“That’s six,” Ed said easily. “Ben’s trying to get under a pack a day,” he explained, then took up the report himself.

“Clayton spent the evening in a bar on Wisconsin. Kind of a girls’ night out with a friend who works with her. Friend says Clayton left about one. Her car was found broken down a couple blocks from the hit. Seems she’s been having transmission problems. Apparently, she decided to walk from there. Her apartment’s only about half a mile away.”

“The only things the victims had in common were that they were both blond, white, and female.” Ben drew in smoke hard, let it fill up his lungs, then released it. “Now they’re dead.”

In his territory, Harris thought, and took it personally. “The murder weapon, the priest’s scarf.”

“Amice,” Ben supplied. “Didn’t seem too hard to trace. Our guy uses the best-silk.”

“He didn’t get it in the city,” Ed continued. “Not in the past year anyway. We’ve checked every religious store, every church. Got a line on three outlets in New England that carry that type.”

“The notes were written on paper available at any dime store,” Ben added. “There’s no tracing them.”

“In other words, you’ve got nothing.”

“In any words,” Ben drew smoke again, “we’ve got nothing.”

Harris studied each man in silence. He might have wished Ben would wear a tie or that Ed would trim down his beard, but that was personal. They were his best. Paris, with his easygoing charm and surface carelessness, had the instincts of a fox and a mind as sharp as a stiletto. Jackson was as thorough and efficient as a maiden aunt. A case was a jigsaw puzzle to him, and he never tired of shifting through the pieces.

Harris sniffed the smoke from Ben’s cigarette, then reminded himself that he’d given up smoking for his own good. “Go back and talk to everyone again. Get me the report on Clayton’s old boyfriend and the customer lists from the religious outlets.” He glanced toward the paper again. “I want to take this guy down.”