The Maze

compare and contrast all sorts of evidence, but we're coming up with nothing, just nothing."

    "We'll get him, Ollie."

    "I sure hope so," Lacey said. She turned to Ollie. "Did your future mother-in-law convince Maria that you're a workaholic since you were gone for the whole weekend?"

    "No, I blamed it on the chief. I told her that Agent Savich would kick me into the street if I didn't go with him. Then I'd be blackballed and permanently on unemployment. She backed off."

    Savich just laughed and walked back to his office. Lacey saw Hannah Paisley rise quickly and follow him. To her surprise, Ollie was watching Hannah, a frown on his face.

    "What's wrong?"

    "Nothing really. I just wish Hannah would be a little more cool about Savich."

    Lacey didn't say a word; she didn't want to know anything personal about anybody. It was safer that way. But Ollie didn't notice, just said thoughtfully, "I heard Savich and Hannah dated before she came to the Unit. Then when she joined the Unit, word was that Savich called it off. I heard him say that no one in the Unit should dip his Bureau quill into Bureau ink."

    "Now that was sexist, Ollie. You think Hannah's still interested, then?"

    "Oh yeah, just look at her. She can't keep her eyes off him. Why don't you talk to her, Sherlock? Maybe she'd listen to you. Savich isn't interested, or if he is, he still wouldn't go near a woman agent in his unit."

    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