George Bentley Lansford was a tall man, taller even than his aide, a nice plus for a budding politician. He was elegantly dressed in English bespoke that didn’t look too expensive but that any donor worth his salt would recognize for what it was. He was healthy, fit, fifty-five, not as darkly tanned as his aide, and blessed with a full head of silver-black hair that would no doubt help him with some of his women voters. He looked, Coop thought, stalwart.

He stood between two men, both younger, probably the lawyers, both wearing severe black suits. They looked at Coop like rottweilers ready to go for a handy throat.

As for Mr. Lansford, Coop saw he was focused on Savich. He looked royally pissed, his hands in fists at his sides. He said from a distance of at least ten feet, “I assume you are all FBI agents and we can forgo the introductions. I recognize you, Agent Savich, from the FBI press conference on TV. I am very angry. You and that reporter from The Washington Post have destroyed my chances of being elected to Congress by releasing my name to the media. My lawyers tell me I cannot sue you, but let me tell you, I feel like hounding you until I die. I am innocent of any wrongdoing, but I am finished before I had scarcely begun my political career because of my connection to this—this unfortunate young woman. Now, let’s get this interview over with. I want all of you out of here as soon as possible. What exactly is it that you want?”

Savich said in his calm, deep voice, “You’re right about a lot of that, of course, Mr. Lansford. Actually, your political career was over when your stepdaughter openly murdered a woman in San Francisco nearly six months ago. You just didn’t know it yet. I agree it isn’t fair, but there is nothing for me to apologize about. Once we had Kirsten’s DNA, once we’d identified her, we were led inevitably to you, Kirsten’s stepfather.

“I understand your anger, your sense of unfairness, but you’re an experienced man, sir, a savvy man, and so you know there are always leaks, it doesn’t matter the organization, whether it be a police department or a high-tech company like your own. Our news conference was a response to such a leak. Your relationship to Kirsten Bolger had to come out, it was inevitable, so I wasn’t at all surprised when a reporter brought it up. It required only a modicum of research.”

“It doesn’t matter! It shouldn’t have happened! It is not right that it should come out. Her mother and I are ruined, do you understand? Ruined!”

“May I remind you, sir, this isn’t some sort of vendetta waged against you by the FBI or the San Francisco Police Department. Five innocent women are known dead at the hands of your stepdaughter. It is very likely Kirsten murdered another six women.”

“But it isn’t—yes, of course I’m distressed by the murders. Wait, what did you say? She killed before? Another six women? That’s insane. I never heard such a thing. There was no news about it, nothing at all.”

Lucy spoke for the first time, aware that Lansford’s aide was standing six feet away, arms crossed over his chest, and he hadn’t looked away from her. Why? “The reason you haven’t heard of the other dead women is that Kirsten must have hidden the bodies of her early victims. It seems she was practicing, Mr. Lansford, honing her skills.

“Sooner or later the media will pick up on these other women we fear she murdered. You can count on it, since something this heinous can’t be kept under wraps for long.”

George Bentley Lansford looked like someone had punched a big hole in his elegant suit coat. They all saw that the murders were no longer an abstraction to him, that he’d finally realized to his bones that Kirsten had brought violent death to a dozen human beings, to people just like himself. He ran his tongue over his lips. “Practicing?”

Coop said, “Serial killers often refine their approach, discovering what sorts of killing methods give them the greatest satisfaction. Yes, we believe she murdered at least six more women, actually some of them young girls, and buried them deep so no one would ever find them.”

Lansford looked sick, his anger defeated, and older than he had when they’d stepped through the door ten minutes before. “All right, I understand. I had no clue, none at all. I saw her very few times over the years. I thought she was sullen, indifferent to me, nothing more. You’ve got to believe me. If her mother had noticed anything, she would have said something to me. But, of course, her mother hadn’t seen Kirsten for a very long time before her last birthday party; neither of us had. A dozen women? She’s murdered a dozen women?”

Coop said, “When we catch her, we’re hoping she will tell us where she buried them all.”