MAGGIE was surprised to find that Tully had managed to make her old office look smaller than it was. Books that didn’t fit in the bookcase formed leaning towers in the corner. A chair intended for visitors was hidden under stacks of newspapers. The in-tray was crushed under a pile of documents and folders. One lone mug teetered on a stack of legal pads and computer manuals. Peeking from behind the door, Maggie glimpsed running gear where normal people hung a coat.

The only thing in the office that held some prominence was a photo in a cheap frame that sat on the desk. Maggie immediately recognized Tully, though the photo appeared to be several years old. The little blond girl had his eyes, but otherwise looked exactly like a younger version of her mother. The three of them looked genuinely happy.

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 she was anxious to see what had been added to the case in the past 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 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 papers and photos sticking out at odd angles.

“Is it okay if we use her name when we refer to her?”

“Of course,” he said, grabbing another 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.” Now it suddenly seemed important to Maggie to know this girl’s name. This beautiful young blond woman who had been 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,” 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 autopsy report, and the girl had already been identified at that point. She tried not to think of the parents.

“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.”

“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.

“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 to 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, often forcing them to perform oral sex on him. She wished she could take a second look at the body. She knew what kinds of things to look for, otherwise insignificant evidence that telegraphed Stucky’s patterns. Unfortunately, she saw 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 cell phone in the Dumpster,” 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 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 found the delivery lists in her abandoned car. 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 paper torn from a notebook. 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 was catching up with her. 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 now she couldn’t even remember how long ago that was.

“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 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. He had to have taken her someplace where he could take his time with her. Problem is, there aren’t many abandoned warehouses 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. She stood up straight. 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?”

“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.”