Maggie was surprised to find that Agent Tully had managed to make her old office look smaller than it was. Books that didn’t fit in the narrow floor-to-ceiling bookcase formed leaning towers in the corner. A chair intended for visitors was hidden under stacks of newspapers. On his desk, the in-tray was crushed under a pile of lopsided documents and file folders. Strings of paper clips were left in odd places, a nervous habit of a man who needed to keep his fingers occupied. One lone mug teetered on a stack of legal pads and computer manuals. Peeking from behind the door, Maggie glimpsed gray running gear where normal people hung a trench coat or rain slicker.

The only thing in the office that held some prominence was a photo in a cheap wooden frame that sat on the right-hand corner of the desk. The entire corner had been cleared for its place of honor. Maggie immediately recognized Agent Tully, though the photo appeared to be several years old. The little blond girl had his dark eyes, but otherwise looked exactly like a younger version of her mother. The three of them looked so genuinely happy.

Maggie resisted the urge to take a closer look, as if doing so might expose their secret. What was it like to feel that completely happy? Had she ever felt that way, even for a brief period? Something about Agent Tully told her that happiness no longer existed for him. Not that she wanted to know. It had been years since she had worked with a partner, and the fact that Cunningham had made it one of the conditions of her return to the Stucky investigation was annoying. She felt as if he was still punishing her for the one stupid mistake of her career—going to that Miami warehouse alone. The warehouse where Stucky had been waiting for her. Where he had trapped her and made her watch.

Okay, so partly she knew Cunningham was doing it to protect her. Agents usually worked together to protect each other’s backs, but profilers often worked alone and Maggie had grown accustomed to the solitude. Having Turner and Delaney hanging around had been stifling enough. Of course, she would abide by Cunningham’s rules, but sometimes the best agents, the closest partners forgot to share every detail.

Agent Tully came in carrying two cartons, stacked so that he peered around the sides of them. Maggie helped him find a clear spot and unload his arms.

“I think these are the last of the old case files.”

She wanted to tell him that every last copy she had made for herself had fit nicely into one box. But instead of pointing out what a little organization could do, she was anxious to see what had been added to the case in the last five months. She stood back and allowed Agent Tully to sort through the mess.

“May I see the most recent file?”

“I have the delivery girl on my desk.” He jumped up from his squatting position next to the cartons and quickly riffled through several piles on his desk. “The Kansas City case is here, too. They’ve been faxing us stuff.”

Maggie resisted the urge to help. She wanted to grab all his piles and make order of them. How the hell did this guy get anything done?

“Here’s the file on the delivery girl.”

He handed her a bulging folder with corners of papers and photos sticking out at odd angles. Immediately, Maggie opened it and started straightening and rearranging its contents before examining any of them.

“Is it okay if we use her name?”

“Excuse me?” Agent Tully continued to rummage over his messy desktop. Finally he found his wire-rimmed glasses, put them on and looked at her.

“The pizza delivery girl. Is it okay if we use her name when we refer to her?”

“Of course,” he said, grabbing another file folder and shuffling through it.

Now he was a bit flustered, and Maggie knew he didn’t know the girl’s name without looking. It wasn’t a matter of disrespect. It helped to disconnect. Profilers often referred to a body simply as “the victim” or “Jane Doe.” Their first introduction to the victims came when they were bloody, tangled messes, often sharing little or no resemblance to their former selves. Maggie used to be the same, using general terms to disassociate, to disconnect. But then several months ago she met a little boy named Timmy Hamilton who took time to show her his bedroom and his baseball card collection just before he was abducted. Now it suddenly seemed important to Maggie to know this girl’s name. This beautiful, young, blond woman who she remembered being so cheerful when she had delivered Maggie’s pizza less than a week ago. And who was now dead simply because she had done so.

“Jessica,” Agent Tully finally blurted out. “Her name was Jessica Beckwith.”

Maggie realized she could have found the girl’s name just as easily. The top document was the medical examiner’s autopsy report, and the girl had already been identified at that point. She tried not to think of the parents. Some disconnection was necessary.

“Any trace recovered at the scene that could be used for DNA testing?”

“Nothing substantial. Some fingerprints, but they aren’t matching Stucky’s. Weird thing is, everything looked wiped clean except for this set of fingerprints—one index, one thumb. Chances are they belong to a rookie cop who touched stuff he wasn’t supposed to touch and now he’s afraid to admit it. AFIS hasn’t come up with anything yet.”

He sat on the edge of the desk, laying his folder open on a pile, leaving his fingers free to string more paper clips together.

“The weapon was not retrieved. Is that right?”

“Correct. Looks to be very thin, razor sharp and single edged. I’m thinking maybe even a scalpel, from the way he’s able to slice and dice so easily.”

Maggie winced at his choice of description, and he caught her.

“Sorry,” he said. “That’s the first thing that came to mind.”

“Any saliva on the body? Any semen in the mouth?”

“No, which I know is different from Stucky’s usual M.O.”

“If it is Stucky.”

She felt him staring at her but avoided his eyes and examined the autopsy report. Why would Stucky hold back or pull out early now? He certainly wouldn’t go through the trouble of using a condom. After they had revealed his identity as being Albert Stucky, he had blatantly gone on to do whatever he wanted. And that usually meant showing off his sexual prowess by raping his victims several times, and often forcing them to perform oral sex on him. She wished she could take a second look at the girl’s body. By now she knew what kinds of things to look for, otherwise insignificant physical evidence that telegraphed Stucky’s patterns. Unfortunately, she saw at the bottom of the form that Jessica’s body had already been released to her family. Even if she stopped the transfer, all the PE would be gone, washed away by a well-intentioned funeral director.

“We did find a stolen cellular phone in the Dumpster,” Agent Tully said.

“But it was wiped clean?”

“Right. But the phone records show a call to the pizza place earlier that evening.”

Maggie stopped and looked up at Agent Tully. My God, could it have been that easy? “That’s how he abducted her? He simply ordered a pizza?”

“Initially that’s what we were thinking,” he explained. “We just found the delivery lists in her abandoned car. We’ve been running down the list, checking addresses and phone numbers. When Cunningham recognized Newburgh Heights as your new neighborhood, we checked for your address. Found it right away. Likewise, all the addresses are residential. But most of the people I’ve talked to so far were actually home and did receive their pizza. I have only a few left that I can’t reach by phone, but I plan to drive to Newburgh Heights and check them out.”

He handed her two photocopies of what looked like pieces of paper torn from a spiral notebook. The copier had even picked up the frayed edges. There were almost a dozen addresses on both lists. Hers was close to the top of the list labeled “#1.” She leaned against the wall. The exhaustion from the night before was catching up with her. Of course, she had spent most of last night pacing from window to window, watching and waiting. The only sleep she had gotten had been on the flight back from Kansas City, and how could anyone get any rest while bobbing thirty-eight thousand feet above control? Now she couldn’t even remember how long ago that was.

“Where did you find her car?”

“The airport’s long-term parking lot. Also found a telephone company van parked alongside it that was reported stolen a couple of weeks ago.”

“Any trace inside Jessica’s car?” she asked as she glanced over the list of addresses.

“There was some mud on the accelerator. Not much else. Her blood and some blond hair—also hers—were recovered from the trunk. He must have used her own car to dump her body. No signs of a struggle inside the car, though, if that’s what you’re thinking. He had to have taken her someplace where he could take his time with her. Problem is, there aren’t many abandoned warehouses or condemned properties in Newburgh Heights. I was thinking he might have given a business address, knowing the offices would be empty at night. But nothing commercial shows up on either list.”

Suddenly Maggie recognized an address on one of the lists. She stood up straight and away from the wall. No, it couldn’t be this easy. She reread the address.

“Actually, he may have had someplace much more luxurious in mind.”

“Did you find something?” Agent Tully was at her side, staring at the list that he must have examined over and over himself. But of course, he wouldn’t have seen it. How could he?

“This address,” Maggie pointed halfway down the page. “The house is for sale. It’s empty.”

“You’re kidding? Are you sure? If I remember correctly, the phone is still connected to a voice messaging service.”

“The owners may be forwarding their phone calls. Yes, I’m sure it’s for sale. My real estate agent showed it to me about two weeks ago.”

She no longer cared about the rest of the file, which she had tucked under her arm. She was almost out the door before Agent Tully stopped her.

“Hold on,” he said, grabbing his wrinkled jacket from the chair behind his desk. As he did so, he stumbled over a worn pair of sneakers Maggie hadn’t noticed. Agent Tully reached for the corner of his desk to catch his balance and one of the piles gave way, scattering papers and photos across the floor. When he waved off her help, Maggie leaned against the doorjamb and waited. It was bad enough Cunningham was making her see Dr. James Kernan, but saddling her with her Dudley DoRight seemed almost laughable.