I told Joe about the numbers 104 and 613 handwritten on a pair of index cards.

“Cindy is running the numbers. So far we know that six-one-three is an area code in Ottawa. Lots of radio stations start with one hundred and four. Put the two numbers together and you get a real estate listing for a three-bedroom house in Colorado. What a lead, hmmm?”

“Ten-four,” he said. “Radio call signal meaning ‘I acknowledge you. Copy that.’”

“Hmmm. And six-thirteen?”

“June thirteenth?”

“Uh-huh. The ides of June. Very helpful.”

Joe brought a big bowl of pralines and ice cream to the counter. We faced off with clashing spoons, then had a race to the bottom. I captured the last bite, put down my spoon, held up my arms in victory, and said, “Yessss.”

“I let you win, big mama.”

“Sure you did.”

I winked at him, took the bowl and the spoons to the sink, and asked Joe, “So, what’s your gut take on my case?”

“Apart from the obvious conclusion that a psycho did it,” said my blue-eyed, dark-haired husband, “here are my top three questions: What’s the connection between the skulls and the Ellsworth place? What do the victims have in common? And does Harry Chandler have anything to do with those heads?”

“And the numbers? A tally? A scorecard?”

“It’s a mystery to me.”

“One of our Jane Does is relatively fresh. If we can ID her, maybe the numbers won’t matter.”

Four hours later, I woke up in bed next to Joe with the remains of a nightmare in my mind, something Wes Craven could have created. There had been a pyramid of skulls heaped up in a dark garden, hundreds of them, and they were surrounded by a garland of flowers.

What did it mean?

I still didn’t have a clue.