magic eye near the door handle and opened the door, Haskell merely held it open to watch Ethan’s progress, but didn’t step inside.

Forgetting the man, Ethan glanced inside the bathroom, noting the toiletry bag on the counter. He moved toward the closet wardrobe next to the TV, opened the doors, and found a navy suit hanging next to a lightweight dark, hooded jacket. Pulling a pair of plastic gloves from his suit pocket, he checked the pockets. The jacket yielded nothing save for a folded metal object. Withdrawing it, Ethan flicked the button in its center. A wicked-looking blade unfolded. He pursed his lips in a silent whistle and refolded the knife. Replaced it. It’d be easy enough to lift prints from the weapon that would verify his ID of Simard’s image on the security footage.

A moment later he realized that wouldn’t be necessary. The wallet in the suit pocket bore a driver’s license in the name of John Simmons. But the image on it was Felix Simard.

Muscles tightening in anticipation, he moved to the black suitcase sitting on one of the beds. He rifled through it, tossing clothes aside until he came to a black zippered laptop case.

Satisfaction speared through him. It was likely password protected, but they’d see what the IT analysts could do with it. There was nothing else of note in the bag or the secreted zippered pockets. Ethan straightened and scanned the room consideringly. There were no overt signs that the room had been the primary crime scene. Hotels were public places, filled with people and security. The killer would have taken a risk, killing Simard here.

To be thorough, he headed in the direction of the bathroom. “Are you about done, Sergeant?” The manager’s voice barely registered. “I don’t mind saying, I continue to be uncomfortable with this entire process. I’d hate to have guests aware that we…” The words continued. Ethan wasn’t listening. He lifted an arm toward the opaque shower curtain. His brain registered the slight movement behind it even as the curtain and rod plunged toward him, a figure behind it leaping out of the tub to shove Ethan hard against the counter.

The quarters were tight, and he was off-balance. He reached for his attacker, grappling with the plastic to find the opening of the curtain. A fist shot out, clipping Ethan on the jaw, before he grabbed for the curtain rod and drove it forward, hoping to knock his assailant off his feet as the back of his knees hit the tub.

He got a glimpse of the man as the curtain slid away in their struggle. Shaven head. Bearded. Heavily muscled. Swarthy. The stranger grabbed the rod to keep Ethan from pressing it against his windpipe. With a mighty shove, he wrenched it to the side and aimed a kick at Ethan’s groin. When Ethan dodged to avoid it, the man used that moment to break free and charge for the door, Ethan a step behind him.

“What in the world…are you Mr. Simmons? My apologies for this…” The stranger grabbed Haskell and pushed him violently into Ethan, taking advantage of the few moments it took the men to disentangle to sprint toward the exit at the end of the hall.

“Sergeant, what in heaven’s name…”

“Your radio!” Ethan snapped, already reaching for the instrument clipped to Haskell’s belt. “What channel for Phil in security?”

The hotel manager was white-faced and shaking. “This is highly unusual. Highly…”

“The channel!” Radio in hand Ethan was already in pursuit.

“Three-one-nine. But you can’t just take that…”

Ethan reached the door that the attacker had gone through and began descending the stairs three at a time. He pressed the code that Haskell had given him. “Phil. I need Phil on the cameras. Now!”

There was a scuffling noise, and the man he’d talked to earlier came on, his voice surprised. “Mr. Haskell?”

“RCMP Sergeant Manning. We’ve got a person of interest who just went through the east stairs on floor seven. Caucasian. Five-nine. Two hundred pounds. Dark complected. Shaven head. Black beard. Jeans and dark windbreaker.” Ethan passed floor five. Started toward four. “I assume he descended, but he may have gone up first instead. I need camera angles that would catch the exits on each floor. Any door to the outside from the lobby. Find him.”

“Yes, sir.” Ethan ran by a woman in pink spandex who was power-walking the stairs, and she jumped to the side to avoid being bowled over, then shot him a filthy look.

“No cameras in the stairwells, I assume?” He rounded the third-floor steps and headed toward the second.

“No, sir, but once he leaves it we’ll…wait, I think I’ve spotted him! Navy jacket. Looks like he could bench-press a Volkswagen?”

Remembering the punch he’d taken from a ham-sized fist, Ethan said, “Sounds about right.” He took the stairs to the main floor at a rapid pace.

“He’s speed-walking across the lobby, as we speak. Heading toward the west exit, which leads to Salem Boulevard.”

Shit. “Cameras on the outside of the building?” Ethan jumped down the remaining steps, the force of his landing singing up his spine. Yanking open the door, he burst into the lobby and ran toward the exit Phil had mentioned.

“Yes, sir. Adjust that angle,” Phil muttered in an aside. “He’s heading north on the sidewalk adjacent to the hotel. Stepping into the street…might be hailing a cab, sir. There’s a line of them across the street.”

Dodging the clusters of people, Ethan ran for the doors and hit the street, looking for the man in vain.

“He’s halfway down the block. Ducked down behind cab number three seventy-three as he’s getting in the backseat. I’m going to lose sight of him as soon as they move.”

“You’ve done enough. Thanks.” The traffic had thinned a bit since Ethan had arrived at the hotel. He ran into the street, his action rewarded by a litany of horns. One vehicle braked to a violent stop inches from him. Banging a hand on its hood, he darted by, his focus trained on the cab holding the stranger as it pulled away from the curb. He had one last glimpse of his assailant as the man turned and shot his middle finger into the air before the taxi rounded the corner.