Still stiff from her flight, Rachael Voss stood in the second-floor corridor of the Comfort Inn in Bangor, trying to figure out how to knock on the door to Room 227 while carrying a cup of coffee in each hand. After a few seconds, she gave up and just kicked the door a few times. The café across the road brewed a decent cup, and the smell alone enticed her. She took a sip, and then kicked the door again.

“Okay, okay!” came a voice from the other side.

“I hope you have your pants on,” Voss said.

Her partner opened the door, his hair mussed from the pillow, still half-asleep. “Funny.” But Josh didn’t look amused. His expression was grim, his eyes haunted from the discovery, only hours before, of the remains of the Kowaliks’ newborn daughter.

Voss glanced at the worn gray gym shorts he must have just tugged on and smiled, trying to lift his spirits. “Those will do. I take it I interrupted nap time?”

“Every cop in the state of Maine is out beating the bushes for this guy. If he’s still here, they’ll find him,” Josh said, with what she knew was false confidence. “I knew I wouldn’t be any good without some rest. It’s not like we got any last night. I figured I’d get a couple of hours’ sleep while you were in the air.”

“Yeah,” Voss said. “Me, too. Slept on the plane.”

She and Turcotte had come directly from the airport. On the plane, knowing that al-Din was still in the wind, every minute had seemed like an eternity.

She handed Josh one of the coffees and moved past him into the room. He shut the door behind her and Voss crossed to the desk and slid into the chair. The bedspread had puddled on the floor at the foot of the bed and the sheets were in disarray.

“I wasn’t sure you’d be alone,” she said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Josh picked up a discarded T-shirt emblazoned with a stylishly faded Batman logo. She wondered if this ensemble was a grown-up version of superhero pajamas.

“I don’t know,” she said, sipping her coffee. “I thought maybe you’d be with Chang.”

“Really?”

Voss shrugged. “You’re not laughing. And don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.”

“Of course I’ve thought about it. Nala’s impressive. Smart. Smokin’ hot. But no, I’m not having sex with her. Especially not today.”

Voss nodded, her smile vanishing. “No, I guess not.” She sipped her coffee. “So she’s ‘Nala’ now?”

Josh sighed and looked at the clock. “Yeah.”

Interesting. But now was not the time to discuss it. “Okay,” Voss said instead.

A quiet moment passed, then she stood up, set her coffee on the desk, and slipped her arms around him. Whatever they might one day be—or never be—Josh was her best friend.

“They finally named her,” he said. “The Kowaliks.”

“They gave the baby a name? Now?”

“They called her Grace.”

Voss felt a sudden tightness in her chest. She exhaled, but it did not go away. “Are you gonna be okay?”

“I’ll be fine.” Josh stepped back from her, his expression hard. “Once we catch this guy, I’ll be right as rain.”

“Good,” Voss said. “Go take a shower. You’ve got about twelve minutes before Turcotte and Nala get here.”

“Here? As in, my room?” Josh said, looking around at the messy bed and the dirty clothes piled in the corner by the chair. “Why?”

“Eleven minutes.”

Josh picked up his coffee cup, took a long swig, then went into the bathroom. When she heard the shower sizzle on, she picked up the bedspread, and covered the bed. Then she sat down and ran through the case in her head, trying to figure out what they knew and comparing it to what they could only guess.

Their research had turned up numerous other cases of presumed crib death that fit the m.o. of the murders of Michael and Neil Greenlaw. They had started linking the investigations together and had put in inquiries for copies of case files and evidence—which would take hours, if not days, to gather.

When Josh came out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist, he looked much more awake. He hadn’t bothered to shave—the clock was ticking—but his eyes were alert and he’d run a brush through his hair.

“I see you stayed for the show,” he said, trying for a levity neither of them believed.

“Don’t worry, I won’t look.”

Something went through his mind, then. She saw it reflected in his eyes but couldn’t decide if it was amusement or regret. Whatever it was, he chose not to give it voice, instead going over to dig clean clothes out of the suitcase, which lay open on the floor of the closet. Voss turned her back so he could dress.

“All right,” he said after a minute. “You won’t be blinded.”

He was still buttoning his shirt when Turcotte arrived alone. Josh answered the knock and let him in. Turcotte had dark circles under his eyes, but his suit and tie looked crisp enough to be just back from the dry cleaners. If anything, the gray-brown stubble on his head looked shorter, as though he had just buzzed it.

“Chang on the way?” Voss asked.

“She’s on the phone with the Florida State Police, listening to a pretty detailed report with a net result of absolutely nothing. But she’ll be along. What’s on your mind?”

Voss sipped her coffee, but it was down to cold dregs now, so she pushed the cup away. Turcotte would have to relay to Chang the conversation they were about to have.

“That Rolling Stone article,” Voss said. “It might not be as crazy as it sounds.”

“Either that,” Turcotte added, “or someone took it seriously.”

“It’s always possible that whoever’s behind this never read the article and doesn’t know anything about the supposed history,” Voss said, “but it sure as hell feels like these killers came to the same conclusion.”

“Maybe not,” Turcotte argued, frowning. “Maybe they just don’t like half-breeds.”

Josh ran his hands through his hair. “Maybe you guys could take a step back and tell me how we got here? As of a few hours ago, the Herod Factor was just some lunatic conspiracy theory.”

“The ‘crib murders’ are all over the news,” Voss explained. “The cases are spread out over five years, but they all have one thing in common. It isn’t just the Greenlaw twins and Grace Kowalik. Each of the victims had one biological parent who was either Iraqi, Afghani, or Iranian.”

“Wait,” Josh said. “How do the Greenlaws fit in?”

Turcotte narrowed his eyes. “The twins were adopted from Afghanistan. The paperwork said the mother claimed the father was a U.S. aid worker who had married her, and then abandoned her when his company pulled out of the country. She gave the kids up specifically to be adopted by Americans, so they would have the life she’d envisioned for them.”

Josh threw up his hands. “I’m more confused than ever. What is this? Are these guys terrorists or serial killers? This has been going on for years and the point of terrorism is to let the world know. Otherwise … no terror.”

Voss sat back in the chair. “That, I can’t help you with.”

“So, we’ve got a serial killer murdering biracial children?” Josh asked.

Turcotte shook his head. “The media won’t see it that way. Hate crimes. Someone’s killing the babies of our enemies.”

“You said ‘one parent.’ In every case, the other parent is American?” Josh asked.

“In every case,” Voss agreed. “But I don’t buy this Herod bullshit. The idea that children, just by existing, can alter the mood of nations … that’s just nuts. And maybe it’s not what this is about. Maybe Gharib al-Din and his buddies think of the babies as traitors. Obviously the spin will be that terrorists are killing their own, destroying any links between East and West, or something like that.”

“None of it makes any sense,” Turcotte said.

“There’s something else,” Voss replied. “I’ve been turning it over in my mind, and we need to talk about Norris. I’m not comfortable with the idea of Black Pine looking over our shoulders.”

“Nothing I can do about it,” Turcotte said. “I’ve got orders from the assistant director.”

“It’s possible I could help.”

Turcotte eyed her suspiciously. “What do you have in mind?”

A knock at the door made Voss jump. The three of them glanced at one another, then Josh went to open it. Agent Chang stood in the corridor, eyes lit up like a rabbit on speed.

“They found al-Din,” Chang said.

“What?” Turcotte asked. “Where?”

“The baggage compartment of a plane from Bangor to Boston. He’s dead. Somebody cut his throat.”