Shiver by Michael Prescott Page A

murders and left traceable latents. Gardner knew this, of course; he was just blowing off steam.
    “I’m looking for more than that from you,” Delgado told him. “I need an analysis of the crime scene—any changes in the pattern, evidence of progression or deviation, anything at all that might spark a better understanding of how this man’s mind works and what he might do next.”
    “I hear you,” Gardner said.
    “Rob?”
    Rob Tallyman shifted his weight, and his chair creaked. “The cranks are really crawling out from under their rocks on this one. Ten seconds after KFWB broke the Osborn story, the hotline phones were ringing off the hook, and they haven’t stopped since. Needless to say, the confessions are all bullshit, and so far none of the leads has panned out.”
    “Have you got enough uniforms to fill in the tip sheets?”
    “I could use another couple guys.”
    “I’ll see what I can do. Ted, Lionel, you’re still working the art angle?”
    “Working it to death, Seb,” Ted Blaise said sourly. “We’ve been in so many art galleries and boutiques the last couple months, people are starting to think we’re a little swishy.”
    Robertson straightened his huge shoulders in mock annoyance. “Speak for yourself, sucker.”
    Mild laughter greeted that remark.
    “Me, I like this detail,” Robertson added. “Paintings and statues are a lot prettier to look at than your typical homeboy.”
    “They’re the only thing about this case that looks good,” Delgado said grimly.
    At noon the meeting adjourned. Delgado talked briefly with a couple of the detectives as the others filed out. Then they too departed, and only Bill Paulson remained, still sipping his tea.
    Delgado sat on the corner of his desk and waited, watching the captain. Paulson was a big, thick-necked, large-mustached man, gray and paunchy, but still formidable, like an aged but untamed grizzly. Delgado knew he would speak when he was ready and not before. Deliberation was his style in speech, in movement, in planning an arrest or composing a memo. Everything about him was slow except his mind.
    “So let’s hear it, Seb,” Paulson said finally. “How’s it really coming? No pep talks, please.”
    “We’re following up every possible lead,” Delgado replied. “My people are running themselves ragged. But a case like this ...” He spread his hands. “It’s not normal policework. You know that. Captain.”
    Paulson nodded. Normal policework was ninety percent snitches and squeals. Or it involved solving a crime with an obvious motive or a clear-cut personal connection. The Gryphon killed randomly. No apparent motive, no personal acquaintance with his victim, no likelihood of being involved in a criminal network.
    “We have minimal physical evidence,” Delgado said, “which we’re exploiting for all it’s worth. We have the BSU profile, the charts and extrapolative materials they sent us, which make interesting reading but have been of limited practical use. We have no eyewitnesses, no IdentiKit sketch, no vehicle description or license number. We’re doing what we can.”
    He heard defensiveness in his voice and regretted it. Six weeks of uninterrupted work on the case had worn him down.
    “Okay,” the captain said. He walked slowly toward the desk, his footsteps heavy, loose change jingling in his pockets. “I’ll be straight with you, Seb. Our friends at Parker Center are under a lot of pressure. You know the score. Angry letters from concerned citizens. Nasty editorials in some of the smaller papers—not the Times yet, but the Outlook , the Daily News , and that Spanish rag, La Opinion . And the TV creeps are putting a little more bite in their stories. I was hoping this man Garrett might be our guy. Apparently he isn’t. Which means we’re still no closer to catching the bastard—and we’re running out of time.”
    He met Delgado’s eyes. “What it comes down to is this. The big boys are looking for a