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anyone, and I mean anyone, at either location who may have been approached by a stranger. Margaret, call the Bureau of Indian Affairs. See if they’ve got any take on this. Then get a hold of Crime Scene. I want every toilet, every storage area, and any other stand-alone structure at the museum and on the boardwalk swept. They’re to look for blood and any other trace evidence that may be related to the crimes. But, Cedric, you have a point. How does our boy drag a two-hundred-pounder up the side of a Ferris wheel?”
    â€œWe’re lookin’ for one helluva bench-presser. Maybe two.”

Chapter 10
    HEUREUX QUI COMME ULYSSE A CONQUI LA TOISON
    Â 
    That was the inscription etched on the stainless-steel back of Driscoll’s pocket watch. Colette had presented Driscoll with the watch on their wedding night.
    â€œHappy, he, who like Ulysses, had conquered the Golden Fleece,” was the translation. She had chosen the verse from Dubellay, the Renaissance poet.
    And hadn’t John Driscoll discovered in Colette the magical Golden Fleece, the object of his heart’s desire? Hadn’t he been an urban Ulysses, seeking that other, the woman he would love forever? And hadn’t their love produced a kindhearted child, Nicole? Sadly, though, he had gained the fleece only to see it wrenched from him by a driver plastered on Cuervo Gold.
    Driscoll was alone in his new residence, the Brooklyn Heights co-op. He was feeling morose, contemplating the inscription on the back of the watch, running his thumb along the etching like someone reading Braille.
    He sat at the dinner table, set for one, and filled his glass with De la Morandiere Chardonnay, her favorite wine.
    She was afraid of thunderstorms! The thought raced to his consciousness. He recalled seeing a PBS special on the life of Abraham Lincoln. Mary Todd Lincoln, the first lady, suffered from the same dread of thunder. The president, it is said, was known to leave the affairs of state and hurry home at the first sighting of a storm so he could comfort his wife. Driscoll smiled, remembering cutting short his own shifts and hurrying to Colette’s side when the heat of the day met the cool of the night, producing ferocious late-summer downpours.
    â€œJohn, they frighten me so,” she would murmur.
    It became his unspoken vow. To keep her safe from the storm…safe from the darkness…and safe from the perils of life itself.
    Driscoll took another sip of Chardonnay, placed the glass on the table, and headed for the stove, where he would prepare the evening meal: roasted chicken breast with Gruyère and mushrooms. Without warning, a bolt of lightning electrified the sky over Brooklyn Heights, illuminating the small kitchenette in which Driscoll stood, igniting yet another remembrance.
    Colette and he had been strolling the Toliver’s Point shoreline when the first rumblings of a summer thunderstorm intruded on their reverie. Colette clutched Driscoll’s hands and dragged him from the beach as luminous clouds began to billow. They headed for home. As soon as they reached the bungalow, Colette rushed to the bedroom, where she sought shelter under a comforter.
    After the squall passed, she opened her eyes and found herself wrapped in Driscoll’s arms.
    â€œTell me,” she whispered.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œJust tell me.”
    â€œYou already know.”
    An impish smile crept across Colette’s face.
    â€œWhat?” he frowned.
    â€œIt’s time for some sweetness.”
    Driscoll rummaged through his pockets and produced a roll of butterscotch Life Savers.
    â€œSilly man,” she said.
    â€œSome gals are never happy.”
    â€œJust tell me.”
    â€œJe t’aime,” he whispered. “Are you happy now?”
    â€œ ‘Je t’aime à la folie,’ you’re supposed to say. That means you love me madly.”
    â€œThat’s right. I do love you madly.”
    â€œAnd