Driscoll looked into the face of the picture displayed on the driver's license. A young, brassy blonde returned his stare. "He may have slipped, you know. Unwittingly, he may have slipped," he said. There was now a thread of commonality to these murders, not only in how the two women were butchered, but in where the killer chose to leave them: in public recreational sites, knowing they would be found.

Driscoll removed a plastic evidence pouch from his breast pocket and placed Monique's driver's license in it. He then examined the nails the killer used, and prayed the wounds were postmortem.

"I'll catch this son of a bitch. That I promise," he vowed as he turned his back on the victim and headed back to the beach.

Chapter 12.

Cedric Thomlinson checked his watch and turned off the engine of his Dodge Intrepid. He was five minutes late for his meeting. He walked solemnly toward the heavy oak door that led to Saint Rose of Lima's community room, and slipped inside. There was a large crowd, a mix of men and women, all of them police personnel, and all with the same purpose: to garner the strength to keep from drinking.

Thomlinson was greeted by Father Liam O'Connor, a Jesuit priest, a bulk of a man, sixty-five years of age, with a shock of white hair streaking otherwise gray. He was a Certified Alcohol and Substance Abuse Counselor and had run the Police Department's Confidential Alcohol and Drug Abuse Program for thirty years. His successes recovered, regained their lives, and went on to become productive police officers. His failures didn't. Some of them ended their careers by ending their lives. It wasn't uncommon for a despondent police officer to put the barrel of his service revolver in his mouth and pull the trigger.

"Hello, Cedric. How are you tonight?" asked Father O'Connor.

"Doing fine, Father. And you?"

"Aside from a touch of arthritis, I'm doing fine myself. Thanks for asking."

Thomlinson smiled and meandered over to his assigned seat within a circle of chairs. He glanced around him. The faces remained the same, some revealing hope; some, despair. Every once in a while a new inductee. The Department averaged two a month.

"How ya doin?" Thomlinson muttered to the rookie police officer to his right.

There were far too many young officers in the room caught up in the four-to-four lifestyle. These were officers who started out doing steady four-to-twelve shifts, then continued on to the bars until they closed at four A.M A.M. Hence the classification: four to four. Most of the rest of the crowd were whiskey faced veterans holding on until retirement. At forty-two, Thomlinson felt caught somewhere between the two. "Caught" being the operative word.

The muted chatter that filled the small room ceased as Father O'Connor took his seat and began his invocation: "Almighty Father..."

That was all Thomlinson heard, for at that point his mind drifted back to the events that led him here in the first place.

He and his partner, Harold Young, were undercover working Narcotics. They had set up Jamal Hinsdale, an insidious drug dealer, for a medium-sized buy, and had entered a dimly lit hallway with marked money. There were to be no arrests that afternoon, just a controlled buy. Jamal stepped out of the shadows and approached them.

"Everythin' cool, my man?" said Jamal.

"Yeah, mon. Everything's cool," said Thomlinson, despite the fact that he was very hungover from a night of binge drinking, and his view of the world was a blur.

That's why Thomlinson never saw where Jamal's gun came from. Shots exploded in slow motion, the first one catching Thomlinson just above the right shoulder blade and knocking him down. There were several more shots in rapid fire, followed by an eerie silence. When the smoke cleared, both Harold Young and Jamal Hinsdale were dead, and the stench of gunpowder and spilled blood filled the air. Thomlinson called for the Ghost, his backup team. They were already on their way. He heard the sound of sirens approaching, and the sound of tenants in the building opening their windows to look out. When the backup team finally reached him, all hell broke loose. Police radios crackled, a host of uniformed and plainclothes officers came running, and the sergeant in charge barked orders. As they put Thomlinson in the ambulance he heard very clearly what that sergeant said. And that was that Thomlinson still had his gun in his holster.

The official report stated that Thomlinson was situated behind Detective Young and therefore could not fire without hitting his partner. The Mayor and the Police Commissioner settled for what they got: a dead hero cop, a wounded hero cop, and a dead drug dealer. Young's funeral made front-page news. Another hero lost in the war on crime. But, in two years' time, only the people who knew him well would remember his name. Thomlinson would never forget him, and would never forget the gun battle and the true circumstances surrounding it. For it was Thomlinson's binge drinking that helped bring down a fellow police officer. His partner, no less.

For his part in it, Thomlinson was awarded the Department's second-highest medal, the Combat Cross. He was then transferred to the elite Homicide Squad, headed up by Lieutenant John Driscoll. It was every detective's dream assignment.

But the street cops believed a story closer to the truth. Every time he walked in their midst, conversations stopped. Looks of disapproval surrounded him. He knew what was said about him as soon as he left the room. His partner was killed, and he had never even pulled his gun. That was tantamount to being incompetent or a coward, two things a cop could never be. Everywhere he went within the department, he was known as the cop who never pulled his gun.

His drinking became heavier after that, but since he could no longer hang out in cop bars, he turned to drinking alone. Many a morning, he woke up at the kitchen table with an empty bottle and a loaded 9 mm staring him in the face.

He began to duck work, often missing his first or last tour of duty, too drunk to make it in. When on duty, he would make excuses to go to his car, where he kept his stash: a sealed bottle of Jamaican rum. Other times, he simply disappeared for hours, returning with a mouthful of breath mints or some gum.

Driscoll was no fool, and after a few weeks he took the hardest step a police commander ever had to take. He called the representative from the Detectives' Union and had Thomlinson "farmed." Driscoll knew he was ruining Thomlinson's career, but he hoped he was saving his life.

"The Farm," as it was called, was an old retreat house located so deep in Delaware County that the nearest town was twenty-five miles away.

Thomlinson was stripped of his gun and shield and whisked away. He was given a choice. He could complete the program, or be fired. Those were his only options. The program, administered by a group of Certified Alcohol and Substance Abuse Counselors, consisted of six weeks of alcohol counseling that included regularly conducted one-on-one therapy sessions, and group therapy with past and present alcoholic police officers. It was interspersed with religious encounters as well. Lights-out and lockdown was at eight P.M P.M. each night, and there were guards at every door.

Once you completed the program, you were sent back to Command without your gun or your shield, and were required to attend the self-help program run by Father O'Connor. At the end of one year, if the Department psychiatrist deemed you fit, you were returned to active duty. Your gun and your shield were returned, and supposedly your personnel record never reflected any of it. Of course, everyone knew better. There were few secrets in this man's department.

It had been twenty-nine months since Thomlinson graduated from the Farm. He was now 868 days sober. His gun and shield had been returned to him, and he was eternally grateful to his commander and true friend, Lieutenant John W. Driscoll.

"Cedric, do you have anything to share with us this evening?" Father O'Connor's question rocketed Thomlinson back to the present.

Thomlinson stood up and repeated his usual routine about how he had taken up drinking because his partner had been killed in front of him. He knew it was a lie, the priest knew it was a lie, and everyone else in the room knew it was a lie. But no one challenged him, so he sat back down.

As the meeting was drawing to a close, Thomlinson's cell phone rang. He stepped outside to take the call.

It was Driscoll. He had sobering news. They had found victim number two.

Chapter 13.

Margaret poked her head inside Driscoll's office. "Lieutenant, there's a call for you on line two. You're not gonna like who's calling. It's from the office of the Chief of Detectives," she said.

Here it starts, thought Driscoll. From this day forward, every higher-echelon moron with a star on his shoulder would be looking to get into the act. He picked up the phone and hit line two.

"Stand by for Chief Walters," came the voice on the other end.

"Hello, John. How are you holding up?" asked Walters. Walters was the second in command at the office of the Chief of Detectives. He was an old-time Bureau veteran, and he understood just how the game was played. Thank God it was Walters, thought Driscoll.

"I've been better, Chief. How are things there?"

"Heating up, John. Santangelo wants to see you at nine o'clock tomorrow morning in the conference room. He says to bring the pretty sergeant with you."

"Will do," said Driscoll begrudgingly.

"Take care, John. See you in the morning."

As soon as Driscoll hung up the phone, his head began to pound. Goddamn it, he thought. "Things are heating up" was an understatement. They'll want a head to chop off if this case doesn't turn around soon. Well, this head is staying right where it is.

At eight-thirty the next morning, Margaret and Driscoll were ushered into the oak-paneled conference room on the twenty-first floor of One Police Plaza. Bill Walters was already there, as were several Captains and Inspectors from the Detective Bureau all seated around a large table.

Walters took Driscoll aside and whispered, "Santangelo's in rare form today, so be careful." Driscoll nodded, grateful for the tip, and took a seat next to Walters. Margaret sidled up next to Driscoll. At precisely nine, the door opened, and Chief of Detectives Joseph Santangelo walked in. He was a man who was universally despised throughout the Bureau. Behind his back, his squad commanders sarcastically called him "the World's Greatest Detective" due to his constant meddling and ridiculous suggestions. Basic investigative work escaped him. Over the years, the nickname had been shortened to simply the "World's Greatest." He had risen directly from the rank of Inspector to Chief of Detectives, skipping over several more qualified candidates. It was widely rumored that he had some politician in his pocket. Nothing else could explain how he had gotten so far. After seating himself at the head of the table, he nodded to the midlevel ranks and turned his attention to Margaret.

"How nice to see you again, Sergeant." He fancied himself a ladies' man.

"Thank you, Chief." The man made her skin crawl.

"Now, John, what have you got for me?" he asked, turning his attention to Driscoll.

"Chief, we've been proceeding in the usual manner, but nothing concrete has turned up yet."

"Goddamn it. That's not what I want to hear. I've got the Police Commissioner calling me every hour. The Mayor's office has been all over me, and the goddamn press is up my ass. And all you can tell me is that you have nothing concrete? What the hell are we paying you for?"

Walters broke the tirade.

"Chief, John is our best squad commander. Everything that can be done is being done. Maybe it's time to start a Task Force. Let him pull in some people from other squads."

"Give him whatever he wants," barked Santangelo. "But if I don't see some progress, he's gone. Can I make it any clearer? This guy is butchering women on my watch, and I won't stand for it. I won't." Santangelo looked at his watch. "I've got a briefing with the Police Commissioner in five minutes. I'll leave Chief Walters to work out the details with you. Whatever the hell you need. Just get it done, or I'll find someone that will. Can I make it any clearer?" The Chief stood up, and made a quick exit. Driscoll wanted to haul off and punch the bastard.

Walters leaned over and put his hand on Driscoll's shoulder. "Don't take it personal. It's just his way."

Driscoll scanned the room. Everyone avoided his gaze but Margaret. He placed his hand over hers and gave it a squeeze, letting her know that he was all right.

"OK, John, whadya need?" asked Walters.

"Three and thirty," Driscoll replied, letting the Chief know he wanted three sergeants and thirty detectives. "And Chief, I don't want any deadbeats."

It was well known in the Bureau that when a Task Force was formed, a sharp squad commander would unload his worst detectives. That, Driscoll was hoping, would not be the case here.

"Your call. You put the names together and give them to me. How are you fixed for cars?"

"I figure I'll need ten additional cars, and a surveillance van."

Walters turned his attention to a slim, suited man seated across the table from him.

"Inspector Malloy, you will arrange that with Fleet Services. And call Gallagher over at the Technical Aide Response Unit (or TARU, as some call it) and give him a heads-up. Anything else, John?"

"Not that I can think of now, Chief."

"You gonna run this out of your office?"

"Yes, sir. I have everything I'll need there."

"OK, any questions? No? Dismissed." All the nameless suits got up and walked out.

"John, you and Margaret stay here for a minute," said Walters. When the room was empty, the Chief spoke. "I know you two are doing everything you can. Don't let Santangelo wear you down. If any squad commander can get to the bottom of this one, you can. If you need anything on the QT, you come directly to me. You got that?"

Driscoll nodded his head.

"I'll want daily updates. And be careful of press leaks. You speak only to me. No one else. And John, one other thing."

"Sir?"

"Stay clear of the FBI."

"Yes, sir."

On the elevator ride to the Command Center on the fourteenth floor, Driscoll's thoughts were of Walters. He was a clearheaded professional, not a loudmouthed buffoon like Santangelo. For that, Driscoll was grateful. And while Driscoll's thoughts were of Walters, although she didn't know why, Margaret's thoughts were of Driscoll. A brave and unwavering Driscoll. Hell, he's a married man, for God's sake Hell, he's a married man, for God's sake. Margaret bit down hard on her lower lip.

Chapter 14.

Margaret had interviewed Mr. Thornwood and his two granddaughters, the customers in the video store where the McCabe woman was last seen alive. The interviews had added nothing to the investigation. Ms. Clairborne was right: Thornwood and his girls hadn't even seen Deirdre McCabe. There were no records of any shoplifting on the part of the OTs, and the local precinct, the 68, had had only two radio runs in the area of the video store that night. One drunk-and-disorderly, and one single-car automobile accident involving an elderly woman who took a turn too sharply and clipped a parked car. Thomlinson had run the store's account holders' list for criminal records. Nothing active. Thomas Whiting, seventy-two, had been arrested in 1984 for stock fraud, and Alice Hathaway, now forty-five, had been busted for prostitution when she was twenty-three.

Driscoll mulled over these "revelations" as he put up with bumper-to-bumper traffic on East Broadway. He and Thomlinson were headed for the Medical Examiner's office on First Avenue. Because of a water main break on Allen Street, all traffic had been diverted onto Canal. Driscoll placed the emergency flasher atop the cruiser, turned on the siren, and veered the Chevy north on Centre Street, leaving behind a string of cars and taxicabs.

The NYPD was now galvanized. The total resources of the department were at Driscoll's disposal. Cedric Thomlinson was to be Driscoll's house mouse, the lead detective who would speak with Driscoll's authority and coordinate the efforts of the additional police personnel. In spite of what each member of the Task Force thought of Thomlinson, they knew he was acting on direct orders from the Lieutenant, and therefore, so were they. In his new capacity, Thomlinson had already been in contact with Telephone Control, the NYPD's own internal telephone equipment server, and asked that ten additional phone lines be installed inside the Command Center. He would soon be calling TARU to secure the electronic equipment that might be needed. That electronic equipment would include such items as listening devices, telephone taps, trap-and-trace units, and videotape equipment. Thomlinson would also oversee the force's telephone tip line. The tip line was a separate phone line the public was encouraged to call with information that may be relevant to the case. The number was furnished to the news media and to the publishers of the daily newspapers, and was included at the close of every broadcast or newspaper article about the case. It usually prompted a number of crank calls and dead ends, but each call was assigned to a detective, and it became his or her responsibility to track down the lead.

As the Lieutenant continued north on Centre Street, he glanced over at Thomlinson and could tell his friend's anxieties were getting the best of him. He knew that Thomlinson was craving a drink. Driscoll watched as his newly ordained house mouse reached in his vest pocket and produced a Macanudo. That was always a sign. When he wanted to drink, Thomlinson would settle for the taste of tobacco over the taste of booze. Driscoll noted how anxiously he peeled away the cigar's cellophane wrapper, pressed the Chevy's cigarette lighter, and waited patiently for it to pop back out. It didn't.

"Check the coil," said Driscoll.

Thomlinson did. It was cold to the touch. "Got any matches?" Thomlinson asked.

"There should be some in the glove box."

Thomlinson rummaged through the clutter in the glove compartment and produced a book of matches with the name of SULLIVAN'S TAVERN SULLIVAN'S TAVERN embossed on its cover. He struck a match and fired his Macanudo. embossed on its cover. He struck a match and fired his Macanudo.

"I gotta tell ya, Cedric, there was something very haunting about that cadaver under the boardwalk. The killer's obviously staging his victims. It's up to us to decipher his message."

"The guy's a psychotic exhibitionist," said Thomlinson, exhaling a thin stream of smoke from his cigar.

Driscoll wouldn't argue that. He asked Thomlinson, "Tell me something, why do you suppose he's so hell bent on IDing his victims?"

"We'll need to get inside his head to answer that one."

Inside his head, thought Driscoll. Now there's a one-way ticket to the Twilight Zone Now there's a one-way ticket to the Twilight Zone.

The Lieutenant turned right off of Centre Street at East Houston and then made a left onto First Avenue.