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point-blank range right through her forehead. Cartridge not found and the bullet is still in her brain. The ME will supply it to ballistics right after the autopsy.”
    Craig felt a swell of emotion. Ana Katrina Martinez wouldn’t care what kind of bullet had killed her, and neither would her family. They would only care that her killer was caught. Even dead in a pool of blood, she had a kind face. Craig thought she had smiled frequently in life. “Why her?” he muttered angrily.
    â€œBecause someone was a grade-A sociopath with no concern for anyone other than himself,” Mike said. “You’d have to be,” he added gruffly, “to kill someone just because she was no longer useful. Hell, they were probably still in their ski masks—she couldn’t have identified them.”
    Wally cleared his throat. “Stay with this image or roll the footage?”
    â€œRoll the footage,” Mike said.
    â€œSo in the city they leave everyone alive,” Craig said. “Then they go to Jersey and leave a woman dead in an alley.”
    â€œAnd a man dead at his desk,” Mike added.
    â€œI can’t help but think it’s different perps.”
    â€œJust different states. I’ll bet you a twenty. No, I’ll go a hundred.”
    â€œIt’s a bet I hope I lose,” Craig said.
    â€œWhat are your thoughts on the matter, Wally?” Mike asked.
    Wally looked up at them with surprise. Craig figured that his expertise was often sought, but not his opinion.
    â€œI’ve enhanced the footage as much as possible. If they’re copycats, they have the clothing and the ski masks down perfectly,” he said. “I don’t know—I just don’t know.”
    â€œLet’s watch again—then we can start with the interviews,” Mike said.
    â€œWhatever you want,” Wally said.
    â€œWhat about the murdered jeweler?” Craig asked.
    â€œYou’ll see that on the footage,” Wally said.
    They didn’t see the death of Ana Katrina Martinez on the computer screen; no camera had captured that.
    They did see the death of the elderly owner of the first store. He looked up, said something and appeared to be willing to do whatever the men wanted.
    Then he was shot, and he crumpled over.
    Mike looked at the files again. “Arthur Kempler, eighty-four. He owned and managed Kempler’s Fine Jewelry for over fifty years. Never had so much as a parking ticket.”
    â€œThey didn’t need to kill him,” Wally muttered.
    Neither Mike nor Craig disagreed with him.
    â€œGo back to the first robberies,” Craig told Wally.
    Wally nodded. “Right away.”
    In the earlier heists, they saw the thieves exit by way of the front door, the same way they had come in.
    Only in New Jersey had they used the rear exits, at least so far.
    â€œIn those first five robberies—as the cameras show—they went back out into the street,” Mike said. “And they were casual about it. I figure within a few steps they had their ski masks off, and in another few steps the hoodies were gone and no one would have known they’d been wearing them at all. They didn’t hide from people—they used them. They melted in with the crowd until they got to their getaway car or the subway and left the area.”
    Craig shook his head. “Okay, let’s look at all the footage again. I’m telling you, these aren’t the same thieves.”
    â€œHow can you be so sure?” Mike asked. “Look at the New York footage. Three of them each time. Walking in and making it all happen fast. Then New Jersey. Same outfits, same number of guys—except in the first one, the bastards shoot the owner, and in the second, one of them grabs that poor woman and drags her out the back door.”
    â€œNo, go back—go back and look at the height differences. There—look at the first tape. Two the same height, one shorter.