Jude had taken her picture to every bar in Lower Manhattan. One bartender, an improbably mustachioed sort, had thought that he’d seen her in his bar, giggling with a man in one of the back booths.

Whitney jumped at the sound of a hard tapping. She instinctively drew her gun. She heard the sound of a door clicking and spun around, remembering at the last minute that it must be Andrew.

“Jude…you there?” Andrew called. He stuck his head around the door. “I don’t mean to interrupt! Sorry about popping in when I shouldn’t have. Jude—oh!”

He had the door open; he saw Whitney standing by the desk, her gun aimed at his head.

“Oh, whoa, sorry!” he said, stepping back.

Whitney let out a soft sigh and holstered her gun. “Andrew!”

“Where’s Jude?”

“He’ll be back any minute,” Whitney said. “What are you doing up? It’s still the middle of the night, or maybe close to the crack of dawn.”

He grinned. “I’m a night owl.” He beckoned to her. “Come to the doorway for just a minute and then I won’t bug you. I wasn’t sure what Jude would want, so I brewed coffee and poured him a good stiff bourbon.”

She laughed. “I’ll take the coffee, thanks,” she told him. She stood and walked to the dividing door and looked inside. Her eyes widened. She hadn’t seen this part of Andrew’s place. It was Jude’s old room, she thought. And he—or his father—was an eclectic collector of toys—and things. He had Indian totems, African masks, animal skulls and spaceships on the mantel, along with his books on the shelves, and even stacked on the coffee table.

“Cool place,” she said. She narrowed her eyes looking at the skull of a steer; it was feathered, and rawhide ties held skins and bones in a ritualistic manner.

He eased her coffee cup into one hand. They had begun to suspect someone close. Someone smart, someone who knew who was going to be where when.

Her gun hand was free. “What’s that?” she asked him, pointing to the skull.

But Andrew Crosby was Jude’s father. A former cop. Impossible.

“What? Oh, that?” he asked, his eyes lighting up. “It belonged to a Shoshone medicine man. It was a gift to me from his tribe. Right before my senior year of high school, I spent a summer working on the reservation, and we became very close friends. The feathers help the soul fly, so he said, when a person dies, or, they help the sick person fly back to health. The bones give the person strength. That sac is filled with small otter bones, which help a warrior learn to swim. That big bone is from a horse—the prayers said that they help a person learn to be as swift as a horse. I think that one is a dog bone—it’s for faith and loyalty. I gave it to Jude when he was a kid—he wanted to be an Indian. He believed that the Shoshone relic taught a man all that he should be. Can I show you anything else?”

Careful that she kept him in her line of sight, Whitney went over to study the skull. Did anything appear to be a human bone? She didn’t think so; she didn’t know.

She turned around to look at other relics and collectibles in the room.

“Great spaceship,” she told him.

“Oh, I bought that at the first Star Wars convention Jude and I went to,” he said, grinning. “It’s just great, isn’t it? They made toys so much better before. Oh, well, everything is becoming some kind of video game these days, and graphics are amazing on them, but as for real toys…”

She laughed. “Andrew, thanks. I have to get back to work,” she said.

“Well, when you have time, come on over. I can show you Jude’s childhood.”

“I’d like that!” She kept him in her sight as she made her way back to the door. “Thank you for the coffee. I’ll make sure you get the cup back.”

Andrew waved a hand in the air. “Oh, I pick up all my stuff from Jude’s once a week.”

Whitney stepped back into Jude’s apartment. She smiled at Andrew and then closed the door and bolted the lock on her side between the two apartments.

Back at the desk, she sat for a moment, stunned with her suspicion.

They’d thought it would be someone who was close. Someone who knew police procedure. Someone who knew them, and all about them.

Who better than Jude’s father, a man who had access to his computer, his desk, to every bit of information regarding the crimes?

She called Jake Mallory; she didn’t want to suggest to Jude just yet that his father might have a Satanist’s finger bone in with the relics or hidden in a shaman’s magic skull—a gift he had given to his son. She stumbled through her explanation of why she was suddenly suspicious of Jude Crosby’s father.

It couldn’t be Andrew’s Crosby; it couldn’t be.

And the relic had been, he had said, something he had gotten back when he’d been in high school. He had given it to Jude….

But at this point, it seemed that nothing was impossible.

“Get back to me quickly, Jake, please,” she told him.

“You should get out of there, Whitney. I’ll come and get you.”

“How? You don’t have a car,” she reminded him.

“I’ll get one of the police officers—there are still people prowling around next door, tons of cops.”

“No, no, check out everything you can on Andrew Crosby for me first, please. And don’t call a police officer—I don’t want any of this on record. You have all the information, right?”

“I have it,” Jake said. He hesitated. “Whitney, I know how you feel about Jude, and I’ll—I’ll be as discreet as humanly possible, but I’m glad you’re calling me. About his dad, I mean. I’ll call you right back, and then, I’m coming for you. I mean, coming for you. I’ll get a cab, and we’ll be together, at least. Hey, gotta go— Angela’s on the radio. There’s something wrong over at the site. Sit tight—no matter what, I’m coming for you.”

“All right, thanks, Jake.”

Whitney hung up. She tried to focus on the screen; she was armed. She could wait for Jake to call her back. She was in a locked room—far safer than heading out to the street.

She nearly jumped a mile when she heard something hit the glass at the back of the apartment; she rose quickly, and strode into the back. Nothing had hit the parlor windows.

She walked into the side room, Jude’s den. The fire escape led from the window in this room. She walked over to it; the glass was cracked, as if it had been hit by a rock. Or something heavier.

Maybe a brick from an old building?

She jumped again; there was a thud that came from somewhere in the building. She was tempted to dash to the front door and run out, but she wondered if that wasn’t what someone hoped she would do.

But the house was clear. She walked back to the desk, looked around and picked up the cup of coffee and took a long swallow. She should just call Jude; she was paranoid, but that was the way it was.

She heard another noise—a growl.

She frowned. The ghost dog was standing in the hallway, growling. There was something there that he didn’t like.

She was startled; she’d never seen the dog anywhere else before, just around the construction site or Blair House.

“There’s nothing there!” she said softly, and took another sip of the coffee.

There was something wrong with it now, she thought. She stared at the cup. Had it tasted this way, or had it changed in the last few minutes?

The dog barked at her, and then ran through the door to the hallway.

She dropped the cup and looked toward the door that separated the two apartments.

The thud!

The door was still closed, but the bolt had been jimmied open.

And she could feel whatever drug was now in the coffee beginning to take hold. Despite all the bright lights, the room was dimming, and her limbs were beginning to feel like water.

She could hear her cell phone ringing; she just couldn’t answer it.

Jude glumly thought that at best he’d soon be pulled off the case. He started to fill out his report for the night, but paused. What did he say? I was sleeping with an FBI task force member when she suddenly bolted up naked and started for the door; her ghost dog wanted her to get over to what is now an excavation site, and I’ll be damned if he didn’t show her where an old Satan-loving murderer was buried.

The facts; just the facts. The FBI team had become convinced—through archives—that they now knew where the body of the historical killer lay; it was important that they unearth it, because the theories regarding the current killings were all pointed in the direction of the killer believing he was following in the route of the man.

Backtrack a bit.

We were trying to draw out a cop—and a medical examiner. And both appear to be exactly what they are—Fullbright almost flippant but honest and earnest; Ellis Sayer as hardworking and hangdog as ever.

That wouldn’t look good on paper. But it felt good to think.

The offices were quiet. In the next room, he could see that a police officer had brought in two drunks who had apparently gone at one another in a bar.

He gave his attention back to the report swimming before him.

Expediency being the greatest necessity at the time, I deemed it best to dig, he wrote.

A creeping chill started up and down his spine. He felt something nudge his thigh.

Startled, Jude sat back. He didn’t see anything. He felt the nudge again.

“What the hell?” He leaped to his feet.

He blinked. He had been too intensely involved with the case. His mind was playing tricks on him. He blinked again, but it didn’t go away.

It was the outline of a dog. A big dog. Some kind of shepherd mix. Oh, God, he’d been playing with the crazies too long. His mind…

The dog looked at him and barked and kept barking. It padded away from him, and then ran back to him. The dog wanted him to follow.

He hesitated, looking around. The drunks were still there; the officer was still there, the desk sergeant was still there. None of them seemed to be hearing a dog.