The third Deadly Sin

POLICE RELEASE NEW "RIPPER" SKETCH.

Beneath the legend was a two-column-wide drawing in line and wash. The moment Zoe Kohler saw it, she looked about wildly, then slapped another section of the paper over the sketch.

Finally, when her heart stopped thudding and she was able to breathe normally, she uncovered the drawing again and stared at it long and hard.

She thought it was so like. The hair was incorrectly drawn, her face was too long and thin, but the artist had caught the shape of her eyebrows, straight lips, the pointed chin.

The more she stared, the more the drawing seemed to resemble her. She could not understand why hotel employees did not rush into her office, crowd around her desk, point at her with accusing fingers.

Surely Mr. Pinckney, Barney McMillan, or Joe Levine would note the resemblance; they were trained investigators. And if not them, then Ernest Mittle, Maddie Kurnitz, or Dr. Stark would see her in that revealing sketch and begin to wonder, to question.

Or, if none of her friends or acquaintances, it might be a passerby, a stranger on the street. She had an awful fantasy of a sudden shout, hue and cry, a frantic chase, capture. And possibly a beating by the maddened mob. A lynching.

It was not fear that moved her so much as embarrassment. She could never endure the ignominy of a public confrontation like that: the crazed eyes, wet mouths, the obscenities. Rather die immediately than face that humiliation.

She read the newspaper article printed beneath the drawing, and noted the detailed description of the clothing she had worn to the Tribunal Motor Inn. She supposed that she had been seen having a drink with that boy, and witnesses had told the police.

There was even mention that she drank white wine, though nothing was said about fingerprints. But the police suggested the woman they sought spoke in a low, polite voice, wore her hair quite short, dressed plainly, and might be employed as a secretary.

It was fascinating, in a strange way, to read this description of herself. It was like seeing one's image in a mirror that was a reflection of an image in another mirror. Reality was twice removed; the original was slightly distorted and wavery.

There was no doubt it was Zoe Kohler, but it was a remote woman, divorced from herself. It was a likeness, a very good likeness, with her hair, face, body, clothes. But it was not her. It was a replica.

Carefully she scissored the drawing from the newspaper, folded it, put it deep in her purse. Then, thinking that someone might notice the clipped page, she carried the whole newspaper to the trash room and dug it into a garbage can.

She hurried home from work that evening, keeping her head lowered, resisting an urge to hold her purse up in front of her face. No one took any notice of her. As usual, she was the invisible woman.

Safe in her apartment, she sat with a glass of iced vodka and inspected that damning sketch again. It seemed incredible that no one had recognized her.

As she stared at the drawing, she felt once again the sensation of disorientation. Like the printed description, the portrait was her and yet it was not her. It was a blurred likeness. She wondered if her body's rot had spread to her face, and this was a representation of dissolution.

She was still inspecting the drawing, eagerly, hungrily, trying to find meaning in it, when her parents called from Minnesota.

"Baby," her father said, "this is Dad, and Mother is on the extension."

"Hello, Dad, Mother. How are you?"

"Oh, Zoe!" her mother wailed, and began weeping noisily.

"Now, Mother," her father said, "you promised you wouldn't. Baby, we got a call from a doctor there in New York. Man named Stark. He your doctor?"

"Yes, Dad."

"Well, he says you're sick, baby. He says you should be in a hospital."

"Oh, Dad, that's silly. I was feeling down for a few days, but I'm all right now. You know how doctors are."

"Are you telling the truth, Zoe?" her mother asked tearfully.

"Mother, I'm perfectly all right. I'm taking my medicine and eating well. There's absolutely nothing wrong with me."

"Well, you certainly sound all right, baby. Are you sure you don't want me or Mother to come to New York?"

"Not on my account, Dad. There's just no need for it."

"Well, uh, as Mother wrote you, we were planning a trip to Hawaii this summer, but we can…"

"Oh, Dad, don't change your plans. I'm really in very good health."

"What do you weigh, Zoe?"

"About the same, Mother. Maybe a pound or two less, but I'll get that back."

"Well, why the hell did that New York doctor call us, baby? He got me and your mother all upset."

"Dad, you know how doctors are; the least little thing and they want to put you in the hospital."

"Have you missed work, Zoe?"

"Not a single day, Mother. That proves I'm all right, doesn't it?"

"Listen, baby, we're not going to Hawaii until late in July. Do you think you'll be able to get out here on your vacation?"

"I don't know when my vacation is, Dad. When I find out, I'll write you, and maybe we can work something out, even if it's only for a few days."

"Have you met anyone, Zoe?" her mother asked. "You know- a nice boy?"

"Well, there's one fellow I've been seeing. He's very nice."

"What does he do, baby?"

"I'm not sure, Dad. I know he's taking courses in computers."

"Computers? Hey, sounds like a smart fellow."

"He is, Dad. I think you'd like him."

"Well, that's fine, baby. I'm glad you're getting out and, uh, socializing. And it's good to hear you're feeling okay. That damned doctor scared us."

"I'm feeling fine, Dad, really I am."

"Now listen to me, Zoe," her mother said. "I want you to call us at least once a week. You can reverse the charges. All right, Dad?"

"Of course, Mother. Baby, you do that. Call at least once a week and reverse the charges."

"All right, Dad."

"You take care of yourself now, y'hear?"

"I will. Thank you for calling. Goodbye, Mother. Goodbye, Dad."

"Goodbye, Zoe."

"Goodbye, baby."

She hung up, and when she looked at her hands, they were trembling. Her parents always had that effect: made her nervous, defensive. Made her feel guilty. Not once during the call had she said, "I love you." But then, neither had they.

She ate a sandwich of something she couldn't taste. She drank another vodka, and swallowed vitamins, minerals, two Anacin, and a Valium. Then she took a shower, pulled on her threadbare robe.

She sat on the living room couch, drained by the conversation with her parents. It had taken energy, even bravado, to speak brightly, optimistically, to calm their fears and forestall their coming to New York and seeing her in her present state.

She supposed that when they thought of her, they remembered a little girl in a spotless pinafore. White gloves, knee-length cotton socks, and shiny black shoes with straps. A cute hat with flowers. A red plastic purse on a brass chain.

Zoe Kohler opened her robe, looked down, and saw what had become of that little girl. Tears came to her eyes, and she wondered how it had happened, and why it had happened.

As a child, when balked, scolded, or ignored, she had wished her tormentor dead. If her mother died, or her father, or a certain teacher, then Zoe's troubles would end, and she would be happy.

She had wished Kenneth dead. Not wished it exactly, but dreamed often of how her burdens would be lightened if he were gone. Once she had even fantasized that Maddie Kurnitz might die, and Zoe would comfort the widower, and he would look at her with new eyes.

All her life she had seen the death of others as the solution to her problems. Now, looking at her spoiled flesh, she realized that only her own death would put a stop to…

She was sick, and she was tired, and that thin, sour man she saw as "police" was stalking closer and closer. She wished him dead, but knew it could not be. He would persevere and…

That drawing was so accurate that it was only a matter of time until…

She might return to her parents' home and pretend…

Thoughts, unfinished, whirled by so rapidly that she felt faint with the flickering speed, the brief intensity. She closed her eyes, made tight fists. She hung on until her mind slowed, cleared, and she was able to concentrate on what she wanted to do, and find the resolve to do it.

She phoned Ernest Mittle.

"Ernie," she said, "do you really love me?"

July 11-12; Friday and Saturday…

Detective Sergeant Thomas K. Broderick and his squad had been assigned the task of tracing the why not? bracelet worn by the Hotel Ripper, but it was proving to be another dead end. Too many stores carried the bracelet, too many had been sold for cash; it was impossible to track every one.

So Broderick and his crew were pulled off the bracelet search and given the task of finding victims of Addison's disease who had purchased a medical identification bracelet and emergency kit in New York.

Broderick decided to start with the island of Manhattan, and the Yellow Pages were the first place he looked for names and addresses of medical supply houses.

Then he talked to police surgeons and to a small number of physicians who were police buffs or "groupies" and who were happy to cooperate with the NYPD as long as they weren't asked to violate the law or their professional ethics.

From these sources, Broderick compiled a list of places that might conceivably sell the things he was trying to trace. Then he divided his list into neighborhoods. Then he sent his men out to pound the pavements.

Most of the pharmacists they visited were willing to help. Those who weren't received a follow-up visit from Broderick or Sergeant Abner Boone. Both men were armed with opinions from the Legal Division of the NYPD, stating that the courts had held that communications to druggists and prescriptions given to them by customers were not confidential and not protected from disclosure.

"Of course," Boone would say, "if you want to fight this, and hire yourself a high-priced lawyer, and spend weeks sitting around in court, then I'll have to get a subpoena."

Cooperation was 100 percent.

As the names and addresses of Addisonian victims began to come in, Broderick's deskmen put aside the obviously masculine names and compiled a list only of the women. This list, in turn, was broken down into separate files for each borough of New York, and one for out-of-town addresses.

"It's all so mechanical!" Monica Delaney exclaimed.

"Mechanical?" the Chief said. "What the hell's mechanical about it? How do you think detectives work?"

"Well, maybe not mechanical," she said. "But you're all acting like bookkeepers. Like accountants."

"That's what we are," he said. "Accountants."

"Wise-ass," she said.

They were having dinner at P. J. Moriarty on Third Avenue. It was a fine, comfortable Irish bar and restaurant with Tiffany lampshades and smoke-mellowed wood paneling. For some unaccountable reason, a toy electric train ran around the bar on a track suspended from the ceiling.

They had started with dry Beefeater martinis. Then slabs of herring in cream sauce. Then pot roast with potato pancakes. With Canadian ale. Then black coffee and Armagnac. They were both blessed with good digestions.

"The greatest of God's gifts," Delaney was fond of remarking.

During dinner, he had told her about Dr. Ho's report on Addison's disease, and exactly how Sergeant Broderick's men were going about the search for Addisonian victims in New York.

"He says his list should be completed by late today," he concluded. "Tomorrow morning I'm going down to the precinct. We'll crosscheck the lists and see if we have anything."

"And if you don't?"

He shrugged. "We'll keep plugging. Every murder in the series has revealed more. Eventually we'll get her."

"Edward, if you find out who it is-what then?"

"Depends. Do we have enough evidence for an arrest? For an indictment?"

"You won't, uh…"

He looked at her, smiling slightly.

"Go in with guns blazing and cut her down? No, dear, we won't do that. I don't believe this woman will be armed. With a gun, that is. I think she'll come along quietly. Almost with relief."

"Then what? I mean, if you have enough evidence for an arrest and an indictment? What will happen to her then?"

He filled their coffee cups from the pewter pot.

"Depends," he said again. "If she gets a smart lawyer, he'll probably try to plead insanity. Seems to me that slitting the throats of six strangers is pretty good prima facie evidence of insanity. But even if she's adjudged capable of standing trial and is convicted, she'll get off with the minimum."

"Edward! Why? After what she's done?"

"Because she's a woman."

"You're joking?"

"I'm not joking. Want me to quote the numbers to you? I don't need Thomas Handry's research. The judicial system in this country is about fifty years behind the times as far as equality between men and women goes. Almost invariably females will receive lighter sentences than males for identical or comparable crimes. And when it comes to homicide, juries and judges seem to have a built-in bias that works in favor of women. They can literally get away with murder."

"But surely not the Hotel Ripper?"

"Don't be too sure of that. A good defense attorney will put her on the stand dressed in something conservative and black with a white Peter Pan collar. She'll speak in a low, trembling voice and dab at her eyes with a balled-up Kleenex. Remember when we were first arguing about whether the Hotel Ripper could be a woman, and you asked people at one of your meetings? All the men said a woman couldn't commit crimes like that and all the women said she could. Well, an experienced defense lawyer knows that, even if he doesn't know why. If he's got a female client accused of homicide, he'll try to get an all-male jury. Most of the men in this country still have a completely false concept of women's sensibilities. They think women are inherently incapable of killing. So they vote Not Guilty. That's why I think there should be an ECA."

"An ECA?"

"Sure," he said innocently. "To go along with the ERA, the Equal Rights Amendment. ECA, the Equal Conviction Amendment."

"Bastard," she said, kicking him under the table.

They walked home slowly through the warm, sticky summer night.

"Edward," Monica said, "back there in the restaurant you said you thought the killer would surrender quietly, with relief. Why relief?"

"I think she's getting tired," Delaney said, and explained to his wife why he believed that. "Also, Dr. Ho thinks that emotional stress could be triggering an Addisonian crisis. It all ties in: a sick woman coming to the end of her rope."

"Then you believe she is sick?"

"Physically, not mentally. She knows the difference between right and wrong. But the laws regarding insanity and culpability are so screwed-up that it's impossible to predict how a judge or jury might decide. They could say she's usually sane but killed in moments of overwhelming madness. Temporary insanity. It's really not important. Well, it is important, but it's not the concern of cops. Our only job is to stop her."

"Good luck tomorrow morning," Monica said faintly. "Will you call me?"

He took her arm.

"If you want me to," he said.

Edward X. Delaney slept well that night. In the morning he was amused to find himself dressing with special care for the meeting at Midtown Precinct North.

"Like I was going to a wedding," he mentioned to Monica. "Or a funeral."

He wore a three-piece suit of navy blue tropical worsted, a white shirt with starched collar, a wide cravat of maroon rep. His wife tucked a foulard square into the breast pocket of his jacket, one flowered edge showing. Delaney poked the silk down the moment he was out of the house.

As many men as possible crowded into the conference room upstairs at Midtown Precinct North. Lieutenant Crane, Sergeant Broderick, Boone, Bentley, Delaney, and Thorsen got the chairs. The others stood against the walls. Men milled about in the corridor outside, waiting for news. Good or bad.

"Okay, Tom," Sergeant Boone said to Broderick, "it's all yours."

"What I got here first," the detective sergeant said, "is an alphabetical list of female victims of Addison's living in Manhattan. Sixteen names."

"Right," Lieutenant Wilson T. Crane said, shuffling through the stack of typed lists in front of him. "What I have is a list of females who work or reside in Manhattan and who, one way or another, have access to a schedule of hotel conventions. Let's go…"

"First name," Broderick said, "is Alzanas. A-l-z-a-n-a-s. Marie. That's Marie Alzanas."

Lieutenant Crane pored over his list, flipped a page.

"No," he said, "haven't got her. Next?"

"Carson, Elizabeth J. That's C-a-r-s-o-n."

"Carson, Carson, Carson… I've got a Muriel Carson."

"No good. This one is Elizabeth J. Next name is Domani, Doris. That's D-o-m-a-n-i."

"No, no Domani."

"Edwards, Marilyn B. E-d-w-a-r-d-s."

"No Marilyn B. Edwards."

The roll call of names continued slowly. The other men in the room were silent. The men in the hallway had quieted. They could hear noises from downstairs, the occasional sound of a siren starting up. But their part of the building seemed hushed, waiting…

"Jackson," Sergeant Broderick intoned. "Grace T. Jackson. J-a-c-k-s-o-n."

"No Grace T. Jackson," Lieutenant Crane said. "Next?"

"Kohler. K-o-h-l-e-r. First name Zoe. Z-o-e. That's Zoe Kohler."

Crane's finger ran down the page. Stopped. He looked up.

"Got her," he said. "Zoe Kohler."

A sigh like a wind in the room. Men slumped, expressionless. They lighted cigarettes.

"All right," Sergeant Boone said, "finish the list. There may be more than one."

They waited quietly, patiently, while Sergeant Broderick completed his list of names. Zoe Kohler was the only name duplicated on Crane's convention schedule access list.

"Zoe Kohler," Delaney said. "Where did you find her, Broderick?"

"She bought a medical ID bracelet for Addison's disease and an emergency kit at a pharmacy on Twenty-third Street."

"Crane?" the Chief asked.

"We've got her listed at the Hotel Granger on Madison and Forty-sixth Street. Access to the hotel trade magazine that publishes the convention schedule every week."

They stared at each other, looks going around the room, no one wanting to speak.

"Sergeant," Delaney said to Abner Boone, "is Johnson down at Midtown South?"

"If he's not there, one of his guys will be. The phone is manned."

"Give him a call. Ask if the Hotel Granger, Madison and Forty-sixth, is on the list of tear gas customers."

They all listened as Boone made the call. He asked the man at the other end to check the list for the Hotel Granger. He heard the reply, grunted his thanks, hung up. He looked around at the waiting men.

"Bingo," he said softly. "The security chief at the Granger bought the stuff. Four pocket-size spray dispensers and three grenades."

Sergeant Broderick pushed his chair back with a clatter.

"Let's pick her up," he said loudly.

Delaney whirled on him furiously.

"What are you going to do?" he demanded. "Beat a confession out of her with a rubber hose? What kind of a garbage arrest would that be? She's got Addison's disease, she reads a hotel trade magazine, and the place where she works bought some tear gas. Take that to the DA and he'll throw your ass out the window."

"What do you suggest, Edward?" Thorsen asked.

"Button her up. At least two men on her around the clock. Better include a policewoman in the tail, in case she goes into a John. Put an undercover man where she works. Broderick, where does she live?"

The sergeant consulted his file.

"Thirty-ninth Street, east. The address sounds like it would be near Lex."

"Probably an apartment house. If it is, get an undercover man in there as a porter or something. Find a friendly judge and get a phone tap authorization. Around the clock. I mean, know exactly where she is every minute of the day and night. Where she goes. Who her friends are. It'll give us time to do more digging."

"Like what, Chief?" Boone said.

"A lot of things. How did she get hold of the tear gas, for instance. Get a photo of her with a long-distance lens and show it to that waiter at the Tribunal and to the cocktail waitress out on the Coast."

"I've got her doctor's name and address," Sergeant Broderick offered.

"It's a possibility," Delaney said. "He probably won't talk, but it's worth a try. The important thing is to keep this woman covered until she proves out, one way or the other. Meanwhile, Broderick, I suggest you check the rest of your lists against Lieutenant Crane's. There may be more duplications."

Deputy Thorsen, Delaney, and Boone left the conference room and went into the sergeant's office. The men in the corridor had heard the news and were talking excitedly.

"Sergeant," the Chief said, "you're going to have your hands full keeping a lid on this. If Zoe Kohler's name gets to reporters, and they print it, we're finished. She'll go back into the woodwork."

"Wait a minute, Edward," Thorsen said. "What are you figuring-that she'll try another kill, and we catch her at it?"

"It may come to that," Delaney said grimly. "I hope not, but it may turn out to be the only way we can make a case. She's due again late this month."

"Jesus," Sergeant Boone breathed, "that's a dangerous way to make a case. If we fuck it up, we'll have another stiff on our hands and we'll all be out on the street."

"It may be the only way," Delaney insisted stubbornly. "I don't like it any more than you do, but we may have to let her try. Meanwhile, make sure your men keep their mouths shut."

"Yeah," Boone said, "I better give them the word right now."

"And while you're at it," the Chief said, "call Johnson again. Tell him not to send a man to check out that tear gas at the Hotel Granger until we figure out how to handle it and give him the word."

"Right," Boone said. "I'll take care of it."

He left the office.

"Edward," Thorsen said nervously, "are you serious about letting that woman try another killing?"

"Ivar," Delaney said patiently, "it may turn out to be the only way we can step on her. You better be prepared for it. Right now, at this moment, we haven't got enough for a clean arrest, let alone an indictment. Believe me, nothing makes a stronger case than 'caught in the act.'"

"If we catch her in time," the Deputy said mournfully.

Delaney shrugged. "Sometimes you have to take the risk. But it may not come to that. We've got two weeks before she hits again. If she follows the pattern, that is. We can do a lot in two weeks. With the round-the-clock tail and the phone tap, we may be able to make a case before she tries again."

"We've got to," Thorsen said desperately.

"Sure," Delaney said.

July 13; Sunday…

She was weary of gnarled thoughts and knotted dreams. There came a time when only surrender seemed feasible. Peace at any price.

She could endure no more. Those attractive, smartly dressed, happy women she saw on the streets… The men who whispered dreadful things or just glanced at her derisively… It was a city of enemies, a foreign place. Sickened by her own substance, she wanted to be gone.

"You look so solemn," Ernest Mittle said. "I feel so good, and you look so sad."

"Do I?" she said, squeezing his hand. "I'm sorry. Just thinking."

"When you called me the other night, you sounded so down. Is something wrong, darling?"

"Not a thing," she said brightly. "I'm just fine. Where are we going?"

"It's a secret," he said. "Do you like secrets?"

"I love secrets," she said.

He had met her in the lobby of her apartment house. She saw at once that he was jangling with nervous excitement, almost dancing with eagerness. And he was dressed in his best summer suit, a light blue, pin-striped seersucker. He wore a dark blue polka-dotted bowtie and, in his buttonhole, a small cornflower.

He insisted on taking a taxi, showing the driver an address scrawled on a slip of paper. In the back seat of the cab, he held her hand and chattered about the weather, his job, the plans he was making for their vacation together.

The cab headed downtown and then across Manhattan Bridge. Laughing delightedly, Ernie confessed that they were going for Sunday brunch at a restaurant built on a barge moored on the Brooklyn waterfront.

"The food is supposed to be good," he said, "and the view of the Manhattan skyline is fantastic. Okay?"

"Of course," she said. "I just hope it isn't too expensive."

"Oh well," he said, bowing his head, "it's sort of, uh, you know, an occasion."

They weren't able to get a window table in the restaurant, but from where they sat they had a good view of the East River, the sweep of the Brooklyn Bridge and, in the background, the swords of Manhattan slashing the pellucid sky.

They had Bloody Marys to start, and then scrambled eggs with ham steaks, toasted English muffins with guava marmalade, and a small green salad. Black coffee and raspberry sherbet for dessert.

The food was good, and the service efficient but too swift; they were finished and handed their check in less than an hour. On their way out, they passed a growing crowd of customers waiting hopefully behind a chain.

"A popular place," Ernie said when they were outside. "Well, the food is all right, and the prices are reasonable. First time I've ever eaten on a boat."

"It's different," Zoe said, "and I enjoyed it. Thank you, dear."

The restaurant had set up a number of park benches facing the Manhattan shore. Zoe and Ernie sat on the bench closest to the water. They watched a red tugboat push a string of barges upriver against the current.

The sun was bright and hot, but a salt-tanged breeze washed the air. A few small clouds, scoops of vanilla ice cream, drifted lazily. Smoke-colored gulls perched atop wharf pilings, preening their feathers.

And there in the distance, shimmering, were the golden spires of Manhattan. They gave back the sun in a million gleams. The city burned, prancing, a painted backdrop for a giant theater, a cosmic play.

"Oh, Zoe," Ernest Mittle breathed, "isn't it lovely?"

"Yes," she said, but she lowered her eyes. She didn't want to admit that the city could have beauty and grace.

He turned on the bench so he could face her. He took both her hands between his. She raised her eyes to look at him. His vivacity had vanished. Now he seemed solemn, almost grave.

"Uh," he said in a low voice, "there's something I want to talk to you about."

"What is it, dear?" she said anxiously. "Is something the matter? Is it something I did?"

"Oh no, no," he protested. "No, nothing's the matter. Uh, darling, I've been thinking about you a lot. Every minute. I mean, at work and walking down the street and when I'm home alone and before I go to sleep. I think about you all the time. And, uh, well, I've decided I want to be with you all the time. Forever." He finished with a rush: "Because I love you so much, and I want to marry you, Zoe. Darling… Please?"

She looked into his eyes and blinked to keep from weeping.

"Oh, Ernie-" she started.

"Listen a minute," he said hoarsely. He released her hands, swung back to face the river, hunched over on the bench. "I know I'm not so much. I mean, I have a good job and all, and I'm not afraid of hard work, and I think I'll do better. But I'm not much to look at, I know-not exactly every woman's dream. But I do love you, Zoe. More than I've ever loved anyone or anything, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I've thought this over very carefully, and I'm sure this is what I want to do. You're in my mind all the time, and I love you so much that sometimes it almost hurts, and I feel like crying. I know that's silly, but that's the way I feel."

"Oh, Ernie," she said again. She took him by the shoulders, turned him to her. She hugged him close, his face pressed into her neck. She held him tightly, stroking his fine, flaxen hair. She moved him away, saw tears in his eyes.

She kissed his soft lips tenderly and put her palm to his cheek.

"Thank you, darling," she said. "Thank you, thank you, thank you. You don't know how much that means to me, knowing how much you care. It's the nicest, sweetest thing that's ever happened to me, and I'm so proud."

"We could make a go of it, Zoe," he pleaded. "Really we could. We'd have to work at it, of course, but I know we could do it. When I finish my computer course, I'll get a better job. And I have some money in the bank. Not a lot, but some. So we wouldn't starve or anything like that. And you could move into my place. For the time being, I mean, until we can find a bigger place. And I have-"

"Shh, shh," she whispered, putting a finger on his lips. "Let me catch my breath for a minute. It isn't every day a girl…"

They sat immobile. She held his face between her palms and stared into his brimming eyes.

"You love me that much, darling?" she said in a low voice.

"I do, I do!" he declared. "I'd do anything for you, Zoe, I swear it. Except leave you. Don't ask me to do that."

"No," she said, smiling sadly. "I won't ask you to do that."

"There's no one else, is there?" he asked anxiously.

"Oh no. There's no one else."

"Zoe, I can understand that you might feel… Well, you know, having been married once and it didn't work out, you might feel, uh, very careful before you marry again. But I'd try very hard, darling, really I would. As hard as I can to be a good husband and make you happy."

"I know you would, Ernie. You're a dear, sweet man, and I love you."

"Then…?"

"Oh, darling, I can't answer right now, this minute. I'm in a whirl. You'll have to give me time to think about-"

"Of course," he said hastily, "I understand. I didn't expect to sweep you off your feet or anything like that. But you will think about it, won't you?"

"Oh sweetheart, of course I will."

"Well…" he said, giggling nervously, "just to keep reminding you, I bought you this…"

He fumbled in the side pocket of his jacket, brought out a little velvet-covered ring box. He opened it.

"World's smallest diamond," he said, laughing. "But it's pretty, isn't it, Zoe? Isn't it pretty?"

"It's beautiful," she said, looking down at the twinkling stone set in a silver band. "Just beautiful."

"Try it on," he urged. "I didn't know your size, so it may be too tight or too large. But the man said it can be adjusted or even exchanged for a different size."

She slipped the ring onto her bony finger. It hung loosely.

"Too large," she said regretfully. She took off the ring and placed it carefully back into the box.

"It can be fixed," he assured her. "Zoe, your fingers are so thin. And what's this brown stain here?"

"I burned myself," she said swiftly. "On a hot pan. It'll clear up."

"Better see about it. Does it hurt?"

"Oh no. It's nothing. It'll go away."

She tried to return the ring box to him, but he wouldn't take it.

"You keep it, dear," he said. "Put it someplace where you'll see it every day and think about what I asked you. Will you do that, Zoe?"

"I don't need the ring to remind me," she said, smiling. "Oh, Ernie, it was so kind of you. And the ring is lovely. It truly is."

"You like it? Really?"

"It's the most beautiful ring in the world, and you're the most beautiful man."

"Say Yes, darling. Think it over, remember how much I love you, and say Yes."

That night, alone in her apartment, Zoe Kohler put the ring on her finger again, making a fist so it wouldn't slip off. Staring down at that shining circlet, she became aware of happiness as a conscious choice, hers for the taking.

She would call Dr. Stark and agree to enter a hospital. She would do whatever was necessary, endure any mortification to regain her health. She would throw out all her unnecessary pills and capsules. She would stop drinking, eat only good, nutritious food.

She would fill out, and her skin would become smooth and pure. She would make her body beautiful, slender and willowy.

Her breath would be sweet and her monthly cramps would vanish as she grew content.

She would end her adventures because there would no longer be a need for them. The police would grow tired of the search, and the Hotel Ripper would fade from the headlines. In a few weeks or months the whole thing would be forgotten.

She would marry Ernest Mittle. Yes, and send an announcement to her ex-husband! Ernie would move in with her because her apartment was larger. She would keep her job at the Hotel Granger until Ernie was launched on a successful career in computers.

They would take turns cooking, and hurry home each night just to be together and talk to each other. They would go on wonderful vacations together, walk deserted beaches and swim in an endless sea.

They would make love gently, tenderly, and find bliss. Then they would sleep in each other's arms and wake to make love again, with smiles. They would find joy in each other's body, in their shared passion. They would not do anything ugly.

Their closeness would keep the brutal city at bay, would defend against the world's cruelty. They would be the world, a world of two, and nothing would daunt or defeat them.

Then they would have a child. Perhaps two. They would create a family of their own. With their clean, bright children, they would defy the darkness.

She replaced the ring in its box and hid it far back in the bureau drawer, next to the why not? bracelet. She went to sleep smiling, still living her dream.

It all seemed possible.

July 15-18; Tuesday to Friday…

Detective Daniel ("Dapper Dan") Bentley was given responsibility for the physical surveillance of Zoe Kohler. He used three crews, each on duty for eight hours. Each team consisted of two male and one female police officers.

Most of their time was spent in an unmarked police vehicle parked outside the subject's apartment house on East 39th Street or the Hotel Granger on Madison Avenue. The car was changed every day in an effort to prevent easy recognition by the suspect.

When Zoe Kohler walked to work, went to lunch, or just went shopping or on an innocent errand, one of the surveillance team tailed her on foot, keeping in touch with the stakeout car by walkie-talkie.

In addition to this close physical watch, a court order for a wiretap was obtained. With the cooperation of the owner of Zoe's apartment house, a tap and tape recorder were installed in the basement, hooked up to her telephone terminal. Two-man crews were on duty around the clock.

Gradually, a description of the subject and a time-habit pattern were assembled in the command post at Midtown Precinct North. The existence of Ernest Mittle and Madeline Kurnitz was established by phone call traces, and investigation begun of their relationship with the suspect.

Also, by means of a collect call made by the subject, the names and address of her parents were obtained. Following Zoe when she visited her bank resulted in an examination of her bank account and credit rating.

Slowly, the profile of the subject was filled in, with a complete physical description, personal history, her present job, employment record, friends, habits, etc. None of this, of course, added to or subtracted from her validity as a suspect, but it did give substance to the woman. In Midtown North, they began to speak familiarly of her as "Zoe." A friend of the family.

Photographs were taken from the surveillance car by a police photographer using a telephoto lens. Blowups of the best pictures were flown to the Coast by a New York detective and shown to Anne Rogovich, the former cocktail waitress. The result was negative; she could not identify the suspect as the woman she had seen with the late Jerome Ashley.

The same disappointment resulted when the photos were shown to Anthony Pizzi, the waiter at the Tribunal Motor Inn. So Mr. Pizzi was installed in the surveillance car and given an actual look at the subject. He still could not provide positive identification.

But not all inquiries were fruitless…

A long, involved discussion was held on how best to determine the disposition of tear gas purchased by Everett Pinckney, security chief of the Hotel Granger.

"The problem here," Delaney said, "is that if he gave her a can of the stuff, or she pinched it, then questions about it are sure to spook her. If she still has the can-maybe it's half-full-she's sure to dump it. And if she's already gotten rid of it, the questions will give her a chance to frame a story."

"Maybe we can tell this Pinckney to keep his trap shut," Sergeant Boone said.

"You can tell him," the Chief said, "but don't take it to the bank." He thought a moment, then: "Look, let's handle this in a conventional way. Just go in, verify the purchase with Pinckney, and say we'll be back in a week or so for a physical count of the containers he bought. Treat it very casually. If he mentions it to her, it may scare her into doing something foolish. Johnson, can you handle it?"

"I'll do it personally," the detective said. "No sweat. I want to get a look at the lady anyway."

So Detective Aaron Johnson visited Security Chief Everett Pinckney at the Hotel Granger. His cover story was that he was investigating a wholesale burglary of Chemical Mace and was tracing the serial numbers of every can sold in the New York area.

"The good news," he reported later, "is that this Pinckney admits the purchase, and says he handed out the spray dispensers to his assistants, including Zoe. He's got the grenades right there in his office and says he'll collect the spray cans from the others for examination. The bad news is that I didn't get to see her; she was out to lunch or some such."

That, at least, proved Zoe's access to a can of tear gas. It was a plus but, as Sergeant Boone said, "a little bitty plus."

More important was the result of a search of Zoe Kohler's apartment, a completely illegal enterprise. It was planned at a meeting attended only by Delaney, Boone, and Detective Bentley. Deputy Commissioner Ivar Thorsen was deliberately not informed of the plan; the Chief wanted to shield him from guilty knowledge.

"We can get a man in there easy," Abner Boone explained to Bentley. "The owner will go along. Our guy will be a maintenance man, porter, repairman, or whatever-in case any of the tenants spot him and ask questions. He'll go in when she's at work; we'll verify that with the tails."

"The problem," Delaney said, "is that he'll have to pick the lock. We don't want to ask the owner for a passkey. The fewer people who know about this, the better. Also, we need a fast guy, someone who'll get in, toss the place, and be out in, say, an hour or less."

"Got just the guy," Bentley said promptly. "Ramon Gonzales, a PR. Naturally, we call him 'Speedy.' He's a fast man on locks and he'll be in and out of there so quick and so slick no one will notice a thing. What does he look for?"

"A spray dispenser of tear gas," Boone said. "A pocket knife, or jackknife, switchblade-anything like that. Also, a gold link bracelet with the words why not? on it. And clothes, flashy clothes. A dark green dress with skinny straps. High-heeled shoes. She wore those to the Ashley kill. And a white turtleneck sweater and a denim thing with shoulder straps. The stuff she was wearing when she wasted the LaBranche boy. Anything else, Chief?"

"Yes," Delaney said. "Tell him to look for nylon wigs. Black and strawberry blond. Tell this Speedy Gonzales to wear gloves and to touch as little as possible, move things as little as possible. And don't, for God's sake, bring anything out with him. Leave everything exactly where it is."

"She'll never know she had a visitor," Bentley assured them.

Two days later, he was back with a report. He consulted a notebook, flipping the pages as he talked…

"No problems," he said. "Speedy didn't see anyone except the guy on the lobby desk who talked a minute or two but didn't ask any questions. The owner had told him to expect a guy who was going to make an estimate on cleaning the hallway rugs. Speedy got into Zoe's apartment with no trouble. He says the locks were a joke. He was inside less than an hour, gave the place a complete toss. He found that why not? bracelet and the dark green dress with thin shoulder straps. Her clothes are mostly plain and dull, but the fancy stuff is hidden in the back of a closet. A lot of hooker's dresses there, Speedy says. He didn't find any knife or can of tear gas."

"The wigs?" Delaney asked.

"Oh yeah. Black and blond. Both nylon. In the same closet with the whore's duds. High-heeled shoes in there, too. And in a dresser drawer, way in the back, black lace underwear and fancy shit like that."

"Did he say anything about what the apartment was like?" the Chief said.

"Very neat," Bentley reported. "Very clean. Spotless."

"That figures," Delaney said.

Late on Friday afternoon, July 18th, the Chief met with Deputy Commissioner Thorsen at a back table in a seedy tavern on Eighth Avenue. There were only a few solitary drinkers at the bar. The waitress, wearing a leotard and black net hose, brought their Scotch-and-waters and left them alone.

"How's it going, Edward?" Thorsen asked.

Delaney flipped a palm back and forth. "Some good, some bad," he said.

"But is it her?" the Deputy said.

"No doubt about that. It's her, all right."

"But you still don't want to pick her up?"

"Not yet."

"We've got about a week, Edward. Then she's due to hit again."

"I'm aware of that, Ivar."

The Admiral sat back, sighing. He lifted his glass around on the Formica tabletop, making damp interlocking circles.

"You're a hard man, Edward."

"Not so hard," Delaney said. "I'm just trying to make a case for you."

"Since when has any case been airtight?"

"I didn't say an airtight case. Just a strong case that has a chance in the courts."

Thorsen stared at him reflectively.

"Sometimes I think you and I are-well, maybe not on opposing sides, but we see this thing from different viewpoints. All I want to do is stop these killings. And you-"

"That's all I want," Delaney said stolidly.

"No, that's not all you want. You want to squash the woman."

"And what do you want-to let her walk away whistling? That's exactly what will happen if we pull her in now."

"Look," Thorsen said, "let's get our priorities straight. You're convinced she's the killer?"

"Yes."

"All right, now suppose we pull her in, even charge her, and eventually she walks. But she's not going to kill again, is she? She's going to behave, knowing we'll keep an eye on her. So the killings will end, won't they? Even if she walks?"

"And what about George Puller, Frederick Wolheim, Jerome Ashley, and all the rest? Just tough titty for them-right?"

"Edward, our main job is crime prevention. And if pulling her in now can prevent a crime, then I say let's do it."

"Prevention is only part of the job. Another part is crime detection and punishment."

"Let's have another drink," Ivar Thorsen said, signaling the waitress and pointing at their empty glasses.

They were silent while they were being served. Then Thorsen tried again…

"On the basis of what we know now," he said, "we can probably get search warrants for her apartment and office. Agreed?"

"Probably. But unless you find the weapon used, with her prints on it and stains of blood from her last kill, what have you got?"

"Maybe we'll find that why not? bracelet."

"Hundreds of them were sold. Probably thousands. It would mean nothing."

"The tear gas container?"

"Even if we find it, there's no proof it was the one used on Bergdorfer. Ditto the clothes she wore. And the wigs. Ivar, that's all the sleaziest kind of circumstantial evidence. A good defense attorney would make mincemeat of a prosecution based on that."

"She's got Addison's disease."

"So have fifteen other women living in Manhattan. I know you think we've got a lot on her. We have. Enough to convince me that she's the Hotel Ripper. But it's been a long time since you've testified in court. You've forgotten that there's a fucking big gap between knowing and proving. We have enough to know we have the right perp, but we have shit-all when it comes to proving. I tell you frankly that I don't think the DA will go for an indictment on the basis of what we've got. He's looking for good arrests and convictions. Like everyone else, he's not particularly enamored of lost causes."

"I still say we have enough to bring her in for questioning. Even if we don't find anything new in her apartment or office, we can throw the fear of God into her. She won't slit any more throats."

"You're sure of that? Positive? That she won't leave the city, move somewhere else, change her name, and take up her hobby again?"

"That's some other city's problem."

Delaney grunted. "Ivar, you're all heart."

"You know what I mean. I volunteered for this job because I figured if anyone could find the Hotel Ripper, you could. All right, you've done it, and I want you to know how much I appreciate what you've done. But the whole point of the thing was to bring this series of homicides to an end. It seems to me that we can do that now by picking her up and telling her what we know. Trial and conviction are secondary to stopping her."

"Then it's bye-bye, birdie," Delaney said. "That's not right."

Ivar Thorsen slapped his palms on the table.

"No wonder they called you 'Iron Balls,'" he said. "You've got to be the most stubborn, opinionated man I've ever met. You just won't give."

"I know what's right," Delaney said woodenly.

The Admiral took a deep breath.

"I'll give you another week," he said. "That's, uh, Friday the twenty-fifth. If we have nothing more on her by then, I'm bringing her in anyhow. I just can't take the risk of letting her try another slashing."

"Shit," Delaney said.

He strode home through the sultry twilight. He went through Central Park, trying to walk off his anger. Intellectually, he could understand the reasoning behind Ivar Thorsen's decision. But that didn't make it any better. It was all political.

"Political." What a shifty word! Political was everything weak, sly, expedient, and unctuous. Political was doing the right things for the wrong reasons, and the wrong things for the right reasons.

Ivar had his career and the Department's reputation to think about. In that connotation, he was doing the "right" thing, the political thing. But he was also letting a murderess stroll away from her crimes; that was what it amounted to.

Delaney planned how they could smash her. It would be an audacious scheme, but with foresight and a bit of luck, they could pull it off.

Not letting her out on the prowl to pick up some innocent slob, going with him to his hotel room, and then ripping his throat. With the cops tailing her and breaking in at the last minute to catch her with the knife in her hand and the victim-to-be still alive. That would never work.

It would have to be a carefully plotted scam, using a police decoy. The guy selected would have to be a real cowboy, with quick reflexes and the balls to see it through. He'd have charm, be physically presentable, and have enough acting ability to play the role of an out-of-town salesman or convention-goer.

He would have a room in a midtown hotel, and they would wire it like a computer, with mikes, a two-way mirror, and maybe a TV tape camera filming the whole thing. A squad of hard guys in the adjoining room, of course, ready to come on like Gangbus-ters.

She'd be tailed to the hotel she selected and the cowboy would be alerted. He'd make the pickup or let her pick him up. Then he'd take her back to his hotel room. The pickup would be the dicey part. Once the cowboy made the meet, the rest should go like silk.

It would be important that even the appearance of entrapment be avoided, but that could be worked out. With luck they'd be able to grab her in the act, with her trusty little jackknife open and ready. Let her try to walk away from that!

Delaney admitted it was a chancy gamble, but Goddamnit, it could work. And it would cut through all the legal bullshit, all the court arguments about the admissibility of circumstantial evidence. It would be irrefutable proof that Zoe Kohler was a bloody killer.

But the politicians said No, don't take the risk, all we want to do is stop her, and start booking conventions again, and if she walks, that's too bad, but we stopped her, didn't we?

Edward X. Delaney made a grimace of disgust. The law was the law, and murder was wrong, and every time you weaseled, you weakened the whole body of the law, the good book it had taken so many centuries to write.

By God, if he was on active duty and in command, he would smash her! If the cowboy didn't succeed, then Delaney would try something else. She might kill again, and again, but in the end he'd hang her by the heels, and the best defense attorney in the world couldn't prevent those words: "Guilty as charged."

By the time he arrived home, he was sodden with sweat, his face reddened, and he was puffing with exhaustion.

"What happened to you?" Monica asked curiously. "You look like you've been wrestling with the devil."

"Something like that," he said.

July 22; Tuesday…

She did not wake pure and whole-and knew she never would. The abdominal pains were constant now, almost as severe as menstrual cramps. Weakness buckled her knees; she frequently felt giddy and feared she might faint on the street.

She continued to lose weight; her flesh deflated over her joints; she seemed all knobs and edges. The discolored blotches grew; she watched with dulled horror as whole patches of skin took on a grayish-brown hue.

Everything was wrong. She felt nausea, and vomited. She suddenly had a craving for salt and began taking three, four, then five tablets a day. She tried to eat only bland foods, but was afflicted first with constipation, then with diarrhea.

Her dream of happiness, on the night following Ernest Mittle's proposal of marriage, had vanished. Now she said aloud: "I am sick and tired of being sick and tired."

When Madeline Kurnitz called to ask her to lunch, Zoe tried to beg off, not certain she had the strength and fearful of what Maddie might say about her appearance.

But the other woman insisted, even agreeing to lunch in the dining room of the Hotel Granger.

"I want you to meet someone," Maddie said, giggling.

"Who?"

"You'll see!"

Zoe reserved a table for three and was already seated when Maddie arrived. With her was a tall, stalwart youth who couldn't have been more than twenty-two or twenty-three. Maddie was hanging on to his arm possessively, looking up at his face, and whispering something that made him laugh.

She hardly glanced at Zoe. Just said, "Christ, you're skinny," and then introduced her escort.

"Kiddo, this stud is Jack. Keep your hands off; I saw him first. Jack, this is Zoe, my best friend. My only friend. Say, 'Hello, Zoe, how are you?' You can manage that, can't you?"

"Hello, Zoe," Jack said with a flash of white teeth, "how are you?"

"See?" Maddie said. "He can handle a simple sentence. Jack isn't so great in the brains department, luv, but with what he's got, who needs brains? Hey, hey, how's about a little drink? My first today."

"Your first in the last fifteen minutes," Jack said.

"Isn't he cute?" Maddie said, stroking the boy's cheek. "I'm teaching him to sit up and beg."

It was the other way around; Zoe was shocked by her appearance. Maddie had put on more loose weight, and it bulged, unbraed and ungirdled, in a straining dress of red silk crepe, with a side seam gaping and stains down the front.

Her freckled cleavage was on prominent display, and she wore no hose. Her feet, in the skimpiest of strap sandals, were soiled with street dirt. Her legs had been carelessly shaved; a swath of black fuzz ran down one calf.

It was her face that showed most clearly her loss: clown makeup wildly applied, powder caked in smut lines on her neck, a false eyelash hanging loose, lipstick streaked and crooked.

There she sat, a blob of a woman, all appetite. It seemed to Zoe that her voice had become louder and screakier. She shouted for drinks, yelled for menus, laughing in high-pitched whinnies.

Zoe hung her head as other diners turned to stare. But Maddie was impervious to their disapproval. She held hands with Jack, popped shrimp into his mouth, pinched his cheek. One of her hands was busy beneath the tablecloth.

"… so Harry moved out," Maddie chattered on, "and Jack moved in. A beautiful exchange. Now the lawyers are fighting it out. Jack, baby, you have a steak; you've got to keep up your strength, you stallion, you!"

He sat there with a vacant grin, enjoying her ministrations, accepting them as his due. His golden hair was coiffed in artful waves. His complexion was a bronzed tan, lips sculpted, nose straight and patrician. A profile that belonged on a coin.

"Isn't he precious?" Maddie said fondly, staring at him with hungry eyes. "I found him parking cars at some roadhouse on Long Island. I got him cleaned up, properly barbered and dressed, and look at him now. A treasure! Maddie's own sweet treasure."

She was, Zoe realized, quite drunk, for in addition to her usual ebullience, there was something else: almost an hysteria. Plus a note of nasty cruelty when she spoke of the young man as if he were a curious object.

Either he did not comprehend her malicious gibes or chose to ignore them. He said little, grinned continuously, and ate steadily. He poked food into an already full mouth and masticated slowly with heavy movements of his powerful jaw.

"We're off for Bermuda," Maddie said, "or is it the Bahamas? I'm always getting the two of them fucked up. Anyway, we're going to do the tropical paradise bit for a month, drink rum out of coconut shells, and skinny-dip in the moonlight. How does that scenario grab you, kiddo? What does a thirsty gal have to do to get another drink in this dump?"

She ate very little, Zoe noted, but she drank at a frantic rate, gulping, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand when liquid trickled down her chin. But never once did she let go of Jack. She hung on to his arm, shoulder, thigh.

Zoe, remembering the brash bravado of a younger Maddie, was terrified by the woman's dissolution. Frightened not only for Maddie but at what it presaged for her own future.

For this woman, as a girl, had been the best of them. She was courageous and independent. She swaggered through life, dauntless and unafraid. She lived, and never feared tomorrow. She dared and she challenged, and never asked the price or counted the cost.

Now here she was, drunk, wild, feverish, her flesh puddled, holding on desperately to a handsome boy young enough to be her son. Behind the bright glitter of her mascaraed eyes grew a dark terror.

If this woman could be defeated, this brave, free, indefatigable woman, what hope in life was there for Zoe Kohler? She was so much weaker than Madeline Kurnitz. She was timid and fearful. She was smaller. When giants were toppled, what chance was there for midgets?

They finished their hectic meal and Maddie threw bills to the waiter.

"The son of a bitch cut off my credit cards," she muttered.

She rose unsteadily to her feet and Jack slid an arm about her thick waist. She tottered, staring glassily at Zoe.

"You changing jobs, kiddo?" she asked.

"No, Maddie. I haven't even been looking. Why do you ask?"

"Dunno. Some guy called me a few days ago, said you had applied for a job and gave me as a reference. Wanted to know how long I had known you, what I knew about your private life, and all that bullshit."

"I don't understand. I haven't applied for any job."

"Ah, the hell with it. Probably some weirdo. I'll call you when I get back from paradise."

"Take care of yourself, Maddie."

"Fuck that. Jack's going to take care of me. Aren't you, lover boy?"

She watched them stagger out, Jack half-supporting the porcine woman. Zoe walked slowly back to her office, dread seeping in as she realized the implications of what Maddie had said.

Someone was making inquiries about her, about her personal history and private life. She knew who it was-that stretched, dour man labeled "police," who would not give up the search and would not be content until Zoe Kohler was dead and gone.

She slumped at her desk, skeleton hands folded. She stared at those shrunken claws. They looked as if they had been soaked in brine. She thought of her approaching menstrual period and wondered dully if blood could flow from such a desiccated corpus.

"Hello there!" Everett Pinckney said brightly, weaving before her desk. "Have a good lunch?"

"Very nice," Zoe said, trying to smile. "Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Pinckney?"

He beamed at her, making an obvious effort to focus his eyes and concentrate on what he wanted to say. He leaned forward, knuckles propped on her desk. She could smell his whiskey-tainted breath.

"Yes," he said. "Well, uh… Zoe, remember that tear gas I gave you? The spray can? The little one for your purse?"

"I remember."

"Well, have you got it with you? In your purse? In your desk?"

She stared at him.

"Silly thing," he went on. "A detective was around. He's investigating a burglary and has to check the serial numbers of all the cans sold in New York. I asked McMillan and Joe Levine to bring theirs in. You still have yours, don't you? Didn't squirt anyone with it, did you?" He giggled.

"I don't have it with me, Mr. Pinckney," she said slowly.

"Oh. It's home, is it?"

"Yes," she said, thinking sluggishly. "I have it at home."

"Well, bring it in, will you, please? By Friday? The detective is coming back. Once he checks the number, you can have the can again. No problem."

He smiled glassily and tottered into his own office.

Stronger now, it returned: the sense of being moved and manipulated. Events had escaped her power. They were pressing her back into her natural role of victim. She had lost all initiative; she was being controlled.

She thought wildly of what she might do. Claim an attack by a would-be rapist whom she had repulsed with tear gas? Defended herself against a vicious dog? But she had already told Mr. Pinckney she had the dispenser at home.

Finally, she decided miserably, she could do nothing but tell him she had lost or misplaced the container.

Not for a moment did she believe the detective's claim of investigating a burglary. He was investigating her, and what would happen when he was told Zoe Kohler had "lost or misplaced" her dispenser, she didn't wish to imagine. It was all so depressing she could not even wonder how they had traced the tear gas to her.

That evening, when she returned to her apartment, she did something completely irrational. She searched her apartment for the tear gas container, knowing she had disposed of it. The worst thing was that she knew she was acting irrationally but could not stop herself.

Of course she did not find the dispenser. But she found something else. Or rather, several things…

When she had placed Ernest Mittle's engagement ring far in the back of the dresser drawer, she had paused a moment to open the box and take a final look at the pretty stone. Then she had shoved the box away, but remembered very well that it opened to the front.

When she found it, the box was turned around in its hiding place. Now the hinge was to the front, the box opened from the rear.

When she had put away her nylon wigs, wrapped in tissue, the blond wig was on top, the black beneath. Now they were reversed.

The stacks of her pantyhose and lingerie had been disturbed. She always left them with their front edges neatly aligned. Now the piles showed they had been handled. They were not messy; they were neat. But not the way she had left them.

Perhaps someone less precise and finicky than Zoe Kohler would never have noticed. But she noticed, and was immediately convinced that someone had been in her apartment and had, searched through her possessions.

She went at once to her front window. Drawing the drape cautiously aside, she peeked out. She did not see the white-shirted watcher in the shadows of the apartment across the street. She did not see him, but was certain he was there.

She made no connection between the voyeur and the search of her personal belongings. She knew only that her privacy was once again being cruelly violated; people wanted to know her secrets. They would keep trying, and there was no way she could stop them.

When Ernest Mittle called, she made a determined effort to sound cheerful and loving. They chatted for a long time, and she kept asking questions about his job, his computer classes, his vacation plans-anything to keep him talking and hold the darkness back.

"Zoe," he said finally, "I don't, uh, want to pressure you or anything, but have you been thinking about it?"

It took her a moment to realize what he meant.

"Of course, I've been thinking about it, darling," she said. "Every minute."

"Well, I meant every word I said to you. And now I'm surer than ever in my own mind. This is what I want to do. I just don't want to live without you, Zoe."

"Ernie, you're the sweetest and most considerate man I've ever met. You're so considerate."

"Yes… well… uh… when do you think you'll decide? Soon?"

"Oh yes. Soon. Very soon."

"Listen," he said eagerly, "I have classes Friday night. I get out about eight-thirty or so. How's about my picking up a bottle of white wine and dropping by? I mean, it'll be Friday night and all, and we can talk and get squared away on our vacation. Okay?"

She didn't have the strength to object. Everyone was pushing her-even Ernie.

"Of course," she said dully. "Friday night?"

"About nine," he said happily. "See you then. Take care of yourself, dear."

"Yes," she said. "You, too."

He hung up and she sat there staring at the phone in her hand. Without questioning why, she called Dr. Oscar Stark. She got his answering service, of course. The operator asked if she'd care to leave a message.

"No," Zoe Kohler said, "no message."

She wandered into the kitchen. She opened the cabinet door. She stared at the rows and rows of pills, capsules, ampules, powders, medicines. They all seemed so foolish. Toys.

She closed the door without taking anything. Not even her cortisol. Not even a salt tablet. Nothing would make her a new woman. She was condemned to be her.

She thought vaguely that she should eat something, but just the idea of food roiled her stomach. She poured a glass of chilled vodka and took it into the living room.

She slouched on the couch, staring into the darkness. She tried to concentrate and feel the workings of her body. She felt only deep pain, a malaise that sapped her spirit and dulled her senses.

Was this the onset of death-this total surrender to the agony of living? Peace, peace. Something warm and comfortable. Something familiar and close. It seemed precious to her, this going over. The hurt ended…

She was conscious that she was weeping, surprised that her dried flesh could squeeze out that moisture. The warm, thin tears slid down her cheeks, and she did not wipe them away. She found a glory in this evidence of her miserableness.

"Poor Zoe Kohler," she said aloud, and the spoken word affected her so strongly that she gasped and sobbed.

What she could not understand, would never understand, was what she had done to deserve this wretchedness.

She had always dressed neatly and kept herself clean. She had never used dirty words. She had been polite and kind to everyone. Whom had she hurt? She had tried, always, to conduct herself like a lady.

There may have been a few times, very few, when she had forgotten herself, denied her nature, and acted in a crude and vulgar manner. But most of her life had been above reproach, spotless, obeying all the rules her mother had taught her.

She had moved through her days refined and gentle, low-voiced, and thoughtful of the feelings of others. She had worked hard to succeed as dutiful daughter and loving wife.

And it had all, all, come to this: sitting in the darkness and weeping. Smelling her body's rot. Hounded by unfeeling men who would not stop prying into things of no concern of theirs.

Poor Zoe Kohler. All hope gone, all passion spent. Only pain remained.

July 23-24; Wednesday and Thursday…

Delaney had to see her; he could not help himself.

"You can learn a lot about people by observing them," he explained to Monica. "How they walk, how they gesture. Do they rub their eyes or pick their nose? How they light a cigarette. Do they wait for a traffic light or run through traffic? Any nervous habits? How they dress. The colors and style. Do they constantly blink? Lick their lips? And so forth."

His wife listened to this recital in silence, head bowed, eyes on the mending in her lap.

"Well?" he demanded.

"Well what?"

"I just thought you might have a comment."

"No, I have no comment."

"Maybe it'll help me understand her better. Why she did what she did. Clues to her personality."

"Whatever you say, dear," she said.

He looked at her suspiciously. He didn't trust her complaisant moods.

He told Abner Boone what he wanted to do, and the sergeant had no objections.

"Better let Bentley know, Chief," he suggested. "He can tell his spooks you'll be tailing her too. In case they spot you and call out the troops."

"They won't spot me," Delaney said, offended.

But he spotted them: the unmarked cars parked near the Hotel Granger and Zoe Kohler's apartment house, the plainclothes policewomen who followed the suspect on foot. Some of the shadows were good, some clumsy. But Zoe seemed oblivious to them all.

He picked her up on 39th Street and Lexington Avenue at 8:43 on Wednesday morning and followed her to the Granger. He hung around for a while, then wandered into the hotel and inspected the lobby, dining room, cocktail bar.

He was back at noon, and when she came out for lunch, he tailed her to a fast-food joint on Third Avenue, then back to the Granger. At five o'clock he returned to follow her home. He never took his eyes off her.

"What's she like?" Monica asked that night.

"So ordinary," he said, "she's outstanding. Miss Nothing."

"Pretty?"

"No, but not ugly. Plain. Just plain. She could do a lot more with herself than she does. She wears no makeup that I could see. Hair a kind of mousy color. Her clothes are browns and tans and grays. Earth colors. She moves very slowly, cautiously. Almost like an invalid, or at least like a woman twice her age. Once I saw her stop and hang on to a lamppost as if she suddenly felt weak or faint. Sensible shoes. Sensible clothes. Nothing bright or cheerful about her. She carries a shoulder bag but hangs on to it with both hands. I'd guess the knife is in the bag. When she confronts anyone on the sidewalk, she's always the first to step aside. She never crosses against the lights, even when there's no traffic. Very careful. Very conservative. Very law-abiding. When she went out to lunch, I thought I saw her talking to herself, but I'm not sure."

"Edward, how long are you going to keep this up-following her?"

"You think it's morbid curiosity, don't you?"

"Don't be silly."

"Sure you do," he said. "But it's not. The woman fascinates me; I admit it."

"That I believe," Monica said. "Does she look sad?"

"Sad?" He considered that a moment. "Not so much sad as defeated. Her posture is bad; she slumps; the sins of the world on her shoulders. And her complexion is awful. Muddy pale. I think I was right and Dr. Ho was right; she's cracking."

"I wish you wouldn't do it, Edward-follow her, I mean."

"Why not?"

"I don't know… It just seems indecent."

"You are a dear, sweet woman," he told her, "and you don't know what the hell you're talking about."

He went through the same routine on Thursday. He maneuvered so he walked toward her as she headed up Madison Avenue on her way to work. He passed quite close and got a good look at her features.

They seemed drawn and shrunken to him, nose sharpened, cheeks caved. Her lips were dry and slightly parted. The eyes seemed focused on worlds away. There was a somnolence about that face. She could have been a sleepwalker.

No breasts that he could see. She appeared flat as a board.

He was there a few minutes after 5:00 p.m., when she exited from the Hotel Granger and turned downtown on Madison. Delaney was behind her. Bentley's policewoman was across the avenue.

The suspect walked south on Madison, then went into a luncheonette. Delaney strolled to the corner, turned, came back. He stood in front of the restaurant, ostensibly inspecting the menu Scotch-taped inside the plate glass window.

Zoe Kohler was seated at the counter, waiting to be served. Everyone in the place was busy eating or talking. No one paid any attention to the activity on the street, to a big, lumpy man peering througn the front window.

Delaney walked on, looked in a few shop windows, came back to the luncheonette. Now Zoe had a plate before her and was drinking a glass of something that looked like iced tea.

If he had been a man given to theatrical gestures, he would have slapped his forehead in disgust and dismay. He had forgotten. They all had forgotten. How could they have been so fucking stupid?

He loitered about the front of the luncheonette. He looked at his watch occasionally to give the impression of a man waiting for a late date. He saw Zoe Kohler pat her lips with a paper napkin, gather up purse and check, begin to rise.

He was inside immediately, almost rushing. As she moved toward the cashier's desk, he brushed by her.

"I beg your pardon," he said, raising his hat and stepping aside.

She gave him a shy, timorous smile: a flicker.

He let her go and slid onto the counter stool she had just left. In front of him was most of a tunafish salad plate and dregs of iced tea in a tall glass. He linked his hands around the glass without touching it.

A porky, middle-aged waitress with a mustache and bad feet stopped in front of him. She took out her pad.

"Waddle it be?" she asked, patting her orange hair. "The meat-loaf is good."

"I'd like to see the manager, please."

She peered at him. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," he said, smiling at her. "I'd just like to see the manager."

She turned toward the back of the luncheonette.

"Hey, you, Stan," she yelled.

A man back there talking to two seated customers looked up. The waitress jerked her head toward Delaney. The manager came forward slowly. He stood at the Chief's shoulder.

"What seems to be the trouble?" he asked.

"No trouble," Delaney said. "This iced tea glass here-I've got a dozen at home just like it. But my kid broke one. I'd like to fill out the set. Would you sell me this glass for a buck?"

"You want to buy that glass for a dollar?" Stan said.

"That's right. To fill out my set of a dozen. How about it?"

"A pleasure," the manager said. "I've got six dozen more you can have at the same price."

"No," Delaney said, laughing, "just one will do."

"Let me get you a clean one," the porky waitress said, reaching for Zoe Kohler's glass.

"No, no," Delaney said hastily, protecting the glass with his linked hands. "This one will be fine."

Waitress and manager looked at each other and shrugged. Delaney handed over a dollar bill. Touching the glass gingerly with two fingers spread inside, he wrapped it loosely in paper napkins, taking care not to wipe or smudge the outside.

He had to walk two blocks before he found a sidewalk phone that worked. He set the wrapped glass carefully atop the phone and called Sergeant Abner Boone at Midtown Precinct North. He explained what he had.

"God damn it!" Boone exploded. "We're idiots! We could have had prints from her office or apartment a week ago."

"I know," Delaney said consolingly. "It's my fault as much as anyone's. Listen, sergeant, if you get a match with that wineglass from the Tribunal, it's not proof positive that she wasted the LaBranche kid. It's just evidence that she was at the scene."

"That's good enough for me," Boone said grimly. "Where are you, Chief? I'll get a car, pick up the glass myself, and take it to the lab."

Delaney gave him the location. "After they check it out, will you call me at home and let me know?"

"Of course."

"Better call Thorsen and tell him, too. Yes or no."

"I'll do that," Abner Boone said. "Thank you, sir," he added gratefully.

Delaney was grumpy all evening. He hunched over his plate, eating pork roast and applesauce in silence. Not even complimenting Monica on the bowl of sliced strawberries with a sprinkle of Cointreau to give i! a tang.

It wasn't until they had taken their coffee into the air-conditioned living room that she said: "Okay, buster, what's bothering you?"

"Politics," he said disgustedly, and told her about his argument with Ivar Thorsen.

"He was right and I was right. Considering his priorities and responsibilities, picking the woman up and getting her out of circulation makes sense. But I still think going for prosecution and conviction makes more sense."

Then he told Monica what he had just done: obtaining Zoe Kohler's fingerprints for a match with the prints found on the wineglass at the Tribunal Motor Inn.

"So I handed Ivar more inconclusive evidence," he said wryly. "If the prints match, he's sure to pick her up. But he'll never get a conviction on the basis of what we've got."

"If you feel that strongly about it," Monica said, "you could have forgotten all about the prints."

"You're joking, of course."

"Of course."

"The habits of thirty years die hard," he said, sighing. "I had to get her prints. But no one will believe me when I tell them that even a perfect match won't put her behind bars. Her attorney will say, 'Sure, she had a drink with the guy in his hotel room-and so what? He was still alive when she left.' Those prints won't prove she slashed his throat. Just that she was there. And another thing is-"

The phone rang then.

"That'll be Boone," Delaney said, rising. "I'll take it in the study."

But it wasn't the sergeant; it was Deputy Commissioner Ivar Thorsen, and he couldn't keep the excitement out of his voice.

"Thank you, Edward," he said. "Thank you, thank you. We got a perfect match on the prints. I had a long talk with the DA's man and he thinks we've got enough now to go for an indictment. So we're bringing her in. It'll take all day tomorrow to get the paperwork set and plan the arrest. We'll probably take he Saturday morning at her apartment. Want to come along?"

Delaney paused. "All right, Ivar," he said finally. "If that's what you want to do. I'd like a favor: will you ask Dr. Patrick Ho if he wants to be in on it? That man contributed a lot; he should be in at the end."

"Yes, Edward, I'll contact him."

"One more thing… I'd like Thomas Handry to be there."

"Who's Thomas Handry?"

"He's on the Times."

"You want a reporter to be there?"

"I owe him."

Thorsen sighed. "All right, Edward, if you say so. And thank you again; you did a splendid job."

"Yeah," Delaney said dispiritedly, but Thorsen had already hung up.

He went back into the living room and repeated the phone conversation to Monica.

"So that's that," he concluded. "If she keeps her nerve and doesn't say a goddamn word until she gets a smart lawyer, I think she'll beat it."

"But the murders will end?"

"Yes. Probably."

She looked at him narrowly.

"But that's not enough for you, is it? You want her punished."

"Don't you?"

"Of course-if it can be done legally. But most of all I want the killings to stop. Edward, don't you think you're being vindictive?"

He rose suddenly. "Think I'll pour myself a brandy. Get you one?"

"All right. A small one."

He brought their cognacs from the study, then settled back again into his worn armchair.

"Why do you think I'm being vindictive?"

"Your whole attitude. You want to catch this woman in the act, even if it means risking a man's life. You want, above all, to see her punished for what she's done. You want her to suffer. It's really become an obsession with you. I don't think you'd feel that strongly if the Hotel Ripper was a man. Then you'd be satisfied just to get him off the streets."

"Come on, Monica, what kind of bullshit is that? The next thing you'll be saying is that I hate women."

"No, I'd never say that because I know it's not true. Just the opposite. I think you have some very old-fashioned, romantic ideas about women. And because this particular woman has flouted those beliefs, those cherished ideals, you feel very vengeful toward her."

He took a swig of brandy. "Nonsense. I've dealt with female criminals before. Some of them killers."

"But none like Zoe Kohler-right? All the female murderers in your experience killed from passion or greed or because they were drunk or something like that. Am I correct?"

"Well…" he said grudgingly, "maybe."

"You told me so yourself. But now you find a female killer who's intelligent, plans well, kills coldly with no apparent motive, and it shatters all your preconceptions about women. And not only does it destroy your romantic fancies, but I think it scares you-in a way."

He was silent.

"Because if a woman can act in this way, then you don't know anything at all about women. Isn't that what scares you? Now you've discovered that women are as capable as men. Capable of evil, in this case. But if that's true, then they must also be as capable of good, of creativity, of invention and art. It's upsetting all the prejudices you have and maybe even weren't aware of. Suddenly you have to revise your thinking about women, all your old, ingrained opinions, and that can be a painful process. I think that's why you want more than the killings ended. You want revenge against this woman who has caused such an upheaval in all your notions of what women are and how they should act."

"Thank you, doctor, for the fifty-cent analysis," he said. "I'm not saying you're completely wrong, but you are mistaken if you think I would have felt any differently if the Hotel Ripper was a man. You have to pay for your sins in this world, regardless of your sex."

"Edward, how long has it been since you've been to church."

"You mean for mass or confession? About thirty-five years."

"Well, you haven't lost your faith."

"The good sisters beat it into me. But my faith, as you call it, has nothing to do with the church."

"No?"

"No. I'm for civilization and against the swamp. It's as simple as that."

"And that is simple. You believe in God, don't you?"

"I believe in a Supreme Being, whatever you want to call him, her, or it."

"You probably call it the Top Cop."

He laughed. "You're not too far wrong. Well, the Top Cop has given us the word in a body of works called the law. Don't tell me how rickety, inefficient, and leaky the law is; I know better than you. But it's the best we've been able to come up with so far. Let's hope it'll be improved as the human race stumbles along. But even in the way it exists today, it's the only thing that stands between civilization and the swamp. It's a wall, a dike. And anyone who knocks a hole in the wall should be punished."

"And what about understanding? Compassion? Justice?"

"The law and justice are not always identical, my dear. Any street cop can tell you that. In this case, I think both the law and justice would be best served if Zoe Kohler was put away for the rest of her life."

"And if New York still had the death penalty, you'd want her electrocuted, or hanged, or gassed, or shot?"

"Yes."

July 25; Friday…

Her pubic hair had almost totally disappeared; only a few weak wisps survived. And the hair on her legs and in her armpits had apparently ceased to grow. She had the feeling of being peeled, to end up as a skinless grape, a quivering jelly. Clothing rasped her tender skin.

She took a cab to work that morning, not certain she had the strength to walk or push her way aboard a crowded bus. In the office, she was afraid she might drop the tray of coffee and pastries. Every movement was an effort, every breath a pain.

"Did you bring it in, Zoe?" Everett Pinckney asked.

She looked at him blankly. "What?"

"The tear gas dispenser," he said.

She felt a sudden anguish in her groin. A needle. She knew her period was due in a day, but this was something different: a steel sliver. But she did not wince. She endured, expressionless.

"I lost it," she said in a low voice. "Or misplaced it. I can't find it."

He was bewildered.

"Zoe," he said, "a thing like that-how could you lose it or misplace it?"

She didn't answer.

"What am I going to do?" he asked helplessly. "The cop will come back. He'll want to know. He'll want to talk to you."

"All right," she said, "I'll talk to him. I just don't have it."

He was not a man to bluster. He just stood, wavering…

"Well…" he said, "all right," and left her alone.

The rest of the day vanished. She didn't know where it went. She swam in agony, her body pulsing. She wanted to weep, cry out, claw her aching flesh from the bones. The world about her whirled dizzily. It would not stop.

She walked home slowly, her steps faltering. Passersby were a streaming blur. The earth sank beneath her feet. She heard a roaring above the traffic din, smelled scorch, and in her mouth was a taste of old copper.

She turned into the luncheonette, too weak to continue her journey.

"Hullo, dearie," the porky waitress said. "The usual?"

Zoe nodded.

"Wanna hear somepin nutty?" the waitress asked, setting a place for her. "Right after you was in here last night, a guy comes in and buys the iced tea glass you drank out of. Said he had glasses just like it at home, but his kid broke one, and he wanted to fill the set. Paid a dollar for it."

"The glass I used?"

"Crazy, huh? Din even want a clean one. Just wrapped up the dirty glass in paper napkins and rushed out with it. Well, it takes all kinds…"

"Was he tall and thin?" Zoe Kohler asked. "With a sour expression?"

"Nah. He was tall all right, but a heavyset guy. Middle sixties maybe. Why? You know him?"

"No," Zoe said listlessly, "I don't know him."

She was still thinking clearly enough to realize what had happened. Now they had her fingerprints. They would compare them with the prints on the wineglass she left at the Tribunal. They would be sure now. They would come for her and kill her.

She left her food uneaten. She headed home with stumbling steps. The pains in her abdomen were almost shrill in their intensity.

She wondered if her period had started. She had not inserted a tampon and feared to look behind her; perhaps she was leaving a spotted trail on the sidewalk. And following the spoor came the thin, dour man, nose down and sniffing. A true bloodhound.

At home, she locked and bolted her door, put on the chain. She looked wearily about her trig apartment. She had always been neat. Her mother never had to tell her to tidy her room.

"A place for everything and everything in its place," her mother was fond of remarking.

She slipped shoes from her shrunken feet. She sat upright in a straight chair in the living room, hands folded primly on her lap. She watched dusk, twilight, darkness seep into the silent room.

Perhaps she fainted, dozed, dreamed; it was impossible to know. She saw a deserted landscape. Nothing there but gray smoke curling.

Then, as it thinned to fog, vapor, she saw a cracked and bloodless land. A jigsaw of caked mud. Craters and crusted holes venting steam. A barren world. No life stirring.

How long she sat there, her mind intent on this naked vision, she could not have said. Yet when her telephone rang, she rose, quite sane, turned on the light, picked up the phone. The lobby attendant: could Mr. Mittle come up?

She greeted Ernie with a smile, almost as happy as his. They kissed, and he told her she was getting dreadfully thin, and he would have to fatten her up. She touched his cheek lovingly, so moved was she by his concern.

The white wine he carried was already chilled. She brought a corkscrew and glasses from the kitchen. They sat close together on the couch. They clinked glasses and looked into each other's eyes.

"How do you feel, darling?" he asked anxiously.

"Better now," she said. "You're here."

He groaned with pleasure, kissed her poor, shriveled fingers.

He prattled on about his computer class, his job, their vacation plans. She smiled and nodded, nodded and smiled, searching his face. And all the time…

"Well," he said briskly, slapping one knee as if they had come to the moment of decision in an important business haggle, "have you thought about it, Zoe? Will you marry me?"

"Ernie, are you sure…?"

He rose and began to stalk about the dimly lighted room, carrying his wineglass.

"I certainly am sure," he said stoutly. "Zoe, I know this is the most important decision of my life, and I've considered it very carefully. Yes, I'm sure. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. No two ways about that! I know I don't have a great deal to offer you, but still… Love-you know? And a promise to work hard at making you happy."

"I have nothing to offer," she said faintly. "Less than nothing."

"Don't say that," he cried.

He sat down again at her side. He put his glass on the cocktail table. He held her bony shoulders.

"Don't say that, darling," he said tenderly. "You have all I want. You are all I want. I just don't want to live without you. Say Yes."

She stared at him, and through his clear, hopeful features saw again that sere, damned landscape, the gray smoke curling.

"All right," she said in a low voice. "Yes."

"Oh, Zoe!" he said, clasped her to him, kissed her closed eyes, her dry lips. She put her arms softly about him, felt his warmth, his aliveness.

He moved her away.

"When?" he demanded. "When?"

She smiled. "Whenever you say, dear."

"As soon as possible. The sooner the better. Listen, I've been thinking about it, planning it, and I'll tell you what I think would be best. If you don't agree, you tell me-all right? I mean, this is just my idea, and you might have some totally different idea on how we should do it, and if you do, I want you to tell me. Zoe? All right?"

"Of course, Ernie."

"Well, I thought a small, quiet wedding. Just a few close friends. Unless you want your parents here?"

"Oh no."

"And I don't want my family. Mostly because they can't afford to make the trip. Unless you want to go to Minnesota for the wedding?"

"No, let's have it here. A few close friends."

"Right," he said enthusiastically. "And the money we save, we can spend on the, uh, you know, honeymoon. Just a small ceremony. If you like, we could have a reception afterward at my place or here at your place. Or we could rent a room at a hotel or restaurant. What do you think?"

"Let's keep it small and quiet," she said. "Not make a big, expensive fuss. We could have it right here."

"Maybe we could have it catered," he said brightly. "It wouldn't cost so much. You know, just a light buffet, sandwiches maybe, and champagne. Like that."

"I think that would be plenty," she said firmly. "Keep it short and simple."

"Exactly," he said, laughing gleefully. "Short and simple. See? We're agreeing already! Oh Zoe, we're going to be so happy."

He embraced her again. She gently disengaged herself to fill their wineglasses. They tinked rims in a solemn toast.

"We've got so much to do," he said nervously. "We've got to sit down together and make out lists. You know-schedules and who to invite and the church and all. And when we should-"

"Ernie," she said, putting a palm to his hot cheek, "do you really love me?"

"I do!" he groaned, turning his face to kiss her palm. "I really do. More than anything or anyone in my life."

"And I love you," Zoe Kohler said. "You're the kindest man I've ever known. The sweetest and nicest. I want to be with you always."

"Always," he vowed. "Always together."

She brought her face close, looked deep into his eyes.

"Darling," she said softly, "do you remember when we talked about-uh-you know-going to bed together? Sex?"

"Yes. I remember."

"We agreed there had to be love and tenderness and understanding."

"Oh yes."

"Or it was just nothing. Like animals. We said that, Ernie- remember?"

"Of course. That's the way I feel."

"I know you do, dear. And I do, too. Well, if we love each other and we're going to get married, couldn't we…?"

"Oh Zoe," he said. "Oh my darling. You mean now? Tonight?"

"Why not?" she said. "Couldn't we? It's all right, isn't it?"

"Of course it's all right. It's wonderful, marvelous, just great. Because we do love each other and we're going to spend the rest of our lives together."

"You're sure?" she said. "You won't be, uh, offended?"

"How can you think that? It'll be sweet. So sweet. It'll be right."

"Oh yes," she breathed. "It will be right. I feel it. Don't you feel it, darling?"

He nodded dumbly.

"Let's go into the bedroom," she whispered. "Bring the wine. You get undressed and get into bed. I have to go into the bathroom for a few minutes, but I'll be right out."

"Is the front door locked?" he said, his voice choked.

"Darling," she said, kissing his lips. "My sweetheart. My lover."

She took her purse into the bathroom. She closed and locked the door. She undressed slowly. When she was naked, she inspected herself. She had not yet begun to bleed.

She waited a few moments, seated on the closed toilet seat. Finally she rose, opened the knife, held it in her right hand. She draped a towel across her forearm. She did not look at herself in the medicine cabinet mirror.

She unlocked the door. She peeked out. The bedside lamp was on. Ernest Mittle was lying on his back, hands clasped behind his head. The sheet was drawn up to his waist. His torso was white, hairless, shiny.

He turned his head to look toward her.

"Darling," she called with a trilly laugh, "look away. I'm embarrassed."

He smiled and rolled onto his side, away from her. She crossed the carpeted floor quickly, suddenly strong, suddenly resolute. She bent over him. The towel dropped away.

"Oh lover," she breathed.

The blade went into soft cheese. His body leaped frantically, but with her left hand and knee she pressed him down. The knife caught on something in his neck, but she sawed determinedly until it sliced through.

Out it went, the blood, in a spray, a fountain, a gush. She held him down until his threshings weakened and ceased. Then he just flowed, and she tipped the torn head over the edge of the bed to let him drain onto the rug.

She rolled him back. She pulled the sodden sheet down. She raised the knife high to complete her ritual. But her hand faltered, halted, came slowly down. She could not do it. Still, she murmured, "There, there, there," as she headed for the bathroom.

She tossed the bloodied knife aside. She inspected herself curiously. Only her hands, right arm, and left knee were stained and glittering.

She showered in hot water, lathering thickly with her imported soap. She rinsed, lathered again, rinsed again. She stepped from the tub and made no effort to wash away the pink tinge on the porcelain.

She dried thoroughly, then used her floral-scented cologne and a deodorant spray. She combed her hair quickly. She powdered neck, shoulders, armpits, the insides of her shrunken thighs.

It took her a few moments to find the Mexican wedding dress she had bought long ago and had never worn. She pulled it over her head. The crinkled cotton slid down over her naked flesh with a whisper.

The gown came to her blotched ankles, hung as loosely as a tent. But it was a creamy white, unblemished, as pure and virginal as the pinafores she had worn when she was Daddy's little girl and all her parents' friends had said she was "a real little lady."

Ernest Mittle's engagement ring twisted on her skinny finger. Working carefully, so as not to cut herself, she snipped a thin strip of Band-Aid. This she wound around and around the back part of the ring.

Then, when she worked it on, the fattened ring hung and stuck to her finger. It would never come loose.

She went into the kitchen, opened the cabinet door. In her pharmacopeia she found a full container of sleeping pills and a few left in another. She took both jars and a bottle of vodka into the bedroom. She set them carefully on the floor alongside the bed.

She checked the front door to make certain it was locked, bolted, and chained. Then she turned out all the lights in the apartment. Moving cautiously, she found her way back to the bedroom.

She sat on the edge of the bed. She took four of the pills, washed them down with a swallow of vodka. She didn't want to drink too much, remembering what had happened to Maddie Kurnitz.

Then she stripped the soaked sheet from the bed and let it fall at the foot. She got into bed alongside Ernest Mittle, wearing her oversized wedding gown and taped ring. She moved pills and vodka onto the bedside table. She took four more pills, a larger swallow of vodka.

She waited…

She thought it might come suddenly, blackness descending. But it did not; it took time. She gulped pills and swallowed vodka, and once she patted Ernie's cooling hip and repeated, "There, there…"

The scene she had been seeing all night, the blasted landscape, came back, but hazed and softened. The pitted ground slowly vanished, and only the curling smoke was left, the fog, the vapor.

But soon enough that was gone. She thought she said something aloud, but did not know what it meant. All she was conscious of was that pain had ceased.

And for that she was thankful.

July 26; Saturday…

"Surveillance reported ten minutes ago," Sergeant Abner Boone said, consulting his notes.

"Is she still there?" Thorsen said sharply.

"Yes, sir. Got home about six-forty last night. Hasn't been out since."

"Any phone calls?" Delaney asked.

"One," Boone said. "About nine o'clock last night. The desk-man in the lobby, asking if Ernest Mittle could come up."

"Mittle?" Detective Bentley said. "He's the boyfriend."

"He didn't leave," Boone said. "He's still up there."

"Shacking up?" Sergeant Broderick said.

"He never did that before," Detective Johnson said.

"Well, apparently both of them are still up there."

"Maybe he's closer to this than we figured," Broderick said. "Maybe he's been in on it all along."

"We'll soon find out," Boone said.

"How do we do this?" Ivar Thorsen asked.

"Maybe I've overplanned it," Boone said, "but rather be safe than sorry. Two cars at Lex and Third to block off her street. Precinct men for crowd control. The two guys on the wiretap will cover the basement. One man posted at each end of her hallway. Then we'll go in."

"What if she doesn't open up?" Thomas Handry said.

"We'll get the lobby man to use his passkeys," Boone said. "He's got them; I checked. Deputy, you, the Chief and I go in first. Uh, and Dr. Ho and Handry. Bentley, Johnson, and Broderick to follow. We got a floor plan of her apartment from the owner, and those guys will spread out fast to make sure she doesn't have a chance to dump anything. Sound okay?"

They all looked at Delaney.

"I don't think she'll try to run," he said, "but it won't do any harm to have a man on the roof."

"Right," Boone said, "we'll do it." He looked at his watch. "Coming up to ten o'clock. Let's get this show on the road."

Delaney, Dr. Patrick Ho, Sergeant Boone, and Thorsen rode in the Deputy's car.

"Ah, will there be any shooting?" Dr. Ho asked nervously.

"God forbid," Boone said.

"I want this to go down quickly and quietly," the Admiral said.

"Get her and the boyfriend out of there as soon as possible," Delaney advised. "Then you can tear the place apart."

"You have the warrants, sergeant?" Thorsen asked.

Boone tapped his breast pocket. "Right here, sir. She's signed, sealed, and delivered."

Thorsen remarked on the beauty of the morning; a bare sun rising in a strong sky. He said the papers had predicted rain, but at the moment it looked like a perfect July day.

It went with a minimum of confusion. The screening cars sealed off the block. Two uniformed officers were posted at the outer door of the apartment house. Precinct men began to set up barricades.

The others piled into the lobby. Uniformed men went first, hands on their holstered revolvers. The lobby attendant looked up, saw them coming. He turned white. Sergeant Boone showed the warrants. The man couldn't stop nodding.

They waited a few moments for the roof and corridor men to get in position. Then they crowded into the elevators, taking the lobby attendant along with them.

They gathered outside her door. Boone waved the others aside, then knocked on the door with his knuckles. No response.

He banged on the door with his fist, then put his ear to the panel.

"Nothing," he reported. "No sounds at all." He gestured to the lobby attendant. "Open it up."

The man's hands were shaking so hard he couldn't insert the passkeys. Boone took them from him, turned both locks. The door opened a few inches, then caught on the chain.

"I've got a bolt-cutter in my car," Sergeant Broderick said.

"Wait a minute," Delaney said. He turned to the attendant. "Gas or electric ranges?" he asked.

"Gas."

The Chief stepped close, put his face near the narrow opening, sniffed deeply.

"Nothing," he reported and stepped aside.

Sergeant Boone took his place.

"Police officers," he yelled. "We've got a warrant. Open up."

No answer.

"They've got to be in there," Thorsen said nervously.

"Should I get the bolt-cutter?" Broderick asked.

Boone looked to Delaney.

"Kick it in," the Chief said curtly.

The sergeant stood directly in front of the door. He drew up his leg until his knee almost touched his chin. He drove his foot forward at the spot where the chain showed. Wood splintered, the chain swung free, the door slammed open.

They rushed in, jostling each other. The searchers spread out. Thorsen, Delaney, Dr. Ho, Handry, and Boone stood in the living room, looking around.

"Clean and neat," the Chief said, nodding.

"Sarge!" Johnson yelled from the bedroom. "In here!"

They went in, clustered around the bed. They stared down. The drained man with his raw throat gaping wide. The puttied woman wrapped in cloth as thin as a shroud.

"Shit," Sergeant Boone said bitterly.

Delaney motioned to Dr. Ho. The little man stepped close, put two fingers to the side of Zoe Kohler's neck.

"Ah, yes," he said gently. "She is quite, quite deceased."

He peered closely at the empty pill bottles but did not touch them. The vodka bottle was on its side on the rug, a little clear liquid left.

"Barbiturates?" Handry asked Dr. Ho.

"Ah, I would say so. And the liquor. Usually a lethal combination."

Ivar Thorsen took a deep breath, hands on his hips. Then he turned away.

"You'll have to clean up this mess, sergeant," he said. "Do what you have to do."

Thorsen and Delaney took the elevator down together.

"She killed him?" the Deputy said. "Then did the Dutch?"

"Looks like it."

"How do you figure it?"

"I don't," Delaney said.

Outside, on the sidewalk, a crowd was beginning to gather. They pushed their way through. They walked slowly to the Deputy's car.

"I'll have to call a press conference," Thorsen said, "but I could use a drink first. How about you, Edward?"

"I'll pass."

"I'll buy," the Deputy offered.

"Thanks, Ivar," Edward X. Delaney said, smiling briefly. "Some other time. I think I'll go home. Monica is waiting for me."