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Driscoll was instinctively certain of one thing. These killings would continue, and they would keep him and the city of New York on one hell of a roller-coaster ride.

Chapter 15
    Margaret was pleased with herself. She had managed to squeeze into one of her old Vice outfits, and damn if she still didn’t look hot. The leather pants were skin tight, and the midriff top showed off her flat stomach to full advantage. A push-up bra and some red fuck-me pumps completed the package.
    She opened the door to the strategically positioned TARU van and stepped inside. All the guys in the van stopped what they were doing to stare. Wolf whistles filled the air.
    â€œKnock it off, assholes,” Margaret said. “This is a professional police operation.”
    Danny O’Brien, the TARU technician, handed Margaret a small, round metal object.
    â€œThat’s the transmitter, Sarge. Figure out where you’re gonna hide it.”
    Margaret walked to the back of the van and turned her back on the men. She reached inside her bra and hooked it on.
    â€œNeed any help with that?” hollered O’Brien.
    â€œIn your dreams,” Margaret said as she did a one-eighty and faced the technician.
    â€œSeriously, Sarge, the skel is all set up. Speak in normal fashion. If you get into any trouble just say the word pinhead, and we’ll be in there in two seconds. Remember, pinhead.”
    â€œO’Brien, how many years did I do this in Vice? I’m quite familiar with how a skel works. You clowns just be ready to move if and when I give the signal.”
    As she went to exit the van, Driscoll took her by the arm. “You be careful in there. Don’t take any chances. If it doesn’t feel right, you holler. You understand me, Sergeant?”
    â€œWhy, John, you do care,” she smirked, and with a flip of her hair, out she went.
    Â 
    Francis, a self-proclaimed body piercer extraordinaire, scoped the patron in close-fitting leather as she browsed the shop’s window.
    â€œCome on, honey, step right in,” he chanted, projecting his words telepathically to the lingering customer.
    â€œI’ll be damned,” Francis marveled as the shapely brunette turned the handle on the door.
    Undercover Sergeant Margaret Aligante tiptoed in, her eyes taking in the panoply of gold, silver, platinum, and steel studs embedded in the vinyl epidermis of a naked mannequin. A freestanding work in progress , thought Margaret.
    Her working undercover, she hoped, would help loosen Francis’s tongue. That was also the opinion of her confidential informant, her street snitch, who steered her toward this particular body piercer. The snitch made Francis out to be the type of guy that was leery of the police but would turn in his brother if it meant saving his own ass. And that was exactly what Margaret was looking for: a turncoat.
    Margaret quickly scanned the interior of the tawdry shop. Two movie posters, one for Crash and the other for Hellraiser III , adorned one wall. They stared down at three crushed velvet love seats arranged in a U shape. Freestanding lighted candles provided stark illumination while sandalwood sticks burned, perfuming the room. Margaret thought the grouping resembled a small altar. Photographs of pierced eyebrows, ears, noses, lips, and other body parts wallpapered the opposing wall, assaulting Margaret’s senses. The far wall boasted antique engravings of ancient Picts, Melanesians, Maori natives, and Australian aborigines pierced to the hilt. A life-sized statue of an African Ibo warrior, his body heavily illustrated and pierced, looked down at her.
    â€œCan I help you?” The voice startled Margaret. A tall man wearing a black-leather vest, with tattooed arms and an exposed chest, smiled at her. Several silver hoops punctured his bushy eyebrows, while fishermen’s hooks pierced both ears.
    â€œTell me, where I should wear this?” she asked, producing Monique’s