Suzanne slid across the gla.s.s coffee table a list with the locations of the bodies and the estimated day the victim was killed. "We need to know who organized these parties. We think we know who put on the parties in the Bronx and Brooklyn, but the frat party here, and then the Harlem party, we need more info. Any ideas?"

Barnett looked at the list. "The frat party is a college thing; I don't know much about that. You should talk to Alpha Gamma Pi-they're not the biggest frat at Columbia, but they're on the ball."

Suzanne made a note, though she was pretty confident that she'd read in Panetta's reports that he'd canva.s.sed all the frats and didn't get anything useful.

Panetta opened a file and showed Barnett the photographs of the four dead women. They weren't the morgue photos, but pictures provided by their families or the DMV.

"Do you know any of these young women? Maybe you met them at a party, or through business or college?"

Barnett stared at the pictures. His face was blank, almost impa.s.sive, but Suzanne noticed he swallowed several times.

He shook his head. "No," he said. He cleared his throat. "Sorry."

Suzanne would bet her pension that he knew at least one of the girls. Maybe all of them. Maybe she was facing a killer.

Panetta also picked up the strange vibes. He glanced at her and gave a brief shake of his head, and she concurred. They needed more information, and then they'd bring him in for a formal interview at the station.

Suzanne stood and said, "Thank you for your time, Mr. Barnett. If you think of anything else, or hear something that might help us narrow down which parties this murderer may be targeting, please call either myself or Detective Panetta. You have our cards."

Outside the door, Suzanne lowered her voice. "Something's going on. He knows at least one of these victims."

"Absolutely. And either he's surprised that someone's dead or he's surprised that we're on to him."

"Either way, he's a person of interest."

Suzanne talked Panetta into grabbing a drink at a bar to discuss the case. He agreed, provided it was near his subway stop. He called his wife and said he'd be an hour late. By the time he'd disconnected, there were two beers in front of them.

They toasted. "To catch a killer," Panetta said.

Suzanne sipped her bottled Samuel Adams, a favorite of hers since college. Panetta drank Coors Light on tap. "Barnett," she said.

"b.a.l.l.sy. Arrogant. Until he saw the pictures."

"Guilty?"

"Of something. But murder? He doesn't seem the kind of guy who'd kill a girl with a plastic bag over her head."

"He doesn't seem like the kind of guy who'd beat them to a pulp, either. Did you notice his hands?"

Panetta laughed. "Manicured."

"Soft. No hard labor. He's more the type of dude who'd push a girl off a bridge in a moment of rage."

"Really?" Panetta looked at her as if she were an alien.

She shrugged. "I know, sometimes you can't tell who's a killer by looking at them, but I a.s.sess people by how they'd kill-if they were driven to it. He doesn't appear to have the personality of a serial killer. But I'm going to run him up the flagpole, get a full background and psych profile on him based on what we know. Ted Bundy didn't look like a serial killer on the surface."

"Do you think he was feeding us a line about the fraternity? Trying to steer us away?"

She sipped her beer as she thought. "Maybe, but we need to follow up anyway. You talked to the frats, right?"

"Hicks and three officers spoke to the president of each fraternity at Columbia, and all denied that they'd organized the party. But three of the four victims were college students, two at Columbia."

"It was the second victim who wasn't a student, right?"

"Erica Ripley. She was twenty-one, worked at a coffeehouse."

"Still, three of the four-"

"Underground parties are a favorite of the college crowd."

"With how many colleges and universities there are in New York City, two of the victims were at Columbia?"

"I can a.s.sure you that we followed up with what we had," Panetta said, slightly defensive. "But we had s.h.i.t. No one came forward. Of those we spoke to afterward, they were either surprised the victim was at the party, or they said they'd warned the victim that the parties were dangerous and to be careful. We have little physical evidence."

"I wasn't second-guessing your investigation." Suzanne hoped she hadn't come off as overly critical. "Just thinking out loud."

After a moment, Panetta said, "I agree, we should take another walk through the frats."

"We can split them up."

"I'll get the list from Hicks."

"What happened to the roommate of the first victim?" Suzanne asked. "Did you say she dropped out and moved back home?"

"Jill Reeves," Panetta said.

"You remember her?"

"It was the first interview of the case. She took it hard. She and the victim had been best friends since they were kids."

Suzanne hadn't been involved in the investigation at that point. "I'd like to talk to her, if you don't mind. Now that we know more, maybe she'll have additional information that didn't seem important at the time." The first victim, Alanna Andrews, had been killed the last week of October. The other three were all killed since the beginning of the year.

The murders themselves stuck out because of the lack of violence. No rape, no blood at all. All the victims had s.e.x prior to their murders, but not with the same men. It was theoretically possible for the killer to have used a condom and not left his DNA on the victims, but even with protection there would likely be hair and other trace evidence to match up. But until they had a suspect, getting any of those results was impossible.

"Have the victims been tested for the standard date rape drugs?" she asked. "It might explain lack of physical evidence of rape."

"I don't recall. I think not, because there didn't seem to be a s.e.xual component to the crimes. With the budget being so tight, the lab is being careful with what we order, but they'd preserve blood and tissue for future testing. If they were intentionally drugged, would that change anything?"

"It might change the profile of the killer."

"Do you have a profile?"

"Not officially." When she first got the case she talked to Quantico, but they didn't have enough information to develop a working profile. She should send the new information and physical evidence to them and see what they could come up with psychologically. "Would you mind if I contact the NYPD lab and have them send blood and tissue samples to Quantico to run a pattern of drug tests?"

"Be my guest."

It might not yield any valuable information, but it was definitely worth a shot.

"The girls were definitely high," Panetta pointed out. "They did a standard tox and drug screen, and they were all legally drunk and had narcotics in their system."

"The same type of drugs?"

"No, not that I recall. Two on speed, one had high-end cocaine-there were still crystals in her nasal cavities.

One had not only been smoking pot, but there was a nice little stash in her purse."

"This last victim didn't have a purse on her."

"Neither did the second," Panetta pointed out. "She had an ankle band with fifty dollars in it."

"I'm familiar-I used to go to a lot of rock concerts. You don't want to carry around a purse."

Something connected these victims, other than their age. Two blondes, a redhead, a brunette. Heights ranged from five foot three to five foot six. Three college students, one not. Three Caucasian, one Hispanic. No defensive wounds, which made sense because they were drunk and drugged. But Suzanne suspected that there was a date rape drug in there, even if the killer hadn't raped the victims. Mixed with alcohol, those drugs often caused the victims to become lethargic or unconscious. It would make it that much easier to put a plastic bag over their head and suffocate them without any fuss.

"I had been thinking that the killer had to be strong to hold the girls up while they died," Suzanne said, "but he wouldn't have to be particularly strong if they were under the influence."

"Hmm, maybe."

"You disagree?"

"I've seen guys drunker than a skunk fight back hard. Maybe our vics were unable to get out of the guy's grip-they hadn't seen the bag or whatever he used-because they were too stoned to know what was happening at first. But they'd know pretty quick." Panetta finished his beer. "I asked the coroner to send lung samples to your lab at Quantico. He can't pinpoint what type of plastic was used to suffocate the victims, and with the workload-"

"No explanation necessary. I'll light a fire under their a.s.ses and hopefully we'll get something that helps." She wasn't holding her breath. If she were going to suffocate someone, she'd use a common plastic garbage bag, something not easily traceable. But she was a trained cop. A common killer-even an uncommon psychopath-might not be so smart. She could hope. "The fact that none of our victims fought back lends credence to the theory that they were dosed with GHB or something."

"Hate to tell you, but at these parties I've heard that both the boys and girls take the drugs voluntarily. Maybe the girls weren't slipped the drugs, but it was part of the overall party experience."

Suzanne didn't understand that. She enjoyed s.e.x-quite a lot-and she'd never needed drugs or alcohol to loosen her up. She liked her beer after work, and that was it.

She nodded toward his beer. "Another?"

Panetta shook his head. "Thanks, but I need to get home."

He took out his wallet.

"I got this one." She gestured to the bartender for a second Sam Adams.

"Thanks, kid."

"I'm going to talk to Haynes again, and I'm thinking if we talk to Barnett when he doesn't expect it, we can rattle him. I'd like to find something specific to rattle him with."

"If you go for Barnett, ring me. I don't trust that brat as far as I can throw him."

"You think he's the killer."

"I think he's a spoiled rich kid who doesn't know boundaries. He could kill, if provoked. But I don't know if he's who we're looking for."

Suzanne watched Panetta walk away with a wave to the other off-duty cops in the bar.

The bartender put her second bottle in front of her and took her empty away.

Barnett was capable of murder, perhaps, but Suzanne didn't think he was smart enough to kill four women and not leave any evidence or witnesses. If he killed, it would be out of rage or pa.s.sion. Like at a girlfriend who dumped him. When women end up dead, cops look at the men in their lives. Stranger murders are much rarer.

She wasn't going to second-guess Panetta-and after the third murder, when she was brought on board, she'd already bought into the theory that they were dealing with a serial killer. But that didn't mean that the killer hadn't been involved with at least one of the victims. Statistically, most serial killers knew one or more of their victims personally-whether they were friendly with the person or it was someone they saw regularly.

Like a college student.

Or the barista at a coffeehouse.

Alanna Andrews was the first victim. Erica Ripley, the second, was the only victim who didn't attend college. Suzanne would start with them.

Satisfied that she had a place to begin first thing in the morning, she focused on the big-screen TV.

Seven p.m. The Knicks were playing at Madison Square Garden. She didn't care either way about basketball, and she could go home and review her notes and plan her interviews with the people in Andrews's and Ripley's lives. But she'd been reviewing the files every night since she landed on the task force, and nothing had changed except her focus. Suzanne needed a break, just to unwind, so she could come in fresh in the morning.

She pulled out her cell phone and dialed her closest friend in the city. "Mac, it's Suz. Have plans tonight?"

"Just getting off duty."

"I'm sitting at Uglies with my Sam Adams watching the Knicks game."

"I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

Suzanne hung up and sipped her beer. She had friends with benefits, too, some of which were quite impressive.

TEN.

Sean sat at his desk in his second-floor office. Lucy was sitting across from him, typing away on her laptop. The rain that had started when they left Woodbridge was a deluge by the time they'd pulled into his driveway. The steady downpour continued to drum against the windows.

The narrow, three-story, hundred-year-old house was both Sean's business and residence. He and Patrick had done most of the renovation work themselves in December when they established RCK East. The living room downstairs had been converted into the main office, the library into Patrick's office, and the formal parlor would someday be their a.s.sistant's works.p.a.ce-that is, when they had enough business to justify hiring an administrator. In the back, cut off from their work area by double doors, was the kitchen and living area. An enclosed sunporch led to a postage-stamp backyard dominated by two towering old trees.

Sean hoped the trees survived the storm. The winds were fierce.

Originally, combining their business and residences had seemed a smart move to save money while they built the business. Sean and Patrick had no problems living together because each had his own s.p.a.ce. However, that was before Sean started sleeping with Patrick's sister. Now, Sean wished he had his own apartment. Lucy had been uncomfortable sleeping with Sean under her older brother's roof, and Sean certainly wasn't going to ask her to stay with him now that Patrick was back in town. At least not until Patrick got over his problems with their relationship. Sean didn't want to do anything to put his new relationship with Lucy in jeopardy.

He wanted to spend his time with her lying around in bed, talking, making love, watching her sleep. He missed the wonderful week they'd had before Patrick returned from his last job, when Lucy had spent every night in his bed.

"Do I have a zit on my nose or something?" Lucy asked.

He shook his head. "Sorry, I was thinking."

"You were staring at me."