“Doc picked up some ligature marks on the wrists,” McAfee said. “Looks like they tied his hands together and shot him clean through the palms.”

“Why?” Stone asked.

“Who knows,” McAfee said. “Maybe just for kicks.”

“Padre Pio,” Sanchez said quietly.

“Padre Pio?” Stone replied.

“Padre Pio,” she repeated.

Stone looked at McAfee. “You know what Padre Pio means?” he asked.

McAfee shook his head. “Sorry, I’m not Mexican.”

Stone looked back at Sanchez. “What does Padre Pio mean?” he asked.

“It means you need to pay attention.” She moved to the other side of the body. “The message?”

McAfee pointed to the left of the head. “It’s up there. No one has any idea about it. It’s not gang-related as far as we know, and no one has seen anything like it before.”

She bent down. It was there, though it had faded as the blood had dried. “The Storm.” She looked at Stone. “You’re the local, you know what that means?”

Stone shook his head. “Doesn’t ring any bells.”

“Anyone go by that nickname?”

“Not that I’ve ever heard.”

“Great.”

“Maybe it’s just some sort of psycho with a flair for drama.”

She stood up. “Maybe. It’s definitely a psycho. I don’t think it’s got anything to do with drama, though.”

“What, then?”

She took off her gloves and they snapped as she rolled them into a ball. She tossed them to McAfee. “That’s what I expect you to find out.”

Chapter Three

Back behind the wheel, Stone pulled out of the driveway to the Body Shop. “Where to, boss?” he asked Sanchez.

“Back to the station house,” she replied.

“What for?”

“I need to check something on a computer.” She looked out the passenger window as the Convention Center in South Boston drifted by, its huge front canopy hanging over the entranceway like some great homage to the 1960s television show The Flying Nun.