"When was the last time you saw your wife, Mr. Timbers?" I asked, sitting across from him in an office in our precinct. Marlene sat next to me taking notes, and Private sat on the other side of her, taking notes of his own.

"It was so long ago, um," he started, looking around as if the memory were hidden somewhere in the room. "It was that morning. We were having breakfast while the kids got dressed. We . . . we were going over the things she was going to pick up on her way home," he said with a choke. He cleared his throat. "I kissed her goodbye and I headed for work. I never saw her again. You know the initial plan was for me to go to the store, but I wasn't feeling well that day."

We gave him a moment to choke back a sob.

"Did your wife ever act strange or mention anything about feeling as if someone was watching her?" I asked, leaning forward attentively.

Mr. Timbers looked at the table in thought, and then shook his head. "No, I don't think so."

I thought for a moment. "Did she meet anyone new within the couple of months before her disappearance?"

"If she did, they obviously weren't important enough to mention," Mr. Timbers answered, rubbing his temple.

"Did she call you or anyone that you know of between the last time you saw her and when she went missing?"

"According to her cell phone's call log, she called her friend, Katherine, shortly after she would have been off of work. They spoke for a little over half an hour. When the police questioned her, she said they'd just talked about work and things they wanted to do that weekend. She said nothing seemed wrong," Mr. Timbers said with a stifled tremble to his voice.

I looked at Marlene, who was looking at her notes with a thoughtful expression. She glanced at me, and then turned her attention to Mr. Timbers.

"We read in her Missing Person's report that her car was found on a secluded back road. Did she always take that route home?" she asked.

"Rarely, usually only when there was very heavy traffic. I heard it was pretty backed up because of a wreck, so I guess she decided she'd be home faster if she took the long way home," Mr. Timbers answered.

Marlene started taking notes again and I noticed her pen stop abruptly and she slowly raised her head, like she does when she gets an idea.

"Thank you for your time, Mr. Timbers. We'll call you if we have any more questions," she said, standing and leaving. Private followed her.

I stood and held out my hand, which Mr. Timbers accepted as he rose to his feet.

"Again, I'm really sorry for your loss," I said gently as I shook and released his hand.

Mr. Timbers nodded slowly without meeting my eye. "You said you've been trying to track the man that killed my wife for years now. Does that mean I'll never get justice for my wife's death?" he asked with suppressed anger.

I looked down. "I don't know, Mr. Timbers," I answered softly. "But he can't stay hidden forever."

Mr. Timbers looked at me. "Great. When I go home to tell my kids their mother is dead, is that what I should say? The murderer will show up in a couple of years? Five? Ten?"

I didn't answer.

"Good day, Detective," he said crossly before leaving me standing alone in the room. The Private came back a few seconds later.

"Marlene says she wants you to come see something. She has an idea about the day Jessica went missing," he said.

I took a breath. "All right," I said, heading for the door.

"Are you okay?" the Private asked me.

I stopped in the open doorway and nodded slowly. "Yeah, I'm fine," I said before leaving.

The truth was, I didn't know how to feel. Mr. Timbers had me cornered. This was what I hated about when Blowhole struck. The families seemed to blame me if I couldn't catch him. They don't know how hard I've tried. I want to find him so badly . . . I just don't know where to look because there's never enough to work with. They don't know that I'm angry with myself for never figuring it out. There has to be something we're missing. . . .

"What are you thinking, Marlene?" I asked, coming into the office with the Private in toe.

"How would he have done it?" she asked, setting her notes on her desk and turning to me.

I shrugged. "Pardon?"

"If that wreck hadn't occurred that night, she wouldn't have taken the back road home. If he wanted to get her that night, wouldn't it be easier to grab her on a road no one takes?" she asked.

I considered. "Okay, I see your point. So, you think the wreck wasn't just an accident?"

"Only one way to find out," Marlene asked.

"But if it wasn't an accident, why didn't the police find out?" I thought aloud.

"Well, I don't know that. But I do know that if it was ruled an accident, then even if it was considered suspicious in the investigation to find Jessica, it would've just been ruled a coincidence that she happened to take that road. But they didn't know it was Blowhole that took her, and we know from experience that nothing's a coincidence with him," she explained.

"So, we check out the report on that accident," I said, going to my desk.

Marlene nodded. "And figure out the real story behind it."

— § —

"So, we spoke to her former co-workers," Manfredi said as he and Johnson came into the room. "Kayla Rocker and Izabella Tallow neighbored her desk and both claimed she acted completely normal the day she went missing. It seems as though she never saw it coming."

"Isaac Frock is the one of the firm's interns," Johnson added. "He didn't know Jessica very well, but he did say he remembered her leaving work early that day to go Christmas shopping. He thought it was normal."

"The lawyer that runs the firm, Barry Hamilton," Manfredi continued, "said that she was his best secretary. She'd earned some time off, so he let her leave work early, and gave her the last two weeks of December off. He never understood why anyone would've wanted to kidnap her, let alone kill her. She got along with everyone."

"What did you get with the husband?" Johnson asked.

"He said pretty much the same things," I answered. "She didn't act strange, or seem like anything was wrong. However, he did tell us that she took the back road home because there was heavy traffic on the highway. Apparently, she only took this road only when there was heavy traffic, and that night, the traffic was caused by a wreck. Marlene's theory is that it wasn't a coincidence that the wreck happened, forcing her to go the back road, and all of the sudden she's kidnapped."

"Yes," Marlene broke in. "We found the report on the accident. It says that a man by the name of Howard Lincoln drove into the intersection while his lane's light was red and caused several head-on collisions. No one was killed, thankfully, but several were badly injured, and one comatose for almost two weeks. According to the report on his trial, he was driving under the influence. He was sentenced to thirty years to life without parole."

I thought for a moment. "Is there any traffic cam footage?"

"I'm waiting for it to be sent over as we speak," Marlene answered. "But I'm thinking we need to pay Mr. Lincoln a visit."

After the long drive to the prison where Lincoln was kept, we asked to speak to Howard Lincoln. We waited in a white room with a guard next to the door. Marlene and I sat at the table in the center while Private stood off to the side, hugging a notebook to his chest. He said he wanted to take notes on our technique when it came to questioning someone. I wanted to tell him that you can't learn those kinds of things through taking notes, but I just decided to let it go.

Mr. Lincoln was escorted in by two armed guards. His wrists were cuffed together, as well as his ankles, and the chains clinked as he walked and sat down across from us. He wore an orange jumpsuit and had long, curly brown hair and a messy beard. He had a hard look in his eye. One guard stepped outside and shut the door and the other waited in the corner. Marlene clicked her pen and prepared to take notes.

"What's this about?" he asked in a gruff voice.

"Mr. Lincoln, we're here to ask you a few questions about the night of December fifteenth, last year," Marlene said.

Lincoln smiled bittersweetly. "Are you?" he asked crossly.

Marlene and I exchanged a glance.

"Mr. Lincoln, what do you remember about that night?" I asked.

Lincoln leaned forward and rested on the table by his elbows, locking his eyes with mine. "I'm gonna tell you what I told those bastards that hauled me in. Yes, I was at a club that night. I had one drink, a beer, that's it. Then I went to my car and I don't remember anything after that. I did not crash that car. I may have been somewhat tipsy because of that one drink, but I wasn't drunk enough to forget a whole night or pass out at the wheel," he said through his teeth. Then he sat back.

Marlene and I looked at each other, apparently having similar thoughts.

"After you blacked out," Marlene said, "what's the next thing you remember?"

"Being pulled out of the driver seat of my totaled car in the middle of an intersection," Lincoln said bitterly. "But I was not driving that car."

"Did you ever notice anyone following you that day?" I asked.

Lincoln cocked an eyebrow in thought. "Don't think so," he said. "Why are you here anyway, digging up the past?"

"Because, Mr. Lincoln," Marlene said calmly, lacing her fingers on the table, "I'm inclined to believe you."

Lincoln studied her carefully. "Why?"

"There was a woman that was kidnapped that night and later killed," Marlene explained. "We found her body this morning. We have strong reason to believe she was killed by a man we've been trying to find for years, a man who plans every detail for each of his victims. According to the new victim's husband, she'd taken a back road home that night that she only takes during heavy traffic. We don't find this to be a coincidence that she made the decision to take this back road after the wreck you caused and then get kidnapped."

Lincoln looked from me to Marlene. "You're saying I was framed," he said.

Marlene nodded. "That's what we believe, yes. Anything you can remember from that night might end up useful to us, even the tiniest detail."

Lincoln thought really hard. "I really don't remember anything else," he said.

"What was the name of the club you were at?" I asked.

"At The King of Dance, best club in Queens," Lincoln answered.

Marlene didn't even have to write down the name. We knew that club all too well. "You didn't talk to anyone? Anyone at all?"

"Well, the bartender, and, uh," he said thoughtfully, "some ginger that I don't remember the name of."

"Could you describe him?" I asked.

"Um, other than his fiery red hair, not really. It was a long time ago. Um, he was white, and, uh, that's about all I can remember."

Marlene nodded again. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Lincoln. We'll be going now," she said, standing. "We'll return if we have any more questions." I stood with her and we walked to the door as the guard unlocked it and let us through, Private following closely behind.

"Do you think he'll have the security feed from a night nine months ago?" Marlene asked.

I thought about it for a moment. "I don't know, but even if he does, if Blowhole remembered to cover his tracks, which I'm sure he did, it won't show him on the feed," I said thoughtfully.

"That's true. I guess there's no harm in trying, though," Marlene replied.

"Wait, do you two know the owner?" Private asked.

I rolled my eyes, but not at Private. "Yes, unfortunately. You'll understand when you meet him."

We drove to the club and showed our badges to Bing, the bouncer, who let us in without question. The bartee was a tall, round man with onyx skin and a neat layer of stubble on his face. He wore a dark silk shirt and had a pair of sunglasses on his head, and there was a single gold chain hanging around his neck. He turned to the three of us as we approached the bar.

"Hey, guys. What can I get for you?" he asked in his deep voice as he wiped the counter off a bit, the rings on his thumb and middle finger glinting in the blinking lights overhead.

"We're here on business, Maurice," I said over the music as Marlene and I showed our badges. He stiffened, putting his hands over them and looking around.

"Hey, hey, don't go flashing those things around here. It's bad for business," he said as we put them away. He relaxed with relief when no one noticed. "Follow me."

We followed him to an empty hallway around the corner, moving down it until the music was a distant thump-thump behind us.

"What did my fool boss do this time?" he asked in a hushed tone.

"This isn't about him, but we need to speak with him. We need information that may help us on a case," Marlene answered.

He nodded and pulled out a cell phone. After dialing and waiting for an answer, he said, "Hey, I got Skipper and Marlene down here with some questions for you! . . . No, it's not about you!" He paused and looked at us, holding the phone to his chest. "He said he'll take a message."

I smiled bitterly. "Tell him if he doesn't drop what he's doing now, I noticed about six health code violations coming in here and it'd be a shame if it got out."

He relayed the message, then listened to the response and nodded before hanging up. "He's on his way."

"Thanks, Maurice," I said. "By the way, this is James, our on-the-job trainee," I said, jabbing a thumb in the Private's direction.

The Private smiled awkwardly. "Hello. Nice to meet you, Maurice?" he said, inquiring if he'd caught the name correctly.

"Nice to meet you too, James," Maurice said with a nod.

"So, why are you bartee this time?" Marlene asked, crossing her arms.

Maurice rolled his eyes. "Antonio took a day off. As if just being Julien's manager isn't enough, I have to pick up other employees' slack, too," he explained. He lowered his voice under his breath. "I do not get paid enough."

Julien. Just the utterance of his name makes me cringe. Or anything associated with him. Even Maurice's name, but that's only out of pity for the poor guy. Julien lives in the nicest house in my neighborhood, the one with the largest pool and newest interior.

And it's right across the street from me.

When he minds his own business, it's not so bad. It's when he throws parties at midnight that makes me want to throw my bed through a wall. It's when he trespasses on my property that makes me want to stick my foot up his —

"Ah, neighbors!" said Julien's Jamaican accent behind us. "What brings you to my fine establishment?"

We turned to see the self-proclaimed king of dance walking toward us in his golden, silk suit, jewelry hanging from his neck and ears and decorating his hands. His brown skin almost looked yellow in the old lighting of the back hallway.

Maurice returned to the bar as the Private, Marlene and I walked back down the hallway with Julien.

"We're investigating a murder that ties to an incident last December," I replied. "We need to know if there's any way you have the security footage for the fifteenth of that month."

"Of course," Julien replied, "I have all the security footage backed up on a hard drive. Never know when I need an alibi, know what I'm sayin'? Allow me to show you to my security room," he said, gesturing down a short corridor. He led us to the second door on the right and used his identification card to open the door. Bada — brother of Bing, by the way — was sitting in an office chair, looking over a set of security feeds while snacking on a banana.

"This way, my friends," Julien said, going to the far side of the room, where a large control panel sat along one wall. He stood next to it and gestured to it with one hand. "This is my state-of-the-art security system. Which night did you need?"

"December fifteenth of last year," I answered.

"No problem. I am more than willing to help," Julien replied. He looked past us. "Bada! Come help the detectives, I have a — meeting to return to," he said, eyeing us with a wink. Then he turned on his heel and left. I didn't want to know. Bada appeared at our side and loomed over us. He was so large it was intimidating. Same goes for his brother. And I'm pretty sure most of it is muscle.

"December the fifteenth?" he repeated in his deep voice. Ironically, his brother's voice is the exact opposite.

"Affirmative," Marlene replied.

Bada punched a code into a keypad on the wall and a hard drive popped out of a socket on the wall. Bada pulled it out and walked over to the main computer. We followed.

After hooking up the hard drive and typing in the password, a list of dates trailed down the screen. Bada searched for our desired date and opened the file.

"This is the footage for the entire day," Bada explained, rolling to the side in his office chair. "Help yourselves."

Marlene and I leaned close to the monitor. I clicked on the footage showing the bar and fast-forwarded to later on in the evening. At around ten, we saw Mr. Lincoln at the bar, talking to Antonio. However, there was no sound, so all we could do was watch. The Private awkwardly leaned in next to me and I rolled my eyes and pushed his head out of the way. I continued fast-forwarding until a little after eleven, when Antonio left to polish the other end of the bar and a man in a hoodie sat down next to Lincoln. He was faced away from the camera. All we were able to tell was that he was a little more built than Lincoln, and maybe a little taller by a couple of inches.

They talked for a few minutes, and then they left the bar together. I sifted through the feeds until I found them again exiting the building. I found a feed for the side parking lot. Lincoln and the unidentified man walked down to the far end of the parking lot. Unfortunately, there was no way to get a closer look. They disappeared for a moment, but luckily, they started driving down the lane facing the camera, so we paused the feed.

"Can you see who's driving?" Marlene asked, squinting her eyes.

I shook my head. "No, it's too dark and far away. We'll have to take this back to the precinct and see if we can zoom in."

Marlene turned to Bada. "We're going to need a copy of this," she said.

Bada nodded and opened a drawer. He pulled out a blank flash drive and put a copy of the file on it. Then he gave it to Marlene. "Can I do anything else for you, detectives?" he asked passively, as if he was praying for a no.

"No," I answered. "Thank you for your help."

"Forget about it," he said, going back to his chair and plopping down. Marlene, the Private, and I migrated from the room and made way for the exit.

"If we can figure out who that man was, we might get one step closer to finding Blowhole than we've ever been," Marlene said, looking at the flash drive as if it were made of gold.

"I agree, unless it's just another dead end," I said, rolling my eyes.

"Don't jinx it," Marlene said sternly, clutching the drive as if lightning might strike it.

"Well, you know it'd be just like Blowhole to give us hope just to shoot us down," I said as we arrived back at my car.

Marlene glared at me, but she didn't respond. I understand how she feels. I really do. But I'm not getting my hopes up until I look into the dark and sinister eyes of that menace. Not until I fight him to the death if that's what it comes down to.

— § —

"Our suspicions were correct," Marlene said from her desk. I looked away from my computer to her.

"He wasn't driving the vehicle?" I guessed.

"That's affirmative," Marlene replied, turning her computer screen towards me. "You can't make out the face of the driver, but Lincoln is there in the passenger seat," she said, pointing at him, "apparently unconscious."

"Well, if Julien ever did come in handy," I said with a grin.

"So," the Private said thoughtfully, "some ginger drugs Mr. Lincoln, drives his car into traffic — which could have gotten even himself killed — all just to cause the accident that would send Mrs. Timbers to a secluded road?"

"Never underestimate Blowhole's sick and twisted mind. He plans his abductions and murders to the very last detail. He never misses a step. That's how he always gets away," I said, clenching my teeth through the last sentence.

"And whatever drug was used didn't show up in any of the tox screens," Marlene added with a frustrated exhale.

"What do all his victims have in common?" Private asked.

I thought for a moment. "Honestly, we don't think there is any connection, which is odd since serial killers typically go after one specific type of person that reminds them of their past — someone that had done them wrong in some way. We aren't sure what he's after."

"Do you think — I could have a look at his past victims?" Private asked apprehensively, as if he thought there was zero chance I'd say yes.

"Yeah, I can get you clearance," I answered passively. "But we've already tried every possible link there could've been between them. You'll just be wasting your time."

Private hesitated, as if considering what I'd said. "I'd just like a better understanding of who we're dealing with is all," he replied.

I shrugged. "Suit yourself. I'll have it to you before we leave today," I said as my phone rang. I answered it. "McGrath." I frowned upon the response. "All right. We're on our way." I ended the call and turned to my unit.

"Kowalski has more evidence. He wants us in his lab," I said, getting to my feet. Marlene and the Private followed suit. When we walked into Kowalski's lab, we were worried to see him pacing anxiously around.

"Kowalski, what's wrong? What did you find?" Marlene asked, gently putting a hand on his shoulder, causing him to flinch.

Kowalski took a deep breath to compose himself. "Guys, I-I don't even know where to begin. All this time, we've been waiting for him to slip up. But we were waiting for the wrong thing. Blowhole didn't leave any evidence. The victim did."

I exchanged a glance with Marlene and the Private. "What do you mean?" I asked.

"I found her cause of death. I examined the contents of her stomach, and I found something that was a little hard to make out at first, but after cleaning it, I realized it was the clue we've always wanted," Kowalski explained. I'd never seen him so excited in my life, not even when Doris complimented his hair (trust me, for him, that's pretty much like she asked for his hand in marriage).

"Kowalski, what did you find?" Marlene asked with light igniting in her eyes.

Kowalski picked up an evidence bag. "I found this in her esophagus. She choked on it and suffocated. It's a piece of plastic, likely used to wrap a sandwich or something. She used some sort of sharp tool to carve something into it. It's some sort of note. I'm not sure for what, but it might help us find out where Blowhole is."

I took the evidence bag from him and Marlene, the Private, and I looked at the words carved into the plastic within. It said:

humid

ocean

sister

The last word listed seemed incomplete.

"What is 'zarac'?" Private asked.

I shrugged. "I don't know. I'll run it through a search and look through the results. Great find, Kowalski."

"Thank you," Kowalski said smugly.

"Come on," Marlene said, heading back, "let's go inform the others."