Finally, Singleton halted. “I will now turn the briefing over to Lieutenant D’Agosta, Commander Detective Squad, who will speak more specifically and answer questions about the homicides, the possible connections among them, and some of the leads his team has been developing.”

He stepped away and D’Agosta took to the podium, trying to project the same gravitas that the mayor and Singleton had. He glanced over the assembled press, his eyes watering in the bright lights. He looked down at his notes, but they were a wavering mass of gray. He knew, from prior experience, that he was not very good at this. He had tried to tell Singleton as much and beg off, but the captain hadn’t been sympathetic. “Get out there and do it. If you want my advice, strive to be as boring as possible. Give them only the information you have to. And for God’s sake don’t let any of the bastards take control of the room. You’re the alpha male in there—don’t forget it.” This retrograde advice was delivered with a manly slap on the back.

And here he was. “Thank you, Captain Singleton. And thank you, Mayor DeLillo. The homicide division is following up on several promising investigative threads.” He allowed for a pause. “I wish I could go into detail, but most of what we have so far falls into the category of ‘non-releasable information,’ which the department defines as: One: Information posing an undue risk to the personal safety of members of the department, victims, or others. Two: Information that may interfere with police operations. And three: Information that adversely affects the rights of an accused or the investigation or prosecution of a crime.”

He paused and heard what sounded like a collective groan from the crowd. Well, Singleton had told him to be boring.

“Since you have most of the details of the first two homicides, I will focus on what we’ve learned so far about last night’s homicide in East Hampton.” D’Agosta went on, describing the third killing in much more detail than Singleton. He spoke of the six dead bodyguards, the discovery of the boat and other evidence, but he held back mention of the size thirteen foot—that crucial detail he wanted to keep in reserve. He spoke of Bogachyov’s many lawsuits and shady business dealings. It was alleged, for example, that Bogachyov had been brokering decommissioned nuclear equipment and missile parts through Chinese shell companies connected to the North Korean regime.

And then he returned to the crime, praising the fine work of the East Hampton Police Department—until a voice shouted out in interruption: “But are the killings connected?”

D’Agosta halted, losing his place. Was that that son of a bitch Harriman? It sure sounded like him. After a moment of scanning his notes he went on, talking about his department’s work liaising with East Hampton, when the voice interrupted again.

“Connected, or not? Can we have an answer?”

It was that damn Harriman. D’Agosta looked up from his papers. “We are for the time being treating the three homicides as separate cases, but this doesn’t mean we don’t believe they may be connected.”

“Which means what?” Harriman shouted.

“It means we haven’t decided.”

“Three decapitations in a week—and you’re saying they’re not connected? And this new murder—it’s just like the second, right?”

“The third homicide does bear some similarities to the second one, yes,” said D’Agosta.

“But not to the first murder? Is that what you’re saying?”

“We’re still looking into that…” D’Agosta suddenly realized he was allowing Harriman to do exactly what Singleton had warned him about: hijack the room. “I’d like to finish what I was saying earlier, please. According to East Hampton PD, the investigative threads include—”

“So you’re implying there are two murderers? The first who killed Grace Ozmian, and another murderer who did two and three? In other words, the first killing inspired a serial killer to commit the others? And it’s actually not just two and three—counting the dead guards you mentioned, it’s technically nine.”

This was going south fast. “Mr. Harriman, save your questions for the Q and A.”

But the discipline of the crowd was breaking down, and several other questions were being shouted at the podium. Singleton stepped forward, held up his hand, and the crowd shushed. D’Agosta felt his face flush.

“I think we’re ready for questions,” said Singleton, turning back to D’Agosta.

There was an uproar of questions all shouted at once.

“Ms. Levitas of Slate,” said D’Agosta, pointing at a woman in the rear, as far from Harriman as possible.

“Just to follow up on the previous question, how can these killings not be connected?”

Damn that Harriman—even when he wasn’t asking questions he was still orchestrating the press conference. “We’re considering all possibilities,” said D’Agosta stolidly.

“Is it a serial killer?”

This shouted question came from Harriman again. How the hell did he get into the front row? Next time D’Agosta would see that he was buried in the back of the room, or preferably out in the hall. “As I’ve said repeatedly, we are working on all possibilities—”

“Possibility?” Harriman shouted. “You mean a serial killer is actually a possibility?”

Singleton spoke firmly: “Mr. Harriman, there are other reporters in the room. We call on Mr. Goudreau of the Daily News.”

“Why is the FBI involved?”

“We’re marshaling all law enforcement assets,” said Singleton.

“But what’s the federal angle?” Goudreau followed up.

“In the first homicide there was a suggestion of possible interstate transportation of the body. And the third homicide, with its potential international ramifications, has reinforced federal involvement. We are grateful to the FBI for giving us the benefit of their expertise.”

A roar of shouted questions came from the audience.

“One more question!” said Singleton, looking around. This was followed by another eruption.

He pointed. “Ms. Anders of Fox.”

The Fox anchor was trying to speak but was drowned out by her peers, who kept shouting questions.

“Quiet, please!” Singleton boomed out. It worked. A hush fell.

“My question is for the mayor: What steps are you taking to keep the city safe?”

The mayor strode forward with a heavy step. “Aside from putting forty detectives and another hundred uniformed officers on the case, we’re pulling over two thousand officers into overtime patrol, and we’re taking many, many other steps I cannot enumerate for security reasons. I can assure you that every possible action is being taken to keep our citizens safe.”

“Lieutenant, where are the heads?”

Harriman again—the fucker.

“You heard the man,” said D’Agosta. “No more questions!”

“No!” came another shout. “Answer the question!”

The sound level went up as more took up the refrain. Where are the heads? What about the heads? Answer the question!

“We’re working on that,” said D’Agosta. “Now—”

“You mean you don’t know, do you?”

“As I said—”

But they wouldn’t let him finish. “Any idea why the killer’s taking the heads?” someone else yelled.

“Not yet, but—”

Singleton broke in smoothly. “We’ve asked the FBI Behavioral Science Unit in Quantico to help us with that very question.”

This was news to D’Agosta, and he realized it was something Singleton must have just pulled out of his hat—a damn good idea.

“When will you—?”

“Thank you ladies and gentlemen, this press conference is over!” Singleton said, and turned off the mike. As the room broke up, Singleton passed by him, speaking in an undertone: “In my office, please.”

As D’Agosta turned to gather his papers, he glanced in the direction of the mayor and found the man staring at him, a dark look in his big glistening eyes.

18

SITTING IN THE passenger seat of a squad car driven by Sergeant Curry, D’Agosta had a rare moment of peace and quiet to think. This time, the chewing-out in Singleton’s office actually hadn’t been as bad as D’Agosta feared. The captain had pointed out, more in a paternal way than as a reprimand, that D’Agosta had let Harriman dominate the conference in exactly the way he had warned him against, but that all in all it could have been worse and he was sure D’Agosta had learned a valuable lesson.

“Just get us something, anything,” said Singleton, “by the end of the day tomorrow that we can get in the paper. We’ve got to show progress. You bring me something good and all will be forgiven.” He clapped D’Agosta on the back in another fatherly way as he was on his way out, then gave his shoulder a warning squeeze.