"I've been doing a little research. Thought I'd sharpen my skills."

"And what did you discover?"

"Did you know that the Internet got its start as a project of the Defense Department? They had urged certain universities to link their computers in the name of scientific exploration. The idea caught on, and before anyone realized it, everybody, scholar, peddler and soothsayer alike, was linked. They're predicting 400 million cybersites by the next millennium."

"And to think I thought George Orwell was a dreamer. Four hundred million sites?" Driscoll wondered. Then after a pause, he asked, "Could Moira be right about the killer luring his victims through the Internet?"

"She thinks she is."

"OK, I promised her I'd look into her theory, so let's pull the computers available to the McCabe and Stockard women and have the guys over at the Computer Investigation & Tech Unit see if they can match up any common Web sites, e-mail messages, or instant messages. If they can establish any sort of common link or IP address, then we may have something to run with."

"I'll call Lieutenant White over there. He has a thing for me. He'll see to it they get on it right away."

The desk phone purred. The Lieutenant grabbed it. "Driscoll, here...Uh-huh...We'll be right there."

Margaret stared at him, her face a question mark.

"Victim number four's a floater. She just washed ashore under the Brooklyn Bridge. Let's go."

From the right lane of the bridge, Driscoll could make out a cluster of emergency vehicles on the span's Brooklyn side.

He exited at Court Street and circled around to the waterfront. A yellow police ribbon marked the zone closed to the public. Brooklynites watched uniformed police officers and plainclothes detectives explore the area. Driscoll and Margaret flashed their shields and stepped under the ribbon, and onto the sandy shore.

The bridge, colossal in its architecture and straddling the river in its massive concrete and brick pontoons, cast an ominous shadow over the crime scene.

"What a dreary place to die," Margaret muttered.

"Awesome, is more like it," Driscoll said, assessing the bridge's huge expansion cables.

"I think they're waiting for us." Margaret gestured to the Forensics Team, the local precinct's squad detectives, and the members of the Harbor Patrol that were gathered around the victim's boneless remains. The headless corpse lay three feet from the shoreline. The hands and feet were missing as well.

An older detective walked over to where they were standing. Driscoll recognized him, but couldn't remember his name.

"Chief of Ds called. Says we should turn this one over to you, Lieutenant."

"What have we got?" Driscoll asked, approaching the human wreckage.

"Two strollers discovered the floater a little after ten this morning. They're back at the house now, but they really didn't see anything. Guzman is taking their statements. I'll have the DD5s hand-delivered to your office as soon as they're typed. Other than that, there's not much to go on. From the looks of it, she wasn't killed here. And the fact that she's bloated up like that says she's been in the water for some time."

Driscoll hunched over the flotsam. He scanned the body and the immediate area for a driver's license or some other form of ID. There was none to be found. But his eye detected something. There appeared to be some sort of marking on the victim's right arm.

"What's that?" he asked.

"What's what?" the older detective responded.

"Get the ME over here, and the Crime-Scene guy with his camera," Driscoll ordered.

The Lieutenant knew not to touch the body. Floaters were delicate, and if not handled correctly would either explode in your face from all the gasses built up inside, or fall apart like tenderized meat. Better to let the experts handle the corpse. The cops in the Harbor Patrol were good at it, but the ME was better.

"Yes, Lieutenant?" It was Jasper Eliot, the Medical Examiner's assistant.

"You see something? Right there on the forearm? Looks like a tattoo or something? Can you make it out?"

Eliot gingerly moved the remains of the body to expose the forearm. "This, Lieutenant?"

"Yeah, that's it. Crime Scene, get a closeup of that. I want it blown up and at my office in an hour."

The Forensics photographer took several shots from different angles. When he was finished, Driscoll leaned in to get a closer look. "Son of a bitch." he grumbled.

Driscoll knew in an instant what he was looking at. This psycho liked to ID his victims, and this poor woman's ID was etched into the skin of her forearm. It was a barely readable inscription, in black ink: L t w For t r M m ry 1041944.

"Margaret, our killer is playing with us. He left us a clue. He wants us to decipher its meaning."

"Looks like a tattoo to me. With some of the letters rubbed off."

"What do you think? Should we send this down to Quantico? Maybe their Hieroglyphics Unit can tell us what it means."

"I don't know, John. Santangelo will have your head if he finds out you invited the FBI into the case."

"I know, but how many more women have to die just because he's too proud to ask for help?"

"Good point."

"OK, see what you can do to decipher it yourself, but, as soon as the photographs come in, express mail a set down to Quantico. Who do we know that works with the Feds?"

"Cedric knows a guy on the Joint Drug Task Force."

"Good. Have Cedric get a hold of his buddy and ask him to make a call for us. See if Hieroglyphics can work on this and keep it between us."

"Will do."

"All right. Call everybody over here."

Margaret rounded up the precinct detectives, the Harbor Patrol, and the Crime-Scene investigators. Once everyone was gathered in one place, Driscoll said, "Listen up, everybody. The first thing I want to know is where this body came from. Then, how did it get here? Harbor Patrol, contact the Coast Guard. Have them check their high-and low-tide charts and consider the currents. See if they can determine where she may have been placed in the water. At least have them give you an educated guess. "Crime Scene, wait here until the tide goes out. Then I want you to collect every scrap of paper, every bottle cap, and every speck of trash that's left on the beach, and process it. Maybe we'll get lucky."

Driscoll turned to the senior detective. "You and your squad, go with the body to the morgue. I want the autopsy done today. Make sure that everything is done right and that nothing is overlooked. Let me know what the autopsy reveals. If there was water in her lungs, I want to know about it. That sick bastard may have watched her drown before he cut her open. Or he might have dissected her first and dumped her from some boat. See what's in her stomach. Maybe that'll lead us somewhere. I want the whole ball of wax. Got it?"

"Yes, Lieutenant. I'll call you as soon as it's done."

"That'd be good. Thanks for your help."

Driscoll's face turned somber as his eyes caught sight of the Forensic Team bagging the remains of the fourth female victim. "We gotta catch this guy, Margaret. He's beginning to tread on my dreams."

Chapter 46.

Margaret hurried into Driscoll's office to report her findings. She had stolen Quantico's thunder. She had broken the code herself.

"I've got the missing letters," she said, authoritatively. "ES, E, GE, HE, E, and O. The full inscription reads: "Lest We Forget Her Memory, 1041944. Our "Jane Doe" is Jewish. I traced her through the Holocaust Survivors' Bureau using the number. It's a date. Not only do they maintain records of the survivors, but they also reveal a wealth of information about their descendants."

"The autopsy of her remains says she's too young to be a Holocaust victim, herself," said Driscoll.

"But her grandmother wasn't. Florence Tischman died at Auschwitz, October 4, 1944." Margaret gave Driscoll photocopies of the documents she had gathered at the Holocaust Survivors' Bureau.

"And, she had a child," Driscoll surmised.

"Maxine. Born in 1942. The camp was liberated by the Red Army. The Red Cross inherited the babies. Maxine arrived in New York in 1946, as a ward of the Jewish Rescue Mission. She was later adopted by a family in Brooklyn, where she lived for the rest of her life. In 1964, Maxine Cooperman gave birth to a daughter, Sarah. She's our victim."

"Why the tattoo?"

"We'd need to ask her that one. My guess would be strong allegiance to family."

"The poor woman. Her mother escapes the Gestapo, but Sarah can't manage to dodge our murderous madman."

"Sarah had a child. A young boy."

"Where's the father?"

"Works as a banker. In Tel Aviv."

"And the boy?"

"Sarah's mother-in-law, Anita Benjamin, had called in a missing person. She's sure to have some information on the boy, and hopefully some knowledge of Sarah's last known whereabouts."

"You'll be following up with her?"

"My next order of business."

"Margaret, you beat the Feds at their own game. How does it feel?"

"Great!"

"While we're on the subject of feelings, are you OK with how things are? Between us, I mean?"

"I should be asking you that question. You're the one who's bearing all the emotional stress. Stress you don't need to carry, I might add. I do have one question, though." There was that rapid heartbeat again.

"Fire away."

"Have you given any more thought to what I said about Colette's take on this?"

"You mean about me seeing other women?"

"This woman!"

The notion blindsided Driscoll. She certainly got right to the heart of the matter. He had to admire her directness. "What we shared the other night was wonderful. I forgot I could feel so good. The truth is, I do have strong feelings for you. I'd be lying if I said I didn't. But, I still need more time to think things over."

Margaret gazed into the Lieutenant's eyes. "John, I appreciate your being frank with me. I really didn't know what to think. You've seemed so distant lately. I thought you had some regret over what happened between us. I'm happy to hear you don't." A smile erupted on Margaret's face. She took Driscoll's hand. "Take all the time you need to sort things out. I'm not going anywhere."

It was Driscoll's turn to smile.

Chapter 47.

"Mrs. Benjamin, I have questions, disturbing questions, and I regret that I must ask them," said Margaret as she returned the older woman's gaze. There was a sadness to the woman's eyes, a sadness that went beyond the present circumstances.

They were sitting in Mrs. Benjamin's finely upholstered living room. It was quiet and heavily furnished, with thick velvet drapery. Votive candles burned on a table.

"I want to help where I can," said Mrs. Benjamin. "Sarah would have wanted it that way."

The response put Margaret at ease. There was no pretense about the woman. And it was apparent that she and the victim shared a loving relationship.

"Did your daughter-in-law tell you where she was going Friday night?"

"To her recital hall. Sarah taught violin. Her class was giving a recital on Sunday. They were to play Beethoven. It was going to be a working weekend filled with practice, late Friday through Sunday. That's why she dropped Robbie off. She was going to pick him up after the show on Sunday. When she didn't, I called the hall. She had never shown up! I got frantic. I knew something had happened. But no one could ever imagine..." Her voice cracked.

Margaret fought back the urge to take the woman's hand. She had interviewed hundreds, if not thousands, of grieving relatives in her career. The nurturing urge was always there. She was proud of it, but she was always able to remain objective and professional by curtailing it. "I'm sorry I have to ask this next question."

"Go on. I want to help where I can."

"How was Sarah's relationship with her estranged husband, your son?"

"My son was a scoundrel."

The answer surprised Margaret. She thought it refreshing to interview someone who displayed a frankness and willingness to be so open with someone she had never met. A smile formed on Margaret's lips as Mrs. Benjamin continued. "Sarah never stopped loving him, though. Even after the divorce. He was the only man she ever loved. She was hoping for a reconciliation."

"Did you know much about her social life?"

"She was dedicated to her music. That much I know."

Suddenly, a sobbing child darted into the room and threw himself into the older woman's arms.

"My grandson Robbie is practically an orphan," said Mrs. Benjamin, cradling the crying boy.

The young boy stole a look at Margaret.