Lacey just shook her head as she punched up one of the forensic reports. She didn’t care what Savich did with his Bureau quill. Goodness, whe thought. She’d just made a joke to herself. It had been a long time. She saw Hannah come out of Savich’s office, her face set. She wasn’t about to say a word to that formidable woman. She sincerely doubted that Hannah Paisley would listen to Lacey’s opinion on the time of day. She went back to work on the Ghost.
Lacey unfolded the Boston Globe, the last large city newspaper in her pile. She was tired of scouring the ten largest city newspapers every day of the week, but she couldn’t stop. She’d done it for nearly seven years. It cost a fortune for all the subscriptions, but she had enough money from her trust fund so she’d never have to worry about feeding herself and buying as many subscriptions as she wanted. She knew he was out there. She would never stop.
She couldn’t believe it. She nearly dropped her coffee cup. It was on page three. Not a big article, but large enough to immediately catch her eye. She read:
“Yesterday evening at 6:30, Hillary Ramsgate, 28, a stockbroker with Hameson, Lyle & Obermeyer, was found brutally murdered in an abandoned warehouse on Pier Forty-one. Detective Ralph Budnack of the BPD said that she had apparently been led through a bizarre game that had resulted in her death from multiple stab wounds to her chest and abdomen. A note tied around her neck said that she had lost the game and had to pay the forfeit. At this point, police say they’re following leads.”
He was back. In Boston. He’d begun again. She prayed that this poor woman was his first victim of this new cycle, that she hadn’t missed others, or that he hadn’t murdered women in small towns where the AP wouldn’t pick up the story.
Hillary Ramsgate. Poor woman. She reread the newspaper article, then rose from her kitchen table. She had died just as Belinda and six other women in San Francisco had seven years ago. They’d all lost the game.
What the newspaper article didn’t say was that her tongue had also been cut out. The police were holding that back. But Lacey knew all about that. She’d been brutally stabbed and her tongue had been sliced out.
The bastard.
She realized then that yesterday had been the seventh anniversary of the last murder.
Seven years. He’d struck seven years ago to the day. The monster was back.
Lacey was pacing back and forth in front of Savich’s office when he came around the corner. He watched her a moment. He said very quietly, so as not to startle her, “Sherlock, it’s seven in the morning. What are you doing here? What’s wrong?”
When she turned abruptly to face him, he saw more pain on her face than he’d seen in a long time. Then the hollow, despairing look was gone. She’d gotten a grip. She’d hidden the pain again. And left nothing at all.
What was going on here?
“Sherlock? What’s wrong?”
She smoothed out her face. What had he seen? She even managed a smile. “I’m sorry to bother you so early, but I have a favor to ask. I need to take a few days off and go to Boston.”
He unlocked his office door and waved her in. “Boston?”
“Yes. I have a sick aunt. It’s an emergency. I know I’ve only been in the Unit a couple of weeks, but there’s not anyone else to see to this situation.”
“Your aunt is elderly?”
“Not really, well, she’s got Alzheimer’s. She’s gotten suddenly worse.”
“A relative called you?”
Why was he asking all these questions? Didn’t he believe her? “Yes, my cousin called me. He, well, he’s not well himself so there’s no one but me here on the East Coast.”
“I see,” he said slowly, not looking at her directly now. She looked pale, scared, and excited-an odd combination, but that’s what he saw in her face. Her hair was pulled severely back, held in the same gold clasp at the nape of her neck. It looked like she’d flattened it down with hair spray. She couldn’t seem to be still, her fingers now flexing against her purse, one foot tapping. She’d forgotten to put on any makeup. She looked very young. He said slowly, “How long do you think you’ll need to be away?”