Thrilling Thirteen: 13 Mysteries/Thrillers

Acknowledgments

The author gratefully acknowledges the following special people for their contributions to this book.

As always for my wife Isabella for nurturing each and every new book as if it were a newborn child, and for her love, support.

For my children, Dawn and Chris… just because.

Epigraph

Prologue

The night was alive with stars. Ricky Clovin flopped into bed and craned his neck until the Big Dipper came into view through the window. Summer nights in Appalachia were hot and humid. A light breeze sailed into the room, coaxing a smile. Ricky had been playing football most of the day and was dog-tired. The sixteen-year-old stretched wearily, pushing his toes past the edge of his mattress. The light sheet felt good against his skin, tantalizing him and drawing him ever closer to sleep. He’d be out cold in two seconds if the squirt didn’t pipe up.

His sister Sheryl wasn’t much of a sleeper. Ricky listened for sounds of heavy breathing. When he didn’t hear any, he knew that the twelve-year-old was still awake.

He couldn’t see her from his end of the L-shaped room, but knew that she was there all the same; eyes wide open, wheels turning, and too worked up to sleep. He could picture her lying on top of the sheets with her spindly legs, knobby knees, and pigtails broadcast out toward the ends of the pillow. God had blessed Sheryl in His own special way. She was sharp as a tack, brighter than anyone in Boone County, and smarter than anyone Ricky had ever known. He worshipped her — couldn’t get enough of the squirt.

“Hey, Clod, which city has the most bathrooms?”

Ricky smiled. He had anticipated the adenoid sound of his sister’s voice. He knew she’d never let him go to sleep. “I don’t know, which one?” He was laughing already.

“Pee-oria.”

Ricky snickered and then they both cracked up; Ricky in his hearty rumble and Sheryl in her short-winded snorts. Sheryl was still hacking away long after Ricky had stopped. The sound of her laughing tortured him. He had always struggled with the sounds the squirt made — they were a constant reminder of her delicate condition. Though it made him smile to know that she was happy, he always feared how much time the good Lord would give her.

There had been three recent trips to Charleston for corticosteroid treatments at Saint Francis Hospital. He could still remember the last one, the long ride through the pitch-black night. He could still feel her head resting slack against his shoulder as they rode side by side in the backseat of the old Buick. He could still hear her wheezing in his ear. “Take it easy, Squirt,” he kept telling her. “We’re almost there.” But the road seemed to go on forever, an endless series of pine trees caught in the fix of the headlamps. The endless voyage was punctuated with his mother’s worried glances. His father grumbled throughout the trip. Zachary Clovin did not take kindly to giving up his sleep. Ricky could still see his father’s stoic features in the dark. More than anything, Ricky remembered the chill of his icy stare.

Ricky heard Sheryl wheezing, and then finally the pumping sound of her inhaler. “Hey, Squirt, are you all right?” Ricky couldn’t imagine what it would be like not being able to breathe. He couldn’t imagine not being able to explode off the scrimmage line and charge up field toward the end zone. Asthma, he hated the word. He hated what it was taking from his kid sister, the youthful vitality he took for granted.

Sheryl’s was a life of books and toy dolls and baking with Mom. Ricky loved watching the two of them together in the kitchen, their pies cooling on the windowsill, Mom rolling dough and Sheryl pouring the filling. She was mommy’s little girl, pure and simple. She always had been and always would be. There was something warm and special between them, an inseparable bond that transcended description.

“Hey, you big lummox, how many touchdowns you get today?”

“Three,” he boasted. “What of it?” Ricky rolled over in bed and waited for the punch line. Sheryl had a delivery like Milton Berle.

“Same as your IQ. Ha, ha.”

“Hey,” he protested playfully. “One more and I’ll come over there and tickle you ‘til you puke.” Of course, he never would. He was always afraid of pushing her too far. He picked up a Spalding and ricocheted it off the wall. He couldn’t see her from his corner of the room, but heard the rubber ball plunk down on her bed.

“Hey, what the—” She erupted with wild laughter. “You hit me right in the belly.”

“Gotcha.” Ricky smiled while his sister cackled and wheezed. “Hey, Squirt, you all right? Calm down, will ya? I don’t feel like driving to Charleston tonight. Sheryl… Sheryl, calm down.”

“I can’t.” She snorted. “It’s too funny.” She continued to laugh and gasp and wheeze, making those familiar sounds that worried her brother to death.

“Hey, you’ll wake Dad.” That sobered her quickly. The old man’s expression alone would scare her to death. Of course he’d blame Ricky and give him a whack with his Sam Brown belt for good measure. Ricky didn’t care. He was every ounce as strong as his old man and could take anything that he dished out. He secretly dreamed of putting the old man in his place and being a hero for Mom and Sheryl. One day he’d lay down the law and put the old bastard’s temper to rest. He couldn’t stomach the old man’s petty jealousy and didn’t understand what made him tick.

Sheryl was still very much awake and still wanted to misbehave. “Hey, stupid, you awake? Hey, you hear me?” Ricky responded by sawing logs. “Darn,” she whispered. “Ricky? Darn.”

Ricky’s eyes flitted open sometime later. He rarely awakened in the middle of the night, but something had disturbed him. He yawned not knowing what time it was. He didn’t think he’d been asleep very long. He hovered in a vacuous stupor for a moment and then his eyelids succumbed to weariness as he began to drift off once again. He was almost out, somewhere between wake and slumber, when he heard something unusual. Sheryl had her own bizarre repertoire of adenoid sleeping noises, strange sounds that he had become accustomed to over the years. In the next instant, he was out, and it was morning before he understood that what he had heard was Sheryl’s last muffled gasp for air.

Chapter One

Wendell Johnson loved his job working in the toll both on the Manhattan side of the Roosevelt Island Tram. He had been working the graveyard shift ever since he was hired. It was after three in the morning. In a few minutes, the last cabin would be headed away from Manhattan. A minute or two later, a final cabin would return from the island.

It was mid-May which made Wendell appreciate his job more than ever. The air was warm and pleasant. He wasn’t supposed to be out of the booth, but the rules could be bent a little when the supervisors weren’t around. A spring breeze sailed by, caressing his bare arms and face. He walked over to the southeast edge of the elevated platform and paused at the railing to look out at the city.

The tram job was choice work. He had transferred from the subway system after working in the tubes half a dozen years. The tram was such a small piece of the system, practically insignificant. There weren’t many MTA mucky-mucks to contend with which was exactly how Wendell liked it.

He was only six months away from retirement. His years in the tubes still counted toward his pension and Wendell couldn’t think of a nicer spot to finish out his thirty. With two months of accrued days saved up, he’d be off the tram by the end of September, well before the autumn air turned into winter’s ice. Life had been difficult for a long time and he was really looking forward to collecting his monthly pension and spending his golden years with his grandson.

Wendell looked out at Roosevelt Island. He called it Baby Island because it stretched out long and narrow in the East River, like a miniature version of Manhattan. Lights twinkled across the river and stars burned in the distant heavens. It was a wonderful night: warm, breezy and seductive.

The city’s ruckus subsided for a moment. Wendell savored the quiet. He leaned over the railing, basking in the luxury of silky warm air. It was his own private terrace, his balcony unto the heavens. Wendell gathered perspective as he stared into the infinite sky. It made him feel a little closer to God, not quite close enough to touch, but almost.

Wendell heard the sound of giggling filter up to him from the street below. He knew what that meant. Scores, the gentlemen’s club was letting out. It was Friday night and the girls were in the mood to party. Wendell looked down at the sidewalk. Four of the exotic dancers were walking arm-in-arm and laughing their heads off. It made him smile. “God bless ‘em,” Wendell said. Yes, God had blessed them and the plastic surgeon as well. Wendell was not familiar with cosmetic augmentation. In his mind, surgery was for repair and not improvement. Sometimes you’re better off not knowing.

He often wondered what went on inside the club. The club seemed to be quite a destination for the gents. He had heard so many stories about it but never paid them any attention. He’d been a young man once and knew how young folks could carry on.

“Ha, ha,” Wendell laughed. Valerie and Dina had just hit the street. Dina looked up at old Wendell and gave him a friendly wave. Valerie and Dina, or Chantelle and Tiffany as they were known to the trade, roomed together on Roosevelt Island. They’d be up to see old Wendell any time now, sprinkle him with a little of their girlish sunshine and make him feel like a boy again. They knew how to get to men, but in Wendell’s case, the affection was genuine.

Wendell was starting to show his age. His hair had gone gray and his skin was not as taut as it once was, but his heart was young and his smile still radiant. It got brighter when Valerie and Dina fussed over him. He was really still a boy at heart, a boy doing a man’s work, putting food on the table ever since he was ten years old. He always strived to be a good man, and couldn’t put a finger on anything he wasn’t proud of having done. The only thing that made him sad was being alone. He had lost his beloved wife, Bev, three years back. Cancer got her and took her real quickly. Sometimes Valerie and Dina helped him forget.

“Good evening, Wendell,” Dina chanted.

“Hello, Black Prince.” Valerie put her arm through Wendell’s and gave him a buss on the cheek.

“Finally, a real man.” Dina tousled Wendell’s nappy gray hair.

Wendell glowed. “Evening, ladies. Beautiful night, isn’t it?” He lifted his free arm and Dina took it.

“You’re a breath of fresh air, Wendell,” Dina said with a smile. She drew in the evening air. “No smoke, no hairspray, no cologne—”

“No jerks, no liars, no bullshit,” Valerie continued. “Marry us, Wendell. We’re in love.” They sashayed around the tram platform feeling happy and light. Wendell’s blood pressure rose fifteen points and a youthful gait revitalized his tired step.

“You ladies have a nice evening?” Wendell inquired.

“It was hell, Wendell. Oops.” Valerie covered her mouth with her fingertips. “Heck, I mean it was heck.” Wendell’s eyes narrowed in an accusatory manner. The girls knew how he felt about profanity. “Sorry, Wendell.”

Wendell’s stern expression softened into a smile. “Hell,” he shouted. “There, I said it too. Ha, ha. That’s not so bad now, is it?” He was half-telling and half-asking. He had grown up in the heart of the Bible Belt and was just now beginning to accept the expressions that New Yorkers took for granted.

Dina rested her head against his upper arm. “You’re our prince, Wendell. You’re the only decent man either of us has talked to all night. Now remember, you promised to move in with us when you retire in the fall.” Dina gave him a playful tickle. “Don’t forget.”

Wendell blushed. “You girls shouldn’t tease an old man,” he warned. “If’n you don’t stop, you’ll end up in,” he checked their expressions before continuing, “hell.” Wendell smiled mischievously. They remained still for a moment before simultaneously bursting into laughter.

They were still arm in arm when the unoccupied tramcar came to a stop in front of them. “Your chariot to Baby Island awaits, ladies.” Wendell grinned. Wendell’s childlike demeanor caused Dina to mist up. They both kissed him on the cheek as they stepped into the tram cabin. “Sleep tight, girls.” Wendell stepped away from the cabin as his buddy Charley entered. Wendell slid the safety rail closed as his friend stepped up to the conductor’s controls. A moment later, the cabin’s doors slid shut and the tram began its thirty-one-hundred-foot journey to Roosevelt Island. The girls were at the rear window waving to him as the cabin journeyed off into the night. It made him sad to see them go.

The creaking of the cable faded into the distance. He could see the outbound cabin two hundred and fifty feet in the air, midway between the two islands. In a second, the Manhattan-bound tram would emerge to the left of the other. Yep. There it is. Few things in Wendell’s life were as predictable.

The night grew silent once again, almost eerily so. Wendell saddened still further. He imagined the scene four months hence: his last tram coming to rest. It made him feel very lonely. Darn! Loneliness was going to be a problem. He knew it already. He got to meet so many people on the tram: pretty girls, business people, tourists, and all kinds of interesting types. His son had moved off to Trenton to be near his wife’s family. Wendell sighed. It was time to be a grandpa, maybe even move to Jersey.

Wendell was still out of his booth when the returning car bumped against the guide rails and slowed to arrival speed. A strange feeling came over him. He didn’t see any passengers in the cabin, which was unusual, even for last call. Teddy Balto was the conductor. Wendell turned his head a few degrees and squinted but still didn’t see Teddy standing at the controls. Where the heck is that boy? Wendell wondered.

The cabin lowered. It was almost down. He could nearly see into the cabin’s windows now. He got up on his tiptoes to get a better view. “Dear Lord.” Teddy was slumped over the controls. Wendell feared the worst. He slid the safety rail open and jammed the door-override key into its slot. Just then, he noticed something dripping from the bottom of the doors. The light was just bright enough for him to make out the color. It was crimson. Blood? Wendell twisted the key and the doors slid open.

A dark figure exploded out of the shadows. It all happened so fast. The powerful, masked assailant had Wendell in his arms and up in the air. He charged to the edge of the platform and slammed him into the concrete retaining wall. Wendell screamed as wave after wave of excruciating pain flowed along his spine. He felt consciousness ebbing away.

He settled onto the ground as his assailant fled the platform down the concrete steps.

Wendell tried to get up. His head spun and his back hurt like hell. Several minutes passed before he was able to get to his feet. He staggered slowly over to the cabin wondering what had just happened.

Reaching the cabin, he slumped against the open doorway to support himself. He was still woozy, but managed to marshal enough strength to step onboard. The blood he had seen had come from Teddy Balto’s back. It was running under his shirt and pants and had pooled on the floor. Wendell could see a bullet’s entry wound through Teddy’s torn and charred shirt. “Dear Lord,” he screamed. His mind raced frantically. He moved closer to take a better look. “Help me, God. Help me, please.” As Wendell reached for Teddy’s walkie-talkie on the window ledge, he realized that he was off balance. He was still disoriented and dizzy. He looked down as the rate of his pounding heartbeat doubled. A woman was lying on the floor and the shank of Wendell’s boot was teetering on her outstretched arm.

Chapter Two

My name’s Chalice, Stephanie Chalice, which is pronounced Cha-lee-see, but most people don’t speak the Italian dialect, so they say Chal-lis. For some reason, they seem to enjoy the association with the spiritual and familiar but there’s really nothing spiritual about me. As soon as the word chalice is mentioned, heads fill with thoughts of the Eucharist, of sacramental wine, the blood of Christ, etc., which is quite a goddamn weight for a young woman to carry around on her shoulders. One thought leads to the next. Words run together within muddled minds: chalice, cup, vessel, and vestal virgin. Do you believe that last one? I get wisecracks like that from the guys all the time. Why can’t they just accept me for what I am, a rookie detective in the employ of the New York City Police Department.

I’m twenty-eight years old and single. I’m not seeing anyone at the moment, but I’ve definitely got my eye on someone.

During the winter months I wear slacks and a blazer and try to cover up as much as possible. The less skin the better, right? Well, no, not exactly. It seems that no manner of dress is sufficient to keep my cohorts at bay. You see NYPD boys are bad boys. They can be the worst. It doesn’t seem to matter how I cover up. They all come out of the police academy remembering one thing and one thing only: single, young female equals search and detain, not detain and search, but search and detain. I suppose that’s what happens when you give men guns. Dear Lord!

Well, it’s spring now, and not just any spring, but the most delightful one I can remember. The days are dreamy and the nights even dreamier and the winter weight camouflage just isn’t working for me anymore. Besides which, I am a woman and every once in a while I enjoy dressing like one. It was 5:00 a.m. when I got the call from my CO to hustle down to the tram station. It was Friday night out with the girls and I was dressed appropriately for bar crawling and flirting so I wasn’t dressed for work when my partner swung around to pick me up. My ensemble was geared more toward undercover work… I could’ve easily passed for a hooker.

Men say that women are hard to understand and perhaps that’s true, but no one’s motives were ever more obvious than mine. You see, my father was a cop and I loved him dearly. God rest his soul, he put in twenty-nine years on the force and loved every minute of it until diabetes up and ran away with his life. It was the one crime he was powerless to stop. Dad’s been gone a while now. I remember him in his prime; strong, healthy, and dedicated to the job. He was a guy with honest-to-God moral values; old-fashioned values acquired from a strict Catholic upbringing. He was the kind of guy who would never let a little guy take a beating. As you can see, he made quite an impression on me. So there it is. Police work is in my blood or under my skin. In either case, my dad put it there.

I think he’d be proud of me these days. His little girl was recently called a hero. My picture was in the newspaper and on TV. The brass certainly stood up and took notice. It earned this young detective some badly needed respect. I won the department’s flavor-of-the-month contest. I’m not so much vanilla, but more of a mocha-almond crunch. I collared a Libyan freedom fighter by the name of Gamal Haddad with a backpack full of explosives on New Year’s Eve. It seems that Mr. Haddad, an emissary of goodwill from the land of goat’s milk and camel dung, had decided to steal some attention from Ryan Seacrest by going up in a blaze of glory in Times Square. In the process, Mr. Haddad would have assured himself a place in paradise, praise be to Allah and all the rest of that overzealous dribble. All’s fair in love, war, and religion. Right? Bullshit! Well anyway, Ms. Photogenic’s picture was in all the New York newspapers. Everyone got a good view of my puss as I led Haddad away in handcuffs. The news programs all had me on camera. I hope they were shooting my good side.

To balance my desire to be an instrument of justice against my damnable feminine attributes, I’ve been forced to concoct a tough-as-nails persona for myself. My fellow detectives know me as cold, tough, and cynical: the kind of woman whose legs couldn’t be pried apart with the Jaws of Life. It’s not the way I’d like it to be but it’s necessary, sadly so, and it works. The titanium veneer allows me to be an effective cop and not a name scratched into the wall above the men’s room urinal. It’s been eighteen months since I made detective and I really think the boys are starting to come around. I’m apolitical, focused, and driven. I’m one of the most determined detectives on the squad. I won’t accept no for an answer, and I run down every lead until there’s absolutely no place to go.

That’s what good police work is really about: hard work, some brains, and then more hard work. I don’t come across very many Sherlock Holmes types. Genius criminal detectives are few and very far between. The archetype of a good detective is more like Rocky Balboa, a guy with a huge heart who never gives up, no matter how hopeless the circumstances seem. Did I say Rocky Balboa? Well, Rocky Balboa with some brains, but you know what I mean, a guy who keeps coming at you even after you’ve emptied a magazine full of Black Talons into his chest.

Back to the here and now. It’s Saturday and it’s five-twenty in the morning. Yes, the goddamn morning. That’s right, I said five-twenty. There’s nothing funny about the time of day, or the reason I was forced to chug a double shot of espresso just to shake out the cobwebs. I had just finished the aforementioned bar crawl when the call came in from my CO. There’s nothing quite like a double homicide to start the day. Two dead bodies were found on the Roosevelt Island tram at three-something in the morning. One was shot in the back. The other fatality was not as easily explained.

My partner, Gus Lido, was half in the bag. Gus looked as if he had slept in his clothes. He was unshaven, his eyes were bloodshot, and he was sporting the most incredible pillow-head hairdo. I’m quite certain he had forgotten to mousse. Despite his apparent lack of energy, Gus’ eyes kept wandering from the road to my left thigh. I should’ve pulled my skirt over my knees, but Gus looked as though he needed something to keep his heart going. Besides, he had been thoughtful enough to stop at Starbucks and bought coffee. In addition, he had prepared mine the way I liked it, with half and half and Sweet’N Low. Moreover, Gus is a stud. He’s actually a bright and caring guy. He’s even prone to an occasional moment of genius and one day… well, let’s just wait and see where it goes. But for the meantime, the exposed thigh was definitely keeping him happy. As his partner I wanted him alert and motivated when we got to the tram.

We got caught behind a granny going cross-town on our way to the crime scene. By my account, there are more seniors on the streets than ever before. I could see the dear old girl clear as a bell. She had silver-blue hair and wore a polyester blouse. Her face was pressed up against the steering wheel. Who else would be up and about at this ungodly hour but an octogenarian? I hit the yelp button. The old dear pulled slowly to the side. Lido almost took the mirror off our unmarked car as he squeezed by. I smiled sympathetically as we passed and the old darling flipped me the bird. I had to smile over her gumption. What’s the deal? Is Florida filled up? Does the early bird special no longer mean anything?

The sun was just crowning in the east when we arrived at the crime scene. There was barely any standing room on the tramway platform. The crime scene guys as well as the medical examiner were already there and waiting for the okay to proceed. Dozens of uniformed officers from the local precincts were in attendance. Fifty-ninth Street is the dividing line that separates the seventeenth and nineteenth precincts and as such, patrol cars from both jurisdictions had responded to the call. For some reason, there were Port Authority personnel there as well, although they really had no place in the investigation. Whatever.

Wendell Johnson, a tram employee, was there and was not looking well at all. The perp had fled the scene and in the process had almost broken Mr. Johnson’s back. The president of the Roosevelt Island Operating Corporation had gotten a call at home and come over from Roosevelt Island by launch; kudos to him. The Roosevelt Island Tramway was a sanctified gem in an otherwise heavily rusted MTA crown. Other than a small mishap with a construction crane a few years back, the tram’s history had been quiet and unremarkable. The RIOC president was looking out for his own.

Lido and I had to push and claw our way through the crowd just to get a look at the victims. A cop named Dressen had secured the crime scene and was doing a good job of keeping everyone from trampling on it. “Think there are enough cops here?” I asked him.

Dressen smiled wryly. I like a nice wry smile in the morning. “CYA,” he said.

“CYA?”

“Yeah, cover your ass. Jurisdiction is in question,” he said, “so everyone responded to make sure everyone’s fanny is covered. The altercation took place after 3:00 a.m. Try getting a brain trust on the phone at that hour.”

“Really.” Lido did a quick head count. There were close to fifty of New York’s finest on the platform. “How many do we need?” he asked.

“How many Kardashians actually have talent?” I replied.

Dressen winked before stepping aside. “Point well taken.”

I pulled a pair of latex gloves out of my coat pocket. “Got another pair?” Lido asked.

“Can’t you remember anything?” I asked, scolding him playfully.

“Come on, Cha-lee-see.” I liked the fact that he pronounced my name correctly. “Look at the time.”

“Your memory stinks. I thought you were taking that ginkgo biloba stuff.”

“I was.”

“So what happened?” Lido shrugged. Maybe it was too early… for him.

Anyway, I handed Gus an extra pair of gloves. “You’d make a lousy proctologist.” Gus laughed as he pulled them on and snapped the fingers into place. He smiled, probably not so much at the comment but at the image it must have elicited. Penny for your thoughts, big guy.

The first victim was a guy named Teddy Balto. The entry and exit wounds suggested that Balto had been popped in the back with what looked to me like a 9mm at close range. Obviously close range since we were in a tram cabin and not on a football field. The bullet had entered the lower back and gone through his heart before exiting out the front of the rib cage.

“Looks like our perp knew how to kill a man,” Lido commented.

“You’re not kidding, fast and precise.” I tried to imagine the path of the 9mm after it exited Balto’s chest and found it lodged in the steel window seal. Two inches lower and it would have pierced the safety plate glass and disappeared into the East River. I pointed it out to Dressen and asked him to show it to the forensics boys. “Looks like the perp came up behind the conductor and took him out without warning. Poor guy never knew what hit him.”

“So why didn’t he shoot the woman?” Lido asked.

“Beats me,” I replied. “Let’s find out.”

The other victim was a woman in her late thirties or early forties. She was dressed conservatively and tastefully. She wore an Escada pantsuit and had an absolutely divine scarf around her neck. I saw the telltale Hermès signature in the corner; exquisite as were the Manolo Blahnik pumps she sported. It occurred to me that I’d never seen a thousand-dollar pair of shoes before. The victim’s tennis bag was next to her. I riffled through it quickly. It contained the requisite racket, warm up suit, towel, and unmentionables.

“There’s a tennis club on the island right under the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge,” Dressen volunteered.

I winked at him. “Thanks.” He was trying to score some brownie points — can’t fault him for that.

The female victim’s name was Ellen Redner. Her unopened purse and Coach briefcase were on the floor next to her. Let’s rule out the robbery motive, shall we? She had a New York State driver’s license that listed an address on Sutton Place. She was probably on her way back from the tennis courts before someone decided to put her lights out. There was a membership card for the Roosevelt Island Racquet Club stuck in the outer pouch of her wallet. I’d call over there in a bit to confirm that Ms. Redner had in fact played.

I found legal stationary in her briefcase. Ms. Redner was listed as a partner with Holmes, Stockton, and Deveraux, a heavy-hitting law firm that I’d heard of, with offices on Wall Street.

There were no obvious signs of an attack. In fact, Ellen Redner looked very peaceful in death and it would take the medical examiner’s practiced eye to determine that she had been murdered, had it not been for the fact that her mouth was stuffed with a rag. A torn scrap of paper had been pushed in with it. The spacing of the lines on the paper was the kind that kids use to practice their penmanship. I knew it would happen sooner or later. I knew that one day I’d be investigating an honest-to-God psychopath. That’s exactly what we had. Two underlined words were written in pencil: Look back!

Chapter Three

Lido and I had pretty much covered the crime scene by 7:00 a.m. Wendell Johnson was the only employee available for questioning. Johnson had merely stumbled upon the corpse. The poor old guy was in shock after his short stint as a battering ram. By all rights, he should have gone right over to New York University Hospital for a thorough once-over, but seeing as Wendell was the salt-of-the-earth type, he waited around to tell me that he hadn’t seen the truck that hit him. At least we knew that the perp was a powerful male who had worn a ski mask and had fled the scene on foot after using Wendell as a tackling dummy. We already had the word out on the street to see if anyone had seen our perp. Good luck.

We arranged for a police launch to take us out to Roosevelt Island. The investigation had put the tram out of commission so to speak, which was a pity because I’d never had the pleasure.

What the tram could accomplish in four minutes took us fifteen by boat. Despite the beautiful weather, the ride across the East River was cold and choppy. I spent the entire ride holding down my skirt. So much for femininity.

The hearse, excuse me, the tram cabin that had transported Ellen Redner’s and Teddy Balto’s lifeless bodies back to Manhattan had been set in motion by a gent named Seth Green. Green had allegedly gone off duty shortly after seeing the last cabin on its way. He was a resident of Roosevelt Island and had been an employee for three years.

We had made several phone calls to his home, which went unanswered. Green, a thirty-four-year-old ex-landscaper, was single and lived alone, or so the shift supervisor had told us. He said that Green was a decent type, a bit of a loner, but what’s so bad about that? An RMP had been dispatched to Green’s residence. Green was either not at home or dead. In any case, he wasn’t answering the door. I was betting on the latter. Then again, let’s keep an open mind. After all, it is New York. I’m sure there are plenty of ways to stay busy, even on Roosevelt Island. We couldn’t just break down his door. It’s always embarrassing when you break into someone’s apartment only to find that the person of interest was just down the block, wrapped in the arms of the lonely neighborhood beautician.

Other than waiting to question Green and get the medical examiner’s official report as to the time and cause of Redner’s and Balto’s deaths, there wasn’t too much to do on Roosevelt Island. Poor Ellen Redner, I was betting that the standard list of snitches and informants would turn up very little. What manner of psycho leaves a crumpled note in his victim’s mouth, for Christ’s sake? This was definitely uncharted territory for me.

Anyway, thirty minutes had come and gone and if studly Seth Green was still servicing that beautician down the block, well… mad props to him. Um… I mean too bad. It was after 9:00 a.m. before we asked the superintendent to let us in, which always leaves a better impression than taking the door off the hinges.

Green had a two-bedroom on the second floor of a four-story walkup with an uninspiring view of the courtyard. Green hadn’t been there in a while. It certainly didn’t look as if he had slept in the bed. It was made up neatly, with military corners and a blanket pulled tightly enough to bounce pocket change.

Green didn’t own an answering machine. So now what? Well, Seth Green was now wanted for questioning, and like I said, I doubt that the usual rogue’s gallery of tattlers would result in much. This wasn’t your typical homicide. The usual motives for murder are theft and revenge, followed by random acts of violence. Planned homicides are the rarest of all.

It was now 10:30 a.m. and I needed to be back on the mainland for an appointment at noon. There was something important I really needed to do — more on that later. Lido now looked fully awake. The wrinkles had shaken out of his clothes and his eyes were clear, but that phenomenal pillow-head hairdo thing was here to stay.

“Okay, strategy?” Gus asked. I told you he could be brilliant.

I told Gus that I needed a couple of hours of personal time and we agreed to meet back at the house at two. Gus was going to try to get hold of one of the partners at Ellen Redner’s firm and see if we could check her office. After that, we were going to head over to Ellen’s apartment to see what was what.

By this time, all of the special teams had cleared off the Fifty-ninth Street side of the tram, so I was able to get that ride that I had been looking forward to at long last. The view was spectacular. The sun was tall and brilliant. It reflected off the windows of the monolithic skyscrapers that covered Manhattan from tip to tip. It gave me an entirely new perspective on the city. From such lofty heights, it almost seemed pure, as if the sun had bathed it in a cleansing light. For the moment I enjoyed it, the illusion that is, knowing that in a few minutes my feet would be back safely on the ground, planted firmly in the ooze. I had been on the job for six years. In that time I had learned that you could smell crime, feel it, hear it, Christ, you could almost taste it. But see it? I found that one sensory modality the least reliable of all. Nothing was ever as it seemed and appearances were most often deceptive. It was often difficult to recognize crime’s face, but I knew that it was out there, lurking in the darkness. All I had to do was scratch beneath the surface to find it.

Chapter Four

A taxi pulled up as soon as I hit the curb. You’d be surprised at how fast a cabby will stop for a woman in a skirt, especially a short one. Such serendipity usually comes at a price and this time was no exception. The driver, a prince of a man going by the name Salem Ejaz, looked like the poster boy for the National Perverts Alliance. His grease-laden hair deposited an oily smear on the Plexiglas partition. Despite the balmy weather, Mr. Ejaz was wearing a trench coat. What’s the story with that? He looked like a Hindu version of Ratso Rizo. Just looking at his photo ID gave me the willies. He seemed like the kind of slug who’d offer a free ride to a blind woman so that he could look up her skirt when she got into the cab.

I felt uncomfortable just being in a skirt and in his cab. I knew he couldn’t see anything, but that didn’t stop my skin from crawling. Of course, there was always the possibility that he had one of those miniature lipstick cams hidden somewhere. You know, like the ones HBO uses for those seedy Taxicab Confessions. That would be pretty sick, wouldn’t it? I could just imagine this perv locked in his bedroom masturbating to illicit panty shots. That thought put me over the edge. I flashed my detective’s shield. “Step on it!” I told him. “Police business.” Well, it really wasn’t police business, but I am the police after all and if some sleazebag was videotaping my vajayjay… Well, the thought was too much to bear.

Be that as it may, the shield got me downtown in a hurry. I was fifteen minutes early for my appointment so I blew into Starbucks for a quick cappuccino. I looked at one of those inedible cranberry-encrusted things they call scones and then opted for the smoked turkey on pumpernickel bread.

There was this emaciated waif waiting on line behind me. She looked a little like my cousin Vito. Now, Vito’s a good-looking man, but masculine features on a woman? Anyway, you know what I mean. She appeared to be in her fifties and looked as if she hadn’t eaten since attaining puberty. I could see that she was into designer clothes and designer food. It was a tough choice, DKNY or pastrami on rye. The poor thing was probably conflicted.

I saw her staring across the counter at the whipped cream that was being plentifully ladled onto my cappuccino. Her eyes bulged. “Oh, I wouldn’t dare!” she exclaimed.

Not a smart thing to do. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s one of those I’m too obsessed with my figure to eat anything chicks. Give me a break, will ya? “You mean to tell me that one dollop of whipped cream is going to put you in stretch pants? Live a little.” There’s always bulimia. I stopped at the condiments bar for a Sweet’N Low, not to avoid calories but for other concerns, which you will soon become privy to. I heard her ordering a decaf cap with skim milk, better known as a why bother. For God’s sake, the woman was two sizes smaller than Calista Flockhart.

Now, here’s more about that appointment that I’ve been so secretive about. Don’t tell a soul, but I’ve decided to see a shrink. I’m not crazy, far from it, but something has been bothering me for a long time, something I just can’t shake. It’s been about a year now that I’ve been having a recurring nightmare. It’s real nasty stuff, the kind you wake up from all bent out of shape.

I got Leonard Isaacs’ name from my friend Candy. Candy’s a borderline cuckoo herself, and never finds anything or anyone good enough. Absolutely nothing is up to her esoteric standards. According to her, Mozart was a chicken plucker. So just the fact that she liked Isaacs spoke volumes about him. More importantly, Candy was one of the few acquaintances I had with absolutely no ties back to the job, and that was very important to me.

Isaacs was a man in his early sixties. His hair was completely white and he wore thick Buddy Holly-esque black-framed glasses, a throwback to the fifties. He was trim and wore houndstooth slacks. The matching suit jacket was folded neatly and had been placed over the back of a side chair. He wasn’t wearing a wedding band. Women notice these things. Yes, even me. So he was either a career bachelor, widowed, divorced, had lost or refused to wear his wedding band, or he was gay. I was betting gay. Candy is a big time fag hag.

We sat down facing each other in identical Nubuck suede armchairs, which were kind of nice. It was sort of like sitting in an oversized baseball glove. I crossed my legs and noticed that Isaacs crossed his in an identical manner. He grimaced. It looked as if he had eaten stale pastrami for lunch. “Dr. Isaacs, I—”

He stopped me immediately. “Call me Len.”

I resumed. “Before we begin, I want to be completely clear about our arrangement. I’ll pay you in cash for each session. I don’t want to receive any mail from you, or anything bearing your name, not so much as an appointment card. You are never to mention my name or my case to anyone, not Candy, or your colleagues or your drinking buddies. Are we clear?” I needed to make a real point of this. I didn’t want anyone on the force finding out that I was seeing a shrink. I didn’t so much as write down his name or address or the time of the appointment. I committed it all to memory. Committed, now there’s an interesting choice of words. In any case, I didn’t want any paper trail of our relationship. How’s that for being a psycho?

“Ms. Chalice, the relationship between a therapist and his patient is completely confidential. Our conversations are between you and me, no one else. However, I must tell you that the law requires me to inform the proper authorities if I feel that any of my patients are a threat to their own lives or to the lives of others.” His eyes widened. “I hope that makes you feel more comfortable. I’m here to listen to you and to help you if I can. You can and should tell me everything that’s on your mind. That will help me do my job more efficiently.”

“I know the law.” I knew that he was obligated to make that statement. I wasn’t worried, primarily because I wasn’t going to kill myself, and the only one I might do harm to was Isaacs if in fact he ever spilled the beans. “I’m a police officer.”

Isaacs squirmed uncomfortably. He scrunched his face and inhaled, clearing his nostrils. “Why did you choose to see me as opposed to seeing someone available to you from the police department?”

“Very simple. Any sign of emotional imbalance can destroy a cop’s career. I’m here to see you on a matter that has nothing to do with my police work. It’s tough enough being a young woman in a man’s business. Understand?” Isaacs nodded. He seemed a bit more relaxed after hearing my explanation.

He pursed his lips. “Okay then, tell me why you’re here.”

There was a lot I could tell Leonard Isaacs: that I had an obsessive personality, that my father had died from complications of Type 1 diabetes, and that my mother was sinking in the same insulin-deficient quicksand. I could tell him that I was absolutely neurotic over the prospect of being diagnosed with the disease myself, that I subscribed to a monk’s diet except for the cappuccino and whipped cream, which was the only indulgence I allowed myself, and that I was fanatic about exercise. I didn’t. These were problems that I had my arms around and though I would love to munch an occasional Oreo, I was much better off without it. I completely understood the demons that drove me and didn’t need to discuss them with anyone. If I was lucky, and I doubted I would be, one visit would do it. God forbid some jerk on the squad saw me coming here; the end would be slow and painful.

Now for the scary stuff. I got even more comfortable in the Nubuck mitt. It made me feel like I was a little girl again, safe in my daddy’s arms. “Well, Doc. . excuse me, Len. I have this nightmare every few nights.” Isaacs seemed to be focusing. He edged closer in his chair. “It’s not terribly long. In fact it all seems to happen rather quickly.”

“Most dreams do. Go on.”

“I think I’m on a stretcher or a gurney and I’m being rushed into an emergency room. There’s a doctor on one side and a nurse on the other. They’re backpedaling and I’m being taken further and further into the ER. Somehow I’ve got the sense that I’m pregnant because from where I’m lying, my belly looks swollen. I focus on my arms and they’re burnt and bloody. When I look up again, the doctor is standing over me with a scalpel in his hands.” I paused and tugged my skirt down just for the hell of it, even though I didn’t feel the need for modesty in Isaacs’s presence. “I think I begin to moan. I want to get off that damn stretcher, but I can’t move. It’s like someone is holding me down. Then, I’m not sure if I’m asleep or awake, but I start rocking back and forth. I fight to get free, but I can’t and I keep moaning.” I stopped and looked at Isaacs. “And then I wake up, scared shitless, drenched in sweat with my heart pounding like a kettle drum.”

Isaacs squeezed his chin. He smiled politely and took off the outdated black glasses. “Stephanie, I’m going to ask you a few questions. They may sound a little silly. You’ll probably answer no to all of them, but humor me, okay?” He closed his eyes momentarily, as if setting himself to the task. “First, have you or someone you know or have known ever been involved in a situation similar to the one you dream about?”

“No.”

“And you’ve never been burned or frightened by fire?”

“No.”

“Never rushed anyone into a hospital emergency room?”

“No.”

“Never had surgery?”

“No.”

“You see where I’m going with this?”

“Yes, and I think you’re right.”

“Come again?”

“The questions are silly.”

Isaacs smiled again, quaintly this time. “All right, this is where we start. Dreams, or nightmares are usually triggered by a subconscious fear or desire — strong ones obviously. The conscious part of the mind is unaware of what this fear or desire is. Hence, we dream. Dreams are the psyche’s way of dealing with situations, either real or imagined, that are difficult for us to deal with in our conscious lives. These, let’s call them… situations, represent a conflict that we have trouble dealing with in real life. Now, and this is key, there may be a vast difference between that portion of the dream that you actually experience and remember and the actual meaning of the dream, which may be largely concealed. Follow?”

“I think so.” I was letting Isaacs roll. I wanted to see how much information one hundred and fifty bucks bought from a shrink. On the street, it wouldn’t go far. So far he wasn’t helping any.

“Your dream is traumatic in nature. You see the doctor as a menacing figure. He has a scalpel or, generically speaking a knife, and he’s threatening you. You have this feeling that you need to escape, but are being held captive. You moan. You wake up frightened. We have a term for this. We call it dream terror.” Isaacs uncrossed his legs. Without his glasses he was looking exceedingly effeminate, but he was getting interesting so who cared? “Any questions so far?”

“No.” Well, actually yes, but I didn’t want to interrupt.

“Now let’s put the cards on the table.” Isaacs stood and walked over to the window. His office was on the ground floor. I could see a rhododendron blossoming through the window just past the wrought-iron security bars. “You’re a cop. Not just any cop, but a New York City homicide detective. I can just imagine the horrendous things you see every day: gunshot victims, stabbings, rape… mutilation. It goes on and on, doesn’t it? It may not occur to you during waking hours, but these atrocities may be the cause of your nightmares.” Isaacs sat down again and crossed his legs. “Or they may not. If we can pinpoint one incident that is causing your distress, we can deal with it. We call this a causal circumstance. If, however, your nightmare is your psyche’s reaction to your day-to-day work situation, well, then…”

“Well then what, become a florist?”

“Well then, yes, you may want to think about a career change.” Splendid. “Just because you’re able to deal with your work on a conscious level, it doesn’t mean you can deal with it on a subconscious level.”

Isaacs’ news made me very, very unhappy. I’d already decided to be a career cop. I liked the job as much as my old man had. There was a sense of satisfaction I got from doing righteous work that I’d never experienced before in my life. That’s the way it must have been for my father and that’s the way it is for me. How do you give up on something like that? “Well then, Len, let’s say I’m not ready to bag the police department. What do you suggest?”

“Well, Stephanie, as much as you’ll dislike hearing this, psychology is as much an art as it is a science, maybe more so. We talk and then we talk some more and then we talk some more. Hopefully, somewhere along the line, we’ll come across your underlying problem or at least find a direction in which to proceed. There are two procedures that I’ve had success with in this area. The first is hypnosis and the second is something called E.M.D.R.”

Hypnosis? Did he say hypnosis? If I see a gold watch come out of his pocket, I’m out of here. “You mean hypnosis where I follow a dazzling object and then one day someone offers me scrambled eggs and I start clucking like a chicken?”

Isaacs smiled, genuinely I think, although I’m sure he’d heard a lot of responses like mine over the years. “No more than modern physicians rely on bloodletting to lower fever. First and foremost, I’m Board-trained and certified in hypnosis, but I would like to see you cluck like a chicken.” He smiled. “Just kidding.” We both laughed. I was glad to see that Isaacs could tell a joke; obviously one he had told a hundred times before, but a joke nonetheless. “You shouldn’t be afraid of hypnosis. I’m not going to ask you to do anything bizarre, least of all something you wouldn’t do when you’re conscious. I simply get you to relax. I have you focus on my voice and then I try to direct my questions to the subconscious part of the brain. In the process, you relay the information we’re both looking for.”

“I see.” Well, maybe I’d see. I wasn’t too happy about being put under. The connotation was that I really needed help. Christ, it was just a nightmare. Couldn’t I just take Prozac like everyone else? “So what’s this E.M.D.R. thing?”

Isaacs smiled again. “E.M.D.R. stands for Eye Movement, Desensitization, and Reprocessing. It’s a technique in which I have you follow a light or hand movements. What I’ll be trying to do is simulate REM sleep. During the course of the exercise, I ask you questions and have you imagine certain situations. I know it sounds bizarre, but it’s very, very effective. It’s proven particularly successful with war vets. Trust me, nothing’s caused more dream terror than war.”

E.M.D.R. was a new one to me. I could see that this was not going to be a one-shot deal. In truth the nightmares were really getting to me. They seemed to be happening with increased frequency. I saw Isaacs glance at his watch. My time was up.

“What do you think, Stephanie? Want to give it a try?”

So there I was in my analyst’s office, face to face with a man who was ready to violate the sanctity of my most personal and private thoughts, and to think he was willing to do all this for a paltry one hundred and fifty dollars an hour. I guess I really did need my head examined.

Chapter Five

Jonathan Deveraux had made the unforgivable mistake of taking his cell phone with him to the country club and was therefore accessible to us. His partners, Randolph Stockton and Emery Holmes, were not. It was 4:00 p.m. before he was able to meet us at his office. Lido and I were sensitive to the fact that a man of Deveraux’s stature could not just up and go. He had to shower and change before leaving the club, down a quick draft ale in the clubhouse and discuss the evening’s plans with his cronies. In all fairness, it was at least an hour’s drive from New Canaan to the city, even in a Bentley.

The offices of Holmes, Stockton, and Deveraux were impressive, and I was again treated to a breathtaking view of the city. The sun was low over Manhattan’s southern tip. I wanted to kick off my shoes and have a margarita, grab the first eligible stud and… but that would have to wait.

The office was open and to my surprise quite hectic. Holmes, Stockton, and Deveraux was a big firm specializing in mergers and acquisitions. The firm had a huge roster of clients, chock-full of Internet and technology companies. The firm’s close physical proximity to Wall Street was in no way coincidental.

Jonathan Deveraux’s office was painted pine green. Lovely tongue-in-groove floorboards were stained a rich mahogany brown. It was a true gentleman’s office, replete with period photographs of tennis legends. I recognized Budge, Newcomb, Riggs, and several others. A bag of antique golf clubs resided in a corner of the room beneath an original oil portrait of Bobby Jones. Deveraux’s desk was at once massive and impressive. It was so incredibly well made, as if a hundred craftsmen had labored a hundred years to build it.

We were allowed to wait in Deveraux’s office. I assumed that he had phoned ahead and given instructions to that effect. Deveraux had not been told the reason for the emergency meeting, only that the police department needed to see him immediately. Speaking of studs, while we waited for him, I noted quite happily that Lido had taken the opportunity to shower and shave. He had changed his clothes and was now wearing his casual best. His wavy hair was so full and lustrous, it almost demanded that a woman run her fingers through it. Without the stubble, I was able to make out the cleft in his chin and two adorable little dimples. Where are those margaritas when you need them?

“This is better,” I said, referring to his appearance. “You were looking a bit ripe this morning.”

“Are you kidding? I couldn’t get out of bed. I threw on the first thing I could find.”

“No kidding.”

“We can’t all be picture-perfect.”

“Why not?”

“Hey, are you dissing me?” Actually, I was flirting, but he was close enough.

My phone vibrated. It was a cop named Atkinson. Seth Green had turned up. Unhappily, he was not getting a frost and blow from the neighborhood beautician. The weekend custodian had found Green’s body locked in a storage closet right there at the Roosevelt Island tram station, with one bullet to the heart. They were prying what looked to be a 9mm slug out of the closet wall as we spoke.

The session with Isaacs was still fresh in my head. I didn’t want to admit it, but the man was pretty good. Well, not pretty good, but really not bad. I came away feeling happy, almost chipper, and I am rarely, I repeat, rarely chipper. It’s good to have someone to talk to, even if it’s someone who costs you a bundle and convinces you that you need more therapy. Being in therapy was the last thing I wanted, but I could deal with it for a little while and would see how it went. Let’s see if Isaacs could get that pain-in-the-butt nightmare to go away.

I had just finished telling Lido about Seth Green’s untimely passing when Deveraux blew into the room. The man was unbridled energy. He was tall and thin with chestnut-brown hair that had begun to turn gray at the sideburns. He had sort of a Peter Lawford look going, which really wasn’t bad at all. He was wearing a camel-colored suede blazer over a houndstooth vest. He walked directly up to us, taking my hand first and then Lido’s. “Detectives Chalice and Lido, I was surprised to receive your phone call. I hope I don’t need… a lawyer.”

Not unless you iced your partner. Deveraux was smooth. He didn’t know the nature of our visit and had decided to start off in a friendly demeanor. I was sure the fangs were there, to spring forth in the event his lawyer’s soul required a living sacrifice. Lawyers can be kind of two-faced, or haven’t you heard?

“I hope I haven’t kept you waiting very long; the ride from New Canaan is hell on the weekends.” I thought as much. Deveraux flipped around a desk chair and sat down facing us. “Well, Detectives, what’s going on?”

Lido’s face, which was generally impassive, grew somber. Deveraux saw this and grasped the arms on his chair uneasily. “I’m afraid we have some bad news,” Lido said. “Ellen Redner has been found dead. We’re very sorry.”

“My God.” Deveraux shut his eyes as his face contorted. He stood up and walked unsteadily to the window where he was able to face away from us. Lido and I gave him a moment. Within a few seconds, he was clawing at a box of tissues.

“Would you like us to leave you alone for a few minutes?” Lido asked. “Really, it’s not a problem.”

“No, no.” I could hear him sniffling. He was still dabbing at his tears when he spun around. “How? How in the hell did this happen? Tell me how.”

“Her body was found in a Roosevelt Island Tram car around three-thirty this morning,” I told him.

“On the tram? What the hell was she doing on the tram?” It took a moment, but then the light bulb went on. “Tennis?”

Lido replied, “Yes, a little late-night exercise, I’m afraid.”

Deveraux grabbed another wad of tissues and used them to dry his brow. “What happened to her? Was she mugged, attacked… what? Why the hell was she still there after three in the morning?”

“None of the above, I’m afraid. She was simply found dead. The last cabin came in from Roosevelt Island and when the door opened, she was lying on the floor. The conductor was shot to death. Someone went to a lot of trouble to kill your partner. It looks very much like a planned assassination. There were no other passengers aboard and no obvious signs of attack. Her purse and wallet were intact, as was her briefcase. That’s how we found our way here. There were no emergency numbers found in her wallet. We tried calling her home, but there was no answer. I assume she lived alone. As for why she was found at three-thirty, I’m not sure. We spoke with someone at the tennis academy. Ms. Redner took a private lesson from ten to eleven-thirty. She left the club shortly before midnight. We can’t explain the missing three hours yet, but we will.”

“Jesus, this is fucking terrible.” Deveraux rubbed his neck. “What else can you tell me?”

“A small note was found with the body.”

Deveraux’s eyes widened and his breath became labored. “A note? You’re kidding me. A note, what kind of note?”

“We found a small piece of paper, grade-school paper, the kind kids use to practice their penmanship. It said, Look back!”

“My God!” Deveraux exclaimed. “That’s insane.” He shook his head with dismay. “Who does a thing like that? How was she murdered?”

“We’re still waiting for the official report, but the medical examiner believes she suffocated. There was a gash and a small contusion on her head, but we think those injuries were incidental. She may have fallen and hit her head after she lost consciousness. Again, this is all guesswork for the minute.” I didn’t like the way Deveraux looked. His complexion had turned a shade of green not very different from the paint on the walls.

“Is she the first victim to turn up with a wad of notepaper? Is there some kind of serial sicko out there that the police department is keeping under wraps?” he demanded.

“No, Mr. Deveraux. As far as we know, this is an isolated incident.”

“Damn it.” Deveraux slammed the side of his fist against the wall. “We had lunch together on Wednesday.” Deveraux looked up, searching our eyes. “Do you know how many times a woman like Ellen Redner leaves the office for a proper lunch?” Lido and I both shook our heads. “Maybe twice a year, once being Christmas.” Deveraux took a deep breath which helped his color. “I’m sick, I’m just sick. Do you know why we had lunch? Ellen was planning an adoption and she needed someone to talk it over with.”

I was getting the picture. Redner had been a true career lawyer, long hours and no social life. One day she turned around and realized that at forty, her life was empty. There weren’t more than a handful of worthwhile men to choose from. She was sick and tired of the dating scene, so rather than marrying some loser, Ellen decided to do the most noble and honorable thing she could. This really sucked. I didn’t come across a lot of strong, smart, independent women much and now there was one fewer. Damn. It was wrong to do so, but I had already decided that Ellen Redner was the kind of woman I would have liked to know.

“Did she have family, Mr. Deveraux?” Lido asked.

“Ellen’s brother lives in California. He’s an independent movie producer. Would you like me to call him?”

“It’s not necessary, Mr. Deveraux. We can do it,” Lido explained.

“I’d like to make the call if you have no objections. Keith’s the only one she’s close to. It’s the least I can do. Her parents are both gone.”

“That’s fine, Mr. Deveraux. We appreciate it,” I told him, “but we’ll need his phone number all the same.”

“So how do we find this bastard? My firm stands at your disposal. All of our resources are yours. I’d like to help in any way I can.”

“That’s kind of you. We’ll certainly keep that in mind. We’d like to look through Ms. Redner’s office. After that, we’re going to check her apartment. Is there anyone else at the firm we should speak to, anyone else who might have something beneficial to tell us?”

“Ellen and I were close. I think I would know more about her than the rest, but you’re certainly free to ask around. I can arrange a schedule so that you can interview the staff.”

“Any close friends that you know of?” I continued.

“I know she has friends, but there aren’t any names that come to mind. Perhaps if I went through her Rolodex.” Deveraux moved quickly to his desk. “All right, come on. I’ve got a master key. I can let you into her office. Perhaps you’ll stumble upon something important. You never know.” Deveraux slid open the center drawer and produced a large ring of keys. “I assume you’ll let me know if you remove anything from her office?”

“We will,” I replied. “Just one more thing, Mr. Deveraux. Was Ms. Redner seeing anyone, or is there anyone you know of who might have wanted to harm her?”

“No,” Deveraux stated emphatically. “She was married to her job. This was her life.” Deveraux broke down and began to weep. “And she was a very big part of ours.”

Chapter Six

“Medeco pick-proof cylinder, drill-resistant security plate, steel-reinforced doorjambs. Shit!” Anatoli, the contract locksmith the department used, looked up in disgust. It was half past seven and he was tired and exasperated. Anatoli looked as if he wanted to be somewhere else, probably curled up in bed with one of his Russian tootsies, drinking vodka and burying the bishop. They do have bishops in Russia, don’t they? How about cramming the czar? Or my personal favorite: ramming the Russki? In any case, from Anatoli’s looks, my guess was that Russian women were not very discriminating. Anatoli scratched his head and then swore, “The place is a fucking vault!” Yes, comrade. Da.

The determined Slav worked on the locks in the most unobtrusive manner for about fifteen minutes before opting for brute force over finesse. A fourteen-pound sledgehammer took the door off its frame, forever desecrating the entrance to the shrine which had once been home to Ellen Redner.

Lido and I began nosing around, tossing the place, as we call it in the trade. The first thing I can tell you about Ms. Redner was that she had great shoes, lots of them. I mean we’re talking an Imelda Marcos collection. From the looks of the place, Ellen was not expecting company. It wasn’t dirty, just messy. There were Botticellis and Guccis strewn all over the place: pumps, slingbacks, moccasins, sandals, you name it. Her feet were small, really small. They looked like size five, maybe five and a half, although I wasn’t getting close enough to check.

Her dresser was filled with Swarovski collectibles. There were several crystal ashtrays filled with jewelry; one held bracelets, another pendants, and still a third contained earrings. I poked around, looking through the earrings, and noticed that she had the cutest pair of huggies. There was a lot of loose and accessible temptation around so I flagged down a cop named Gabrosh, another Russian, and asked him to have all the jewelry photographed and catalogued, tout de suite. Better to be safe than sorry. The last thing I needed was Internal Affairs up my firm little bottom, looking for a bangle bracelet that had walked out with one of the fingerprint boys.

Lido allowed me the privilege of going through Ellen Redner’s dresser. I didn’t cherish doing so, but at least it showed me that he wasn’t into handling women’s undergarments. I opened one of the drawers which was piled high with fresh packages of Wolford pantyhose. I turned to Lido and asked, “Hey, Gus, what do pantyhose and Brooklyn have in common?”

Lido’s head was in the closet. He turned to me with a bewildered look on his face. “I don’t know, what?”

“Flatbush… Get it? Flat-bush.” Lido smiled wryly. I like a nice wry smile in the afternoon as well. He shook his head in dismay. He grinned, but didn’t laugh. What can I tell you? Girl joke.

I continued to go through Ellen’s drawers. I heard Lido’s voice emanating from within the closet. “Find anything unusual,” he asked.

“Nothing electric or lubricated,” I replied. “Nothing rubberized, vulcanized, or elongated, nothing that vibrates whatsoever.” I heard Lido’s snickering from within the closet. Of course there was always old reliable manual stimulation. Barring this, however, I deduced that Ellen Redner, a young, successful and intelligent woman in her early forties must have had a love interest of some variety. Woman does not live by bread alone. They say that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. It’s similar with women. We don’t require a full meal, but rather a taste from time to time. There had to be a piece of candy somewhere.

Lido finished with the closet. I walked past and saw that my partner had examined most of her outfits, almost all of which were in dry-cleaning bags. He had lain some of her suits on the bed: a teal Tahari, an Armani, and an absolutely stunning Calvin Klein. I noticed three Prada shoulder bags hanging from the inside closet doorknob. A wicker Kate Spade was filled with tampons. Now, that’s class. Ellen Redner had done well for herself — I mean, we were talking megabucks.

The apartment was spacious. There were two bedrooms, the master, which we had been through, and a guest bedroom. Ellen was no doubt planning to convert the smaller one into a nursery. There was an eat-in kitchen, a combination living room-dining room, and a study that contained a desk and a Bang & Olufsen stereo. It was a really spectacular piece of equipment. Speaking of which, I caught a glimpse of Lido striding toward the front door. Yum.

There were several framed pictures on the wall of Ellen’s study, mostly shots of Ellen with her family. I found many academic mementos on the bookshelf. Among them was her high school yearbook. I flipped through the pages and found Ellen’s picture. She had been the prim and studious-looking type at eighteen. Her accomplishments were listed below her photograph: senior class president, Future Leaders of America, Arista Honor Society, and lastly, Senior Sing. Her picture appeared next to a budding Neanderthal type whose name was Marcus Ripper. Beneath his name was listed, Future Ax Murderers of America. Okay, just kidding. He probably grew up and became a postal carrier.

Ellen had graduated magna cum laude from George Washington University. I had seen her diploma on the wall in her office, along with her juris doctorate from Columbia. Several certificates were lodged in between the back cover and last page. I noted that Ellen Redner had won a Regents Scholarship and a grant from the Ford Foundation. She had been one brilliant young woman. I had a sense of what this person had been like: brilliant, dedicated, and caring. Her plans to adopt a child really told me all I needed to know about her. Some psychopath had murdered her, stuffed a note in her mouth, and taken out Teddy Balto for good measure. I wanted this son of a bitch in the worst way.

I heard shouting coming from where the front door used to be. I put Ellen’s yearbook back on the shelf and went to see what all the commotion was about. Officer Gabrosh’s frame filled the doorway. He was having words with a good-looking man in a three-piece suit. Lido got to the doorway before me. He was doing an okay job of quieting down the visitor who a moment earlier had seemed on the verge of hysterics. I caught up with Lido just as the man asked, “Where’s Ellen? I demand to know.” Not, What’s going on? Not, What are you doing in Ms. Redner’s apartment, but Where’s Ellen? I demand to know. From where I stood, the man looked and sounded like candy. Having a sweet tooth of my own, I had a sixth sense for these things. He was dark and strapping, Latino, perhaps Mexican by descent. I checked his hair, his eyes, and the cut of his suit. Yo quiero Taco Bell; may I hold your chalupa? Gabrosh, the oaf, finally stepped out of the way and I was able to see that the man’s left ring finger was adorned with gold. Damn.

Lido turned to me. “This is Dr. Villas. He’s a neighbor and claims to be a friend of Ms. Redner.”

I squeezed past Gabrosh and Lido to offer Villas my hand. “Detective Stephanie Chalice. May I help you?” I said authoritatively. Dr. Villas had not seen me standing behind Lido and was surprised to find me in his face. I was glad to see that he was not too distressed to give me a proper once over. Hey, up here. “Dr. Villas, may I help you?” Villas snapped to attention.

“Yes, I live in the building. I heard the commotion and wanted to see what was going on. I’m a friend of Ms. Redner.” And then finally, “Is she all right?”

“Where’s your apartment, Dr. Villas?” My God, he had the most gorgeous hazel eyes. I looked into the corridor waiting for him to point to one of the other apartment doors.

“Thirty-seven-A,” he stated.

Ellen Redner’s apartment was on the eighth floor, nowhere near the thirty-seventh. “As in the thirty-seventh floor?” I tilted my head. Dr. Villas looked back sheepishly. A picture is worth a thousand words. If that wasn’t an admission of guilt… “Come in, Dr. Villas,” I insisted. “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

I directed Dr. Villas to the dining room table. He seemed unhappy about being asked in, but… well, tough. As he walked past me, I noticed that he had the slightest limp, almost imperceptible. Well, two lovers after all; what would you expect?

Lido joined us at the dining room table. He took out a notepad and a pencil before winking at me. It was a sexy wink, just for the record that is. I began asking questions. “There are twenty-nine floors between this apartment and yours, Dr. Villas. You must have incredibly astute hearing.”

Villas seemed to take the comment in stride. “Detective Chalice, I saw three police cars and assorted official vehicles parked at the building’s entrance. William, the concierge told me that the police had gone up to Ms. Redner’s apartment.”

Not buying that one, not buying it at all.

“Ellen… “ he continued. “I mean Ms. Redner and I are friends.”

And then some, I’m sure. Good for Ellen, bad for Mrs. Villas, but really good for Ellen. I was glad that Ellen had a little fun in her life. It seemed as though she more than deserved to. Of course, her entertainment should not have come at Mrs. Villas’ expense, but considering the circumstances, we’ll have to cut her a little slack. “So you say you were friends. What kind of friends?”

“Ellen’s a lovely person. I have many friends in the building.” Both Villas and I knew that he was lying. Villas searched my eyes to see if I was satisfied. I wasn’t, but I wasn’t grilling him to ascertain whether he was unfaithful either. I didn’t think he was the kind of guy who would murder a woman and then stuff a note in her mouth, but I had to satisfy myself thoroughly. Besides, he was really nice to look at. Oh, had I mentioned that before?

“I have some bad news, Dr. Villas. Ellen’s dead.” Villas shook his head in dismay. I saw the muscles in his face tighten and then the same thing happened to his throat. His breathing ceased and he began to slowly rock back and forth in his chair. He was staring past me, out the window. He finally gasped and drew a breath.

“When?” he asked sadly. He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed at his eyes.

“Sometime after three this morning,” I explained. “I’m sorry to say we suspect that she’s been murdered.”

“Oh, dear God. No.” Tears ran from his eyes. “Please tell me what happened to her.” Villas was genuinely distraught. If he was a faker, he was a damn good one.

“Her body was found on the Roosevelt Island tram. Do you know of anyone she might have visited there?”

It took Villas a long moment to respond. “No.”

“Can’t think of any reason she’d go there?” Lido asked.

“I’m afraid not,” Villas replied. “I really don’t know any of her other friends.” I wasn’t surprised. I doubted that anyone else knew that he had had a relationship with her, including, of course, the unwitting Mrs. Villas. It’s poor practice to be seen with your mistress.

Lido gave me a knowing look. He understood that I was holding back some of the details to see if Villas might fill in the blanks.

“When was the last time you saw Ms. Redner?” I asked.

He was reluctant, but finally answered, “We had dinner together on Thursday night.”

“Just the two of you? Your wife didn’t join you?” I narrowed my eyes.

Villas looked around the room, his eyes darting evasively. “My wife’s in California on vacation. She’s visiting with her family.” Lido and I made eye contact.

Yeah, right!

“Dr. Villas, were you and Ms. Redner having an affair?” I wasn’t going to ask the question, but Lido did. A verbal affirmation would have been redundant. Villas looked at me, pleading with his eyes.

“Gus.” I shook my head, calling off the dogs, as it were. Then I turned back to the doctor. “Dr. Villas, we’ll need your phone number. We’ll have to sit down again in a more formal atmosphere.” Both Gus and I gave Villas our business cards. “Call us if you think of anything that might be helpful to us.” Villas gave us each a card of his own. He wrote his home phone number on the backs of them.

“Thank you,” he said. He was grateful for being let off the proverbial hook. He strode away. I wished that I could have seen the, I’d better get the hell out of here fast expression on his face.

Lido was giving me a look of his own. “Come on, Gus. Don’t start.”

“Why’d you cut him loose?” Lido asked unhappily.

“Why not? We had everything the man could give. What was the point of taking his dignity? We both know he was shtooping her. Did you really need to hear him admit it?”

Lido’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, for the record. Yes, I did.”

“Well, as long as it was for the record and not for your own personal gratification.”

“Hey, why are you so pissy? Mad because Don Juan was married?”

“Nope. Read between the lines. That didn’t stop him before.” Having said that, I turned away from Lido and walked out of the apartment. It was eight-thirty and I was an hour and a half late for a dinner appointment. All in all though, it was good to know where Lido stood on the fidelity issue, just for the record, of course.

Chapter Seven

Samantha Harris hit the shuffle button on her iPod. Within a couple of seconds, “Genie in a Bottle” was playing through her headphones. She liked the song and started singing along. Samantha liked surprises, the unexpected, and things that were new and different. She had downloaded about thirty songs in the office, multitasking, as it were. She never stopped working for a second.

Samantha was forty-one years young. She was still slim, still energetic and definitely living life on her own terms. A twenty-year-old guy gave her the eye as she walked down Second Avenue. She kept her head down and pretended not to notice but it made her feel warm and fuzzy all over. The guy was definitely hot.

Half a block later, she stopped and checked her reflection in a store window. The Juicy Couture top and Wonderbra thing were still working for her, as were the Mudd jeans and the Steve Madden boots. Short bleached hair added to her youthful appearance, as did her backpack, which was standard issue among the tech set. Staring at herself in the window, she looked much younger than her years. She looked as young as she felt and that’s not bad.

She had just put in a thirteen-hour day at Razorfish, where she had completed the publication of the new website she had designed for Nike. She had no problem keeping up with the kids. In terms of energy, ideas, and technology, she could go toe-to-toe with any of the young hot shots. The kids had a nickname for her. They called her Software Sam, the queen of HTML.

Tommy O’Brien, the evening doorman at her co-op, greeted her with an engaging smile. “I see you’re still burning the midnight oil, Ms. Harris.” He spoke in a heavy Irish brogue.

Samantha smiled gaily. “Technology waits for no man,” she announced, “and you know what that means, Tommy.”

“It means you’ve got to be bustin’ yer ass, doesn’t it? Day and night, day and night, I don’t know if all this technology is a blessing or a curse.” Tommy shrugged. “Do you think them computers will ever replace the likes of old Tommy O’Brien?”

Samantha smiled. “Tommy, nothing will ever replace you. No machine could ever do the job that you do.” She gave him a friendly jab in the shoulder. “Certainly not with as much warmth and style. Why, if it weren’t for you, I’d pick myself up and move the hell out of the building.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I would too.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“I mean it.” Samantha reached up and pinched the giant’s cheek. “ ‘But now, boys and girls, it’s time for most of you to go to sleep.’ “

Tommy raised his finger into the air. His mind was working and you could almost see the rotation of the wheels in his head. “That sounds familiar,” he proclaimed in his thick brogue. “I know it, I know it. Give me a minute. It’ll come to me.” Samantha loved to challenge the friendly giant.

Samantha grinned. “Okay, Mr. O’Brien, show me what you’ve got.”

“I know it, I do. Darn it, it’s on the tip of my tongue.”

Samantha grinned slyly and then looked at her watch. “Ten seconds, O’Brien. Tick-tock.”

“Oh shite,” he exclaimed. “Come on, O’Brien, come on. Darn it all. I know it as sure as I know my own name.”

Samantha winked and then walked through the door. “Terrytoon Circus, “ she announced as she walked into the lobby.

O’Brien’s eyes widened. “Right. Claude Kirchner. I used to watch that show as a kid.”

Samantha waved to O’Brien before entering the elevator and pushing the button for the twenty-eighth floor.

Once inside, she hit the shuffle button on her iPod again. It was like a roulette wheel. She never knew what she was going to get. The elevator doors closed and “What a Girl Wants” funneled through the headphones. Back-to-back Christina Aguilera, what were the chances?

Samantha Harris took advantage of the moment. There was something safe and private that she absolutely adored about being in an empty elevator. It was like taking a shower. She was overwhelmed by the urge to sing.

Her eyes were closed. She was belting it out when the elevator stopped. She waited for the doors to open, and when they didn’t, she realized that it had stopped between floors. None of the floor indicators were illuminated. She pushed the door-open button hoping that it would do the trick. It didn’t. “Damn it.” She pushed the button for twenty-eight again and held it in. It didn’t illuminate. Nothing happened, absolutely nothing. Samantha pulled off her headphones, thinking it would help her concentrate. What to do? she wondered. She counted to sixty with her finger pressed firmly against the button, hoping against hope.

Samantha pulled out the red alarm button and stuck her fingers in her ears in anticipation of the blaring alarm bell. Silence. She grew nervous. “What the hell is wrong?” She banged the side of her fist against the control panel. “Come on,” she swore. She remembered the security camera mounted on the elevator’s ceiling and looked up at it and waved hoping that O’Brien was paying attention. “Come on, O’Brien, turn around, turn around.” She was trying to will him with her words.

A few minutes passed without success. That safe and private sing-in-the-shower feeling was gone. She now felt as if she was trapped in a vault, confined and claustrophobic. Prison was not up there on her list of things to try. She was starting to panic and didn’t like the feeling of not being in control. She slapped her hands against the door in frustration hoping that the noise would attract someone’s attention. “Somebody help me!” she bellowed. “Shit!”

She was determined not to let the situation get the best of her. She sat down on the floor and pulled off her backpack. “Keep busy,” she told herself as she pulled out her laptop, hit the power button and waited for it to come to life. A blinking cursor began to flash in the upper left-hand corner of the screen. She stared at the cursor. As she did, all the power in the elevator went off and she was surrounded in total pitch black.

Chapter Eight

I could smell the cigarette smoke even before the door was open. I could picture my mother standing behind the door fanning away the smoke and spraying Lysol with reckless abandon. Her eyes were darting around the apartment when I walked in. “You’re smoking, Ma? What did I tell you about smoking?”

“Of course I’m smoking,” she huffed. “You’re two hours late. I was so nervous I didn’t know what to do with myself. Did you ever think about picking up the telephone?”

“Sorry, I was working a case. It slipped my mind.”

“Sorry? The spaghetti’s sfata.” Sfata, in Italian that means that the pasta has been overcooked and is now the consistency of library paste—”and the London broil’s as hard as a bowling ball.” She was talking with her hands, flailing them in the air like a samurai swordsman. “You don’t want me to smoke,” she yelled, “be on time. You’ll be a mother someday. Just wait.”

Sure, Ma, anything you say. Just don’t cut my head off while you’re trying to make your point. “Okay, okay. I’m sorry.” I gave her a hug and planted a big one on her cheek. “I’ve been on the job since five in the morning. Some freak murdered a female lawyer on the Roosevelt Island tram. The jerk suffocated her and stuffed a note in her mouth. Took out the conductor too, bullet through the heart.”

“Madonna, that’s too bad. I hate to see these things happen. Paisano?”

“No, not her, but the conductor was.”

“A lawyer, you say? You could have been a doctor or a lawyer. You were so smart—”

“Ma, I’m still smart.”

“Yeah, then why are you chasing drug dealers and pimps for a living? Can you tell me that?”

“Ma, please don’t start. I’m not in the friggin’ mood.”

“All right, all right. Go wash up. I’ll see what I can do to tenderize the bowling ball.”

Now you see where my wise-ass pedigree comes from. My mother is one tough cookie. I guess you have to be when your husband works homicide. Now you’ll really see the sparks start to fly.

Anyway, Ma’s got one of those really comfy padded toilet seats. So while I was down for the count, I noticed a bottle of Roche ACCU-CHEK test strips on the sink ledge, the kind you use to check your blood sugar. Ma’s a Type 1 diabetic, just like my dear old dad was. She doesn’t take care of herself. She has a huge sweet tooth and smokes, which are not good things for a diabetic to do. I’ve warned her repeatedly but she doesn’t seem to hear me. No, there’s nothing wrong with her hearing.

They say diabetes is hereditary and well, to be forewarned is to be forearmed. That’s why I never ever use sugar and hit the gym a minimum of four times a week. I mean with both Mommy and Daddy being diabetic, well… Anyway, I’m not taking any chances. The way I see it, there’s a time bomb ticking inside of me and the more good things I do for myself, the longer I stretch the fuse.

Just to satisfy my paranoid curiosity, I took one of those test strips out of the bottle and held it under the stream. Normal, thank God.

I rummaged through Ma’s medicine cabinet. What can I say, I’m a detective, right? Besides, I knew what I was looking for. Ma had recently renewed her prescription for tolbutamide and there was a half full bottle when I came to dinner two weeks ago. Ergo, Ma was hitting the Hershey bars and using the tolbutamide to lower her blood sugar level. Ma’s sort of a chocolate junkie. I mean, she loves the stuff and it’s my job to keep her from killing herself. When she does eventually go, God forbid, I’m going to have her dipped in chocolate like an Easter Bunny.

Ma was dressed in black. Ever the good Italian, she was still in mourning. “I see you’ve pulled out your spring wardrobe. Why don’t we go shopping tomorrow? I’ll take you to Loehmann’s.”

“Stephanie, are you for real? I don’t need anything.” Right! “But I’m glad to see you’re wearing a skirt. Maybe someone will notice you’re a woman.”

Here we go again. “They notice, Ma. Trust me.”

“Who, the dirty-minded detectives? Don’t you go marrying a cop. I’ll kill you.”

“Do as I say, not as I do. Is that it, Ma?” That got to her. I really didn’t mean to hurt her feelings. She misted up.

“If you find another man like your father, I’ll give you my blessing.” Her tone was somber. We both loved Dad so much. We both needed hugs again.

Ma had just been busting chops about the meal. The spaghetti wasn’t put into the water until I arrived and the London broil was tender and succulent. She cooked it bloody rare and served it with fava beans and a nice Chianti, just kidding. I do, however, like my meat bloody. I like to soak up the blood with a nice piece of semolina bread. Yum.

“So tell me about this murder,” Ma said, holding a piece of bread in the air. “Want some more pasta?”

Ma’s determined to feed me until I look pregnant. She thinks that if my belly gets big enough, God will bless me with an immaculate conception. I mean, that’s every mother’s dream, isn’t it? Well, just think about it, they all want grandchildren, but none of them want to concede that their daughters have lost their virginity. In a rather abnormal and deviant way, it does make sense. I told her what I could without mentioning full names, nothing that would be considered a breach of regulations. “No thanks. It saddens me, it truly does. This attorney, her name was Ellen; I mean she was a brilliant person with academic honors. She was a partner in a big law firm and was planning an adoption when some piece of garbage murdered her.”

“Married?”

“No. Single, about forty, lived by herself on Sutton Place.”

“So how would she be able to take care of a baby if she worked all day. What kind of way is that to bring up a child? How’s a kid supposed to grow up without a father in the house? It’s not natural.”

Okay, this is where the rift in the generations starts to grow. What can I say? I knew she’d see it that way. “Ma, lots of women do it. Just because a woman works doesn’t mean she can’t raise a child. You’re so old fashioned.”

“Bah!” Not eloquent but descriptive.

I tore off another hunk of bread and pressed it into my plate to soak up all of the blood. “Believe me, Ma, a kid could do worse than to be brought up by a woman like that. She was smart, hardworking, and generous.”

“Yeah, but you need a man around,” she insisted.

For what? She had the suave Dr. Villas on the side. I was about to tell Ma just how fine Dr. Villas was and brag a little on Ellen Redner’s behalf, but that would have led to a conversation on infidelity, the sanctity of marriage, sinning, God, and who knows what else, so I let it go. When it came to the subject of man and wife, Ma was as old-fashioned as they came.

“You think you would have grown up the way you did if we didn’t have Daddy around the house?”

I didn’t want to concede my point of view, but there was no way that I was going to trifle with my father’s memory. Besides, there was a compliment buried in there somewhere. “I understand, Ma.”

“While we’re on the subject, I’d like to raise another point.”

Oh no, here it comes. “Isn’t this a good example of what we’ve talked about? Doesn’t this show you how important it is to find someone? You’re a beautiful girl, Stephanie, but you’re twenty-eight.”

Almost menopausal.

“Don’t you think it’s time to find someone and get serious?”

Now you get serious. “Ma, let’s not go there again, okay? Right now I’m concentrating on the job. As soon as I’m ready to get serious, I’ll let you know.”

“Stephanie Chalice, you listen to me.”

Stephanie Chalice? Every daughter knows that when your mother addresses you by your full, proper name that something serious is coming.

“I want to show you something,” she continued. And just like that, she stood up and walked into her bedroom. I had just twisted up a perfect forkful of spaghetti and was ready to devour it when Ma walked by. It was so close I could taste it. “Stephanie, are you coming?” Damn.

Ma was going through her closet. She had four or five housecoats hanging behind the door. “You see the green one? Look.” She showed me the inside of the pocket. A vault key was attached with a safety pin. “I’ve got a safe deposit box at the savings bank on the corner. Your name is on the box too. I had you sign a signature card. Remember?”

“Not really.”

“Well, I remember and now I want you to remember because it’s important.” Ma unpinned the key and sat down on the bed with it, her hands folded in her lap. “Stephanie, come here and sit… please.”

So I plopped my fanny down on the bed next to Ma. “Don’t start talking about when you die, Ma, because I’m not ready for another one of those when I’m gone conversations.”

“Stephanie, look.” She held the vault key under my nose. “The box number is eleven-eleven, four ones. One day, when you’re ready and you want to settle down, there’s enough money in there to use for a down payment on a house.”

“Ma, stop already. I love my apartment. I really don’t want to know.”

“Fifty thousand dollars, Stephanie, fifty thousand dollars that we were saving for you. Cash.”

She said “we” so I’d know that it was my Dad’s wish as well as hers. Fifty large in cash… Really? Let the good times roll. “Madonna! Mom, where’d you get that kind of money? I know Dad wasn’t on the take. So how’d you come by that much cash?”

“We saved it, silly. A little here, a little there.” Ma winked at me. “Learn how to save. Capisce?”

“Can I buy a boat?”

“No. I said, buy a house.”

“But I want a boat.”

“So buy a houseboat.” She gave me another of those dismissive waves with her hand. “Bah.” She really seems to like that expression. In any case, it ended the conversation. She got up and pinned the safe deposit key back on her housecoat. “Remember, Stephanie, the green one. Green for money.”

“I’ll remember.” I couldn’t believe she thought I’d need a color association to remember where the key was pinned. I wonder if she went out and bought the green housecoat specifically for that reason.

Ma pinched my cheek. “Your father, God rest his soul, worked hard for that money. You start looking for a place for yourself.”

Okay, and now you can let go of my cheek, please.

“Men like that sort of thing.”

“Exactly what sort of thing are you referring to?”

“Men like women who own their own homes, silly — it shows stability.”

Really? Men like stable women. I thought the fast and loose type was more popular. “I’d still rather have a boat.”

“Stephanie!”

“One of those Sea Rays,” I continued, “with a flying bridge and a sun deck.”

Ma threw her hands up in disgust and walked back to the dinner table. She muttered, “Wise ass,” as she walked away.

The spaghetti I had twirled on my fork had hardened into a lump. I bit into it like it was some kind of wheat-source lamb chop. “While we’re giving advice, I’d like to know if I have to toss the place to find your stash of chocolate bars or are you going to turn them over voluntarily?”

She averted her eyes. “I’ve got one bar.” She almost choked on the London broil. “For emergencies. That’s it.”

“Come on, Ma. I looked in the medicine cabinet. You’re popping tolbutamide as if they’re Tic-Tacs.”

Ma put her hands together and raised them toward the ceiling. “Heaven help me,” she prayed, “I’m surrounded by cops. I know the law. You want my Hershey bars? Go get a friggin’ warrant.” It’s funny how parents develop a sense of humor after their children have busted them.

“You know I’m still having those nightmares. Maybe that emergency room scenario is a result of me worrying about—” I walked up to her and put my hands on her arms. “The world is dangerously low on Chalices. I hope you plan on sticking around a while.”

“You’re still having those dreams? Go see a doctor. What’s the matter with you?”

I don’t know. I was hoping the shrink could tell me. “I will.” I meant that I had, but I didn’t want to get into it.

Ma gave me a playful slap on the cheek. “I’ll be good. Now stop worrying and go finish your dinner. Promise me you’ll see someone about the dreams you’ve been having. My sister Connie used to dream that our mother came down from heaven to visit her. Think there’s anything to that?”

“No I don’t.”

“Me neither.”

“Promise you’ll stop with the chocolate.”

“Yes, yes, I promise, now go sit down before everything gets cold. And you promise to talk to someone about those crazy dreams. Promise?”

“Yes, yes, I promise.” It’s easy to keep a promise that you’ve already kept. I’m such a good daughter.

I had almost made that beef disappear when my phone buzzed. I checked the number. It was Lido. “Excuse me, Ma. It’s my partner.”

“Ah fannable!” she swore. “The curse of the police department.”

“Stephanie, we’ve got another homicide,” Lido said. “I’m on my way now. How long will it take you to get down to Second and Sixty-third? Our perp may be at it again.”

“There’s a connection? Why? What have you got?”

“Female Caucasian, found in an elevator, more vague clues.”

“Sounds like a pattern developing. I’ll be there in twenty minutes. I’ll leave right now.” I wrote down the address and hung up. I looked up. Ma was right in my face.

“Remember, I told you so. You’ll never have a life. For God’s sake, you can’t even finish your dinner.”

I was now officially back on the clock and my patience was wearing thin. “I don’t know how to break this to you, but I like what I do.” I walked into the kitchen to retrieve my purse. “I’m sorry that I can’t stick around and help you clean up. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?” We kissed and hugged. “I’m a big girl, Ma, and I like what I do,” I repeated.

Ma began to mist up again. “I know, I know.” She tapped her fingers on my chest just above the heart. “Daddy used to say that it made him feel good in here. Does it? Does it make you feel good inside?”

“It really does.” We were having a moment. “Look, Ma, I take a lot of shit too. No one ever said that law enforcement was a walk in the park, but nothing feels as good as making a righteous collar.” I had the sense that I was going to feel really good after we nabbed our psychopath. The worse the atrocities the perp committed, the better you felt after you brought the SOB down. I wanted to feel good about getting this guy. I hoped he wasn’t going to make me feel too good.

Ma kissed me on the head. I would always be her little girl, even if I did carry a Glock. “Go do your job, Stephanie. Go get the guy who killed the lady lawyer and that nice Italian man.”

“And you lay off the Hershey bars.”

“I promised, didn’t I?” I left her standing at the door. I was sure she had her fingers crossed behind her back and that she’d have a piece of chocolate in her mouth before I hit the street. I hoped God was watching over her. I hoped she was smart enough to keep it under control.

Chapter Nine

I was nibbling on pistachios when I arrived at the crime scene which looked similar to the one at Ellen Redner’s co-op just a few hours earlier. RMPs and official police department vehicles were double-parked in front of a luxury high-rise on the Upper East Side. I didn’t like familiarity of this sort. From where I stood, the medical examiner was overworked already.

The doorman had left his post, allowing unrestricted access to the building. Homicides are great for security.

There were two elevators located well past the lobby. One of them was getting a lot of attention. Lido looked to be running the show. “Got something for you,” I told him. He perked up at the news. “Give me your hand,” I continued. I filled it with pistachios. “Don’t let me eat any more of these things. They’ll give me killer heartburn.” Lido rolled his eyes and then slipped the pistachios in his coat pocket.

“I’ve got something for you and it doesn’t belong to any food group.” He was smiling deviously.

The crime scene was being photographed. Ever the gentleman, Lido put his arm behind me and escorted me into the elevator where some kind of god-awful music was playing. “What the hell is that?” It wasn’t Muzac. It sounded creepy, like organ music from a low budget horror flick. The right atmosphere is important for a homicide. The sounds were coming from the victim’s laptop computer which was still running. A screen saver called Mystery was on the screen: haunted house, bats, witches on flying brooms, yada, yada, yada. I recognized it as one of the pre-installed screen savers that comes with Windows.

I snapped on my gloves and put my finger on the touch pad. The haunted house disappeared. In its place appeared the message, “Are you looking back?” Damn. Our death toll was going up.

Lido looked on knowingly. “The victim’s name is Samantha, Samantha Harris. The night doorman, a guy by the name of O’Brien noticed that the security camera was dead when he sat down to take his break.” Lido referred to his notes once again. “That was sometime around 10:30. He rang for the elevator. When it came down, he found Ms. Harris. He said that he had chatted with her when she came in for the evening and that she was alone.”

“Just like Ellen Redner.”

“Right. O’Brien was pretty broken up. Said the victim was one of the nicest people in the building. Works late all the time. She did something with computers. O’Brien didn’t know exactly what.”

“Why do big strong felons pick on ninety-pound chicks?” I shook my head in dismay and squatted next to the victim’s computer. I created a file and named it “scumbag.” I saved the murder note in the directory of My Documents and shut down the computer before the battery and any other tidbit that our psychopath may have left us died.

This was a scary guy: knew how to kill, was good with a gun, electronics, elevators, tramcars and God knew what else. In other words, he was no lightweight. The man obviously had an IQ for no good. From the perspective of the good guys, this was not good news. Perps with barely any skills commit most homicides at all: druggies, pimps, hoods, hooligans, and gang members. You get the picture. As I remembered, though, it was the dumb ones who didn’t want to get caught. It was the psychopaths that did. They dropped you clues that led you back to them. They wanted to be caught. They wanted to be punished. Sounds good to me.

There were no signs of a struggle. The perp had stuffed a rag in her mouth, just as he had with Ellen Redner. “How do you think it played out?” I asked Lido.

“Perp probably has a gun. He tells the victim to stuff the rag in her mouth and says, ‘Turn around. I won’t kill you if you cooperate.’ Then he covers the victim’s mouth and pinches her nostrils.”

“Odd way to kill someone, don’t you think? We’d better see Strassman in the morning.” Lou Strassman was a trained psychologist as well as a detective. I was hoping he’d be able to draw me a picture of this deranged asshole’s psyche. Strassman was bright, a little melodramatic perhaps, but at least he wasn’t the kind of guy who’d drop coins on the floor to create a diversion while he looked up your skirt. That was a rather long-winded way of saying that he was an okay guy.

“I already checked. We can see him tomorrow morning at ten,” Lido told me. “The boss wants to be there too and said that should give you time for church.” Good old Chief Sonellio, good as gold. Some whack-job had taken down two women in less than twenty-four hours and Sonellio wanted to make sure I’ll receive Holy Communion. He had been my dad’s boss before he was mine. He and his wife were the keepers of Italian tradition: first mass on Sunday morning, followed by dinner at three in the afternoon. Sonellio probably thinks I’ll be up at dawn simmering sauce and braising meatballs, just like his wife. I love tradition and I love Italian food. In fact, I know several fine restaurants that serve it.

Back to the case. “Does the chief know what we know?”

“As does the commissioner and the mayor. I filled them in while you were in transit.”

“I think I’ll have to skip morning services tomorrow.” Lido snickered at my remark. He knew I never missed a Sunday workout. How the hell else was I going to repent for eating all those pistachios? “Can you meet me at eight-thirty? We’d better have a game plan before we sit down with the brass. This is not exactly your typical dead ho scenario.”

“Right. I wouldn’t tell the press jack shit either. They’ll turn the investigation into a circus.”

“Three ring, Lido. Three ring.”

I was kneeling next to Samantha Harris, looking for signs of anything, when a cop named Dugan burst into the elevator. “Detectives,” he announced with urgency, “I found the super in the basement.”

I stood quickly. “Dead?” I assessed by Dugan’s state of agitation.

“The man has three eyes, Detective.”

“Oh shit.” I shook my head and then glanced at Lido. “Number four.” I turned back to Dugan. “We’ll follow you.” Lido and I followed Dugan through a fire door and down one flight of stairs to the basement. Victor Alamento, the super, was slumped in a corner of the basement. The entry wound, as Dugan had suggested, was right between his eyes.

“This is one bad fuck!” Lido stated with hostility. The bullet had exited the back of Alamento’s skull and blown a chunk of brain matter out the back. “Possible 9mm?”

“Bet ya even money. I don’t care if forensics and the ME have to work all night. They have to find the slug. I want to know if this bullet matches the one that went through the tram conductor’s back.”

“Let’s hope they can find it,” Lido said.

“Officer Dugan, can you get the proper personnel down here on the double?” I smiled at Dugan and he took off without a word.

I turned back to the latest victim. I guessed that Victor Alamento couldn’t help but nose around. The man had the biggest schnoz I’d ever seen. It looked like some kind of medieval battle horn. If he had only thought to sneeze, he might have blown the projectile right back into the gun. Thank God big noses don’t run in my family. It would have been a shame if I’d needed a nose job. Just for the record, I’m completely unaltered. Nothing’s been added, removed, augmented or sculpted and the only surgeon who ever touched me drove a BMW and had eyes like Paul Newman.

“I take it our perp didn’t shoot this guy because he finds big noses offensive.”

“Not likely.” I replied. “Alamento probably ran into harms way while our psycho was screwing around with the elevator controls.”

“Our psycho is damn good with his hands,” Lido said.

“You noticed.” By the way, Lido has really nice eyes. “Our boy definitely has skills. We’d be wise to check for priors on perps with mechanical training, perhaps someone who’s repaired elevators or installed them; an engineer, someone with technical smarts.”

“Maybe someone heard the gunshot. I’ll start knocking on doors right away.”

“Good, that should make you nice and popular with all the neighbors. Better you than me,” I remarked. “I know this guy named Ambler at the Bureau. He and my dad go way back. I can call him and see what the FBI computers can dig up. Ambler’s a career bachelor. He never sleeps.”

“You know how I love the Bureau,” Lido remarked. “I’d better stop off and get some Crisco.”

We both laughed. “Hey, you’re starting to get funny, Lido.”

“You’re rubbing off on me.”

You should be so lucky. “Seriously, Ambler’s one of the good guys. Somehow he’s managed to remain oblivious to the Bureau’s brainwashing. Doesn’t live anywhere near Connecticut, doesn’t eat white bread, and adores pro wrestling. He’s got autographed pictures of The Rock and Stone Cold Steve Austin.”

Lido shook his head in dismay.

I guess you’re wondering how two God-fearing police officers can crack jokes while standing three feet from a cooling corpse. Well, I don’t have an answer for you. It’s just a part of our makeup. You’d never catch a Fed doing it. They’ve got too much starch in their shorts. All except for Ambler and I’ll bet he wears briefs.

Chapter Ten

All those guys who think that women work out in Lycra for that hot and sexy look should try ripping a sweaty sports bra over their head after sixty minutes of aerobics. Hot? You have no idea.

I covered myself with a bath towel, slipped into my thongs (as in sandals) and went off to the showers. It’s amazing how immodest some women are. Some plump woman was standing in front of the mirror, naked as the day she was born, applying blush in full view of everyone in the women’s locker room. Her breakfast was sitting on the sink ledge. We come here to avoid looking like cottage cheese, so why eat it? I knew that she had once been a working actress and was still a card-carrying member of the Screen Actors Guild. However, from the shape of her these days, SAG may have meant something entirely different.

The forecast called for clear skies and temperatures in the low eighties. There was no way I was going to wear a skirt again, so I put on a linen suit. It was sage, a color that doesn’t exist in a man’s vocabulary. I layered it over a rayon tee. The T-shirt was ecru. Men are familiar with this color, although they have no idea what it looks like.

I checked myself in the mirror. I work out every chance I can to stay taut and healthy. I then proceeded to cover up every inch of flesh possible. Of course, as I said before, a burlap bag would have been too revealing. So I’m a living contradiction; so what? The main reason behind my fanaticism for exercise is not the obvious. It’s my fear of the big D: diabetes. It feels as if there’s a ticking bomb inside me, genetically crafted and secreted within my pancreas. I can’t stand the thought of it. The very idea that I might someday be injecting myself with insulin turns my stomach. It’s really frustrating to know that two people as caring and warm as my parents had passed along this chromosomal nightmare. I have to beat it. I just have to, and if I need to exercise every day of my life to do it, I will.

When I arrived at the station house, Lido looked like he needed a double espresso. He was cleanly shaven and groomed, but those red, bloodshot eyes told the whole story. “I got up at six-thirty,” I boasted, “worked out for an hour before I got here.”‘

“I passed out about three,” Lido advised. I’m so glad he doesn’t feel the need to compete.

“I hope she was worth it.” Lido smiled in a strange way, not quite the cat that ate the canary smile, but close. I don’t think Lido has any trouble getting women.

He walked over to the coffee machine without answering. Station house coffee is absolutely dreadful. Lido filled one of those Styrofoam cups to the rim with the black swill. He swallowed it down in two gulps and made a face to demonstrate how offensive it was. Cute.

Lido and I reviewed all that we knew about the case and talked about the wheels we had set in motion. The department’s research boys were looking for anyone with a record of having been trained or having worked on elevators, someone with an electronics background or anyone who could play havoc with an elevator in the way someone had last night.

I had called Herbert Ambler sometime after midnight. He was up watching reruns of Mission Impossible, just as I expected. Ambler was one of those guys who could function perfectly on three or four hours of sleep. He promised to run our killer’s profile through the Bureau’s computers. He was going to tap NACIC as well. I promised to buy him a steak dinner when the case was solved, an offer I knew he would not let me get away with.

We had put the word out on the street, but so far nothing had come back. Even Manhattan streets are pretty much deserted at half past three in the morning. We were going to question some of the girls at Scores. Wendell Johnson had reminded us that the club had let out shortly before the incident. Aside from a few street urchins, the Scores girls and a few of their diehard customers were probably the only ones who might have seen anyone run down off the tram station.

We still hadn’t figured out how our perp had gotten into Samantha Harris’s building. Victor Alamento probably knew and was now passing his secret along to Saint Peter.

The phone rang. It was Aaron Kurtz from the forensics lab. The forensics guy confirmed that the 9mm bullets that had killed superintendent Victor Alamento and tram conductor Teddy Balto were fired from the same weapon. I say weapon as opposed to gun because Kurtz made a point of telling me that the markings on the slugs, or rifflings, as they’re called, came from a long-barreled instrument and were definitely not made by a handgun. Having heard what Kurtz had to say, I tried repeatedly to get off the phone, but Kurtz just kept on talking. I like Kurtz but he’s a real motormouth.

The coroner had confirmed that both women had been suffocated in an identical fashion: mouth gagged and nostrils pinched. As of yet, I hadn’t heard anything that I didn’t already know. Kurtz then added one last piece of information. He had found small bits of bright yellow fibers and minute pieces of metal strands at the bullet’s point of entry on both men. For the moment, neither he nor I understood what that meant.

And that’s all we knew when we sat down with Chief of D’s Sonellio and psychologist-cum-detective, Lou Strassman. Chief Sonellio’s appearance belied his capabilities. Too many years of smoking and drinking had wreaked havoc on the man’s skin. It was pallid and gray. His fleshy cheeks appeared puckered, sort of how Dean Martin looked toward the end. Every once in a while, Sonellio would rattle out a cough. He hadn’t smoked in years, but the damage was already done. He was sharp though. There was no denying that the man still had a keen mind.

Lou Strassman had honed his demeanor over the span of his prior career as head of social work services at Saint Francis Hospital. I always felt relaxed in his presence. Ten minutes with Strassman and your eyelids grew heavy — he was the psychological equivalent of Sominex. He had come in just for this meeting and was wearing a light sweater and khaki pants. He held a pipe which I prayed he wouldn’t light up.

Sonellio listened to our entire dissertation. We took him through the chain of events exactly as they had occurred. “So this loser knows his way around gadgets,” Sonellio offered. “He hot-wired the elevator and knew how to park the tram car. That should prove helpful to the investigation.”

“What you’re saying about the elevator is true. I understand that it’s still out of order. The tram is different,” I began to explain.

“How’s that?” Sonellio asked.

“I did some research — the tram’s computerized. The conductor’s supposed to initiate the speed reduction setting just before the tram hits the guiderails, but if he doesn’t, the computer takes over.”

Strassman pointed his pipe at me. “He’d still need to know that.”

“True, but all he’d need to do is ask a few questions. From the little I’ve seen, the tram conductors are viewed as if they’re operating an amusement ride. They seem pretty chatty,” I replied. “It was something I was curious about myself. I thought there might be a dead-man’s control like in the subway, but there isn’t. A subway conductor has to keep constant pressure on the hand control to keep the train moving; not so with the tram.”

The chief had ordered us coffee from the deli around the corner. It wasn’t Starbucks, but it wouldn’t peel paint either. Strassman offered to pay. He reached into his pocket and accidentally dropped some change on the floor. I wasn’t wearing a skirt so my opinion of the man stands.

I poured Sweet’N Low into the cup and used one of those portion-sized containers of half-and-half. After listening to Strassman for thirty minutes, I needed caffeine badly. It was analogous to when Dorothy stumbled through the poppy field in The Wizard of Oz. “So what makes this guy tick, Lou?”

Strassman was still making fine adjustments to his coffee. He was adding sugar and half-and-half between sips. You’d think he was preparing solid-state rocket fuel for the next shuttle launch. We waited while he fine-tuned his cup of java. Satisfied, Strassman finally picked up his coffee and pipe. Leaning against the table, he was now the center of attention. “The clues, in this case, the note and computer message, are well thought out. Psychopaths want to be caught.” I knew that. “They want to be punished.” I knew that too. “But our guy is a little different.” Huh?

“What makes our perp so special?” Lido asked. His coffee cup was already empty.

Sonellio looked on with interest. He had been a detective during the Son of Sam investigation. “Our perp is taunting us,” Strassman said in a matter-of-fact way. “Many psychopaths leave very subtle clues. In fact, sometimes the killers are not aware that they’re leaving clues at all. The desire to be caught is often subconscious. But our guy is throwing the clues in our face. Look back! Are you looking back? He’s almost indignant about the damn thing. What’s the matter? Aren’t you smart enough to catch me?”

Great. Nothing like a perp with attitude.

“Any fingerprints?” Sonellio asked.

“Forget about it!” Lido announced. “There’s a billion sets of prints on the tram. It’s useless information.”

I’m sure our perp knew this. I was also sure that he hadn’t left any prints of his own. I was starting to develop a character composite of this guy. He wanted us to follow his clues. He was choreographing the entire affair. By the way, notice how I keep calling the perp a guy. One woman wouldn’t suffocate another, scratching her eyes out would be more like it. Poison is the most likely lady-killer scenario. Besides, our perp had to be strong enough to take Wendell Johnson clean off his feet and ram him into a concrete wall. Of course I’m not saying that women can’t be strong. Ever see that Zena Warrior Princess chick or Chyna, the female wrestler? Women can be strong, unattractive perhaps, but strong. There’s nothing like a woman on anabolic steroids.

“Nothing on the victims?” Sonellio asked.

“Zilch,” I replied. “Our perp’s too clever for that. The forensics specialist did find some unusual yellow fibers and metal strands on the clothing of the two male victims, but nothing on the women.”

“Based on where these particles were found, we believe that the murder weapon came in contact with these substances. Perhaps the rifle was contained or wrapped in them,” Lido explained.

“There’s something about suffocation, about the psychology of it, that sets it apart from the norm. Our man is killing his victims by depriving them of the life-giving air they need to breathe.” Strassman looked around the room. “It’s even different from strangulation. There’s little pain involved. He wants to see his victim struggle for breath. Necessary air is right there, all around his victim, just an inch away. He wants the victim to know that he’s in control of their outcome. He’s got his victim’s life in his hands. It’s all very personal.” Strassman laid his pipe down on the desk. “It’s sadistic in the most intrinsic sense.”

“What does the press know?” Sonellio asked.

“They know what happened on the tram. By noon, the deaths of Samantha Harris and Victor Alamento will hit the airwaves and the public will start putting two and two together,” Lido stated.

“That’s if the press doesn’t put it together for them,” I added.

“This is a goddamn mess!” Sonellio swore. He paced around the room a bit, rubbing his chin. “I’m going to call the commissioner and the mayor. I’m going to put the entire borough on alert and request reinforcements from neighboring precincts. I can’t believe the audacity of this slug, committing two double homicides just blocks from one another.” He turned to Strassman. “You’re right, Lou, the son of a bitch is taunting us.” He turned back to me. “I want this to end right now. I’m going to dump every available man on the street. You and Lido are in charge of the effort. I’ll okay overtime, money for stoolies… whatever it takes. This prick’s not going to grab me by the balls; no way!”

I told you Sonellio was a good guy. He was really worked up. It was personal with him. A perp had singled out his precinct and he didn’t like it. “I’m going to pull the entire detective’s squad in for a meeting at eight o’clock tomorrow morning. Stephanie. Gus. You two represent the best and the brightest, but neither of you has much experience with psychopaths. I’m going to make sure you get all the help you need.” He winked at us, “Capisce?”

I winked back at him. “No problem.”

“That goes for me too,” Lido added.

It was a beautiful moment: officers of law and order vowing to rid the city of evil — a roomful of good intentions. All we had to do now was catch the filthy bastard.

Chapter Eleven

I surfed every channel on the tube, one hundred and twenty-one of them, and I couldn’t find a single thing to watch except MTV. A video was on. I was pretty sure I’d seen it before. I think the title was “Slut of the Century.” I can’t be quite sure. It could have been the singer’s new one, “Millennium Nymph.” It’s a little hard for me to tell, but I think she wore panties in the original. It galls me to think that someone with God-given talent has to come off as a scantily clad trollop in spike heels in order to sell CDs and gain popularity. Sex sells. What can I tell you?

To tell you the truth, very little was going to please me just now. It was two in the morning. I was exhausted and my heart was still pounding like mortar shells landing on Omaha Beach. The goddamn nightmare had come back again, the one I described to Isaacs, the therapist. The horrible dream was awakening me more and more often.

I ran my left hand along my right arm and then did the same to the other. My arms were burnt in the nightmare, not lightly burnt, but third degree. They were bloody and charred. I could almost feel the roasted flesh hardening around me, cracking, tightening, and oozing serum. Not a pretty sight. And there were those two faces, those frightened, panicked faces: a doctor and a nurse. The horror in their eyes was worse than the sight of my own burnt flesh. What did they see? What could have such an effect on emergency room personnel, people who had seen tragedy of every shape and form?

I was hoping that Isaacs could help me figure it out. Would I be able to handle the truth once it was revealed? It frightened me more than anything I had seen on the streets. Why was I being rolled into the ER? What had caused them? Was I pregnant? I had to know. I rubbed my stomach, tenderly embracing the pregnancy fantasy.

I grabbed the phone and punched in Len Isaacs’s phone number and left a message stating that I’d like to see him in the morning. I instructed him to text me. I wasn’t going to take a chance on having him call me at the station house while my peers surrounded me. Perhaps if he helped me with my nightmare, we’d deal with the paranoia next. I prefer death to humiliation. I couldn’t bear the thought of one of the squad clowns hearing that I was seeing a shrink.

Speaking of crazy, I was starting to think about the case again. I wondered where our homicidal maniac was just about now and what he was doing. Was he watching music videos like me, unable to sleep, or was he plotting his next murder? I was sure he was sitting up in bed and gluing photos of his next victim to the wall. I know that sounds pretty cliché, but I’d take a bet that it wasn’t terribly inaccurate. If the pattern continued, there’d be another dead woman in the morgue very soon.

Our slug was a stalker. It appeared that he had selected his victims with great care. What was the connection? What was it about Ellen Redner and Samantha Harris that made our perp want to kill? Was it the color of their hair, perhaps the way they walked? They were of similar age and lived in the same geographical proximity. They were both attractive, intelligent women, and both were successful. None of those similarities told me why they were both dead. There could have been a hundred connections. They both could have dated him or pissed him off. They might have passed him on the street and ignored his glance. It could have been as simple and seemingly innocent as that, but I didn’t think so. The perp had left us clues: Look back, and Are you looking back? We were looking back, but were we looking back in the right direction? We were looking for priors that matched our killer’s MO, killers with technical training. Was that the right direction? I’d begin looking into the backgrounds of each of the victims in the morning. Perhaps that’s what he meant.

It was almost bizarre that two men had died in the process. The two incidental mortalities demonstrated that our perp had absolutely no respect for human life. I wondered how much insight Lou Strassman could shed on our perp’s raison d’être. Strassman had oodles of psychological training, but did he know this particular criminal mind? Our perp was a real nut job and yet he was intent and purposeful. His homicides had been planned and carefully calculated. What drew people to like Marilyn Manson? Why was I watching Mariah Carey in the middle of the night? It really is a crazy world.

A new video came on. Toni Braxton sang “Un-break My Heart” and smooched with that hunk Tyson Beckford. Now, he was all right! The video was romantic and Ms. Braxton can sing like nobody’s business. Thirty seconds into the video, I started to forget about my nightmare and New York’s maniac-come-lately.

I walked into the kitchen and started poking around. One of my neighbors had sent me a box of Godiva chocolates for Easter. It had been sitting unopened in the kitchen cabinet for months. It called out to me on occasion: “I’m in here, Steph! Come and get me.” I was feeling a bit weak so I opened the cabinet and stared at the box, hoping that the chocolate had somehow mysteriously disappeared, sublimed right out of the box like snow on a sundrenched mountainside. I was really tempted to have one. I could almost taste the chocolate. Two more seconds and I’d start drooling. Ah hell!

I tore open the box, grabbed the least dangerous looking confection and plopped it into my mouth. The chocolate melted all over my tongue. I covered the box and shoved it into the trash bin at the same time as I attempted to savor the luscious treat. I couldn’t stand the guilt or the thought of insulin injections. I decided to get up a half hour earlier and spend the extra time in the gym. It was so unfair, it took fifteen minutes on the Stairmaster to burn the calories contributed by one medium-sized truffle.

It really wasn’t worth it. Reminded me of this guy I once dated, my satisfaction always came up short. Somehow, the anticipation was always better than the actual reward. He was good-looking and well built but he was no Carl Malone. You know Carl Malone, the pro basketball player they call the Mailman. Well, unlike Carl Malone, my old boyfriend never delivered.

Anyway, the night had disaster written all over it. It was now three in the morning. I had eaten chocolate, which in my mind was tantamount to committing a cardinal sin. I had watched adolescent videos in order to forget about my horrible nightmare. I was going to be tired in the morning, which wasn’t going to help me catch New York’s newest and most wanted psychopath. Who was next? Despite the beefed-up police coverage, we all knew that a committed killer could and would strike again unless we found him first. Look back! Are you looking back? What the hell did all that mean?

Chapter Twelve

The streets were giving us nothing. We had been at it all day long, talking to Samantha Harris’ neighbors, storeowners on Second Avenue, and almost anyone else we could think of. We had obtained a list of everyone who had made a delivery to the building on Friday and Saturday and checked out each and every one. None of the utility companies had been there, no one from Manhattan Cable and no delegates from the Villains, Thieves, and Scoundrels Union. Sorry, Boris and Natasha.

The computer run had come back and as per our expectations, provided us with a ton of possibilities to run down. The 9mm was an extremely popular caliber and as such there were over five hundred open priors on file for shootings with a 9mm. Sonellio had delegated that list to others in his command. As I said before, it was my opinion that Balto’s and Alamento’s shootings had been incidental, two poor stiffs who had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Putting time and effort into that list was like pissing into the wind.

There had been only one hundred eighty-four deaths by suffocation in the prior twelve months. Sadly, many on that list were small children who had ingested toys or gotten their little hands on something they shouldn’t have. Only forty-three on the list were adults; of the forty-three, only eighteen were women.

We were running a report on all single women between the ages of thirty-five and forty-five living between Fifty-third Street and Seventy-second Street, between the East River and Fifth Avenue. The number crunchers had promised me a full report by eight in the morning.

There were one hundred thirty-three thousand residents living within our hot zone. If we were lucky, the composite profile would reduce our list of possible next victims to fewer than ten thousand. All the victims had been Caucasian. That might chop a few thousand or so off the list as well.

So what was going on? Of course, our perp could have been one of those territorial nuts. The files were full of crazies who hunted only within a tight geographical area, marking their territories like dogs, or more appropriately, wolves, killer wolves. I was not thinking along those lines. As Strassman had so aptly pointed out, our killer was taunting us with his messages. This crazy SOB was jabbing his finger into our chests, daring us to find him.

It had been a muggy day, an unseasonably warm eighty-five degrees with humidity up around a hundred. The sky had that foreboding look to it, as if a storm might erupt at any moment. The storm never came but the foreboding clouds continued to hang above the city. I for one was thrilled and amazed that my hair hadn’t frizzed.

And what of our psychopath? The air of his insanity hung around us like a deadly shroud and yet, no new information had come forth. He was out there, planning his next act of insanity, coolly calculating who would be next and under which particular circumstances he would carry out his deed.

It was after eight when we arrived at Scores. The guy at the door, a dark, hulking fellow named Vincent, gave me the once over three or four times. With all the pretty ladies about I was surprised that he gave me so much attention. “You here for an audition?” he grunted.

I flashed him my hottest and most provocative smile. “Sure. Got any experience? Jump up on the counter and drop your pants.” I winked at him. He smiled and turned beet red.

I flashed my detective’s shield. Lido did the same. “There was a murder committed on the tram Friday night at about three in the morning. We’d like to see if anyone in the club saw our perp come scrambling out of the tram station.”

“No shit! Someone got killed up there?” Tall, dark, and vacuous looked up at the tram cabin that was passing by overhead. “Wow.” Vincent seemed really taken aback. “Come inside. I’ll get the manager.”

We were led into the sanctified establishment. Everyone in the tri-state area knew that Scores was considered the premiere men’s club in Manhattan. The girls were the crème de la crème of exotic dancers; no skanks or sleaze bunnies. It was sort of like Disney World with giant augmented boobs.

By the way, did I mention that I was wearing this absolutely adorable denim dress, a Guess? Not as in conjecture, but as in the brand. It’s sleeveless with a deep V-neck. It’s about as daring an outfit as I ever wear on the job, but there’s no way in hell that I was going to kowtow to any of those augmented pixies. I’m a whole lot better off for not having had my precious body sliced and stuffed like a Vienna sausage.

I knew that I was going to be on the street and out of the house all day, away from my fellow detectives. It was just the two of us working every angle we could figure, doing the dog work.

We were asked to wait in the lobby while Vincent set off to find his boss. Scores was not unaccustomed to police visits. The establishment had been the target of a money-laundering probe a few years back. There had been a shooting as well, allegations of mob involvement, scantily clad women, inappropriate sexual conduct, fire and brimstone, boiling blood. My God, I felt as if I had sinned by merely stepping foot into the establishment.

Lido walked over to the Barbie doll behind the cigar counter while I said a quick Hail Mary.

“I’ll bet you’re looking for something full-bodied and robust,” Barbie offered.

And they say men are lousy at pickup lines. I think she knew we were cops. I’ve seen women make complete fools of themselves in front of Lido. He’s got that quiet inner strength and cute butt that women go for. Barbie sighed heavily, engaging her flotation devices. I wanted to kick Lido because the jerk was eating it up.

Lido cozied up to Barbie’s counter. “Actually, I’m looking for information.” When she leaned forward, her face came into the light and I could see that she was wearing glitter. It wasn’t a bad look for a tart.

“What would you like to know?”

Lido smiled at her, which really turned her on. I heard her try to suppress a tiny gasp of excitement. For God’s sake, you’d think that he’d unzipped or something. “There was a double homicide on the tram Friday night. Hear anything about it?”

Barbie seemed disappointed by Lido’s question. What is it about strippers and cops? “A couple of the girls are friendly with the old tram conductor. They left the station just as the two DOAs pulled in.”

“DOAs?” Lido knew the lingo but was surprised that it was coming from a civilian.

“I used to be married to a cop,” she replied. Figures. She grinned. As the boys in uniform say, once they’ve had law, they’ll come back for more. Oh please.

I’d had enough. I bodied up to Lido, implying that I was more than just his partner. Barbie shot me a dagger. “We’ll need their names, sweetie.”

“Chantelle and… I mean Dina and Valerie,” she recanted.

“Who’s Chantelle?” Lido asked.

“That’s the name Valerie uses in the club,” she replied.

Vincent came back. He and Barbie exchanged glances. “Ready to double-date?” I asked. They looked at each other and grinned.

“It’s pretty quiet tonight. We’ve got a room you can use for your interviews.”

Translation: Get the two cops off the business floor before the Japanese businessmen put away their cash and head for the door.

“Great, but we’ll have to see everyone,” I advised.

Vincent winked. “Not a problem.”

We were led into the club. Lido gave Barbie a parting glance. I whispered into his ear, “You think I should get some glitter?” Lido ignored me. “How about a garter?” He didn’t answer, but I could tell that he was thinking yes.

We were set up in a room with a couch, two chairs, and a coffee table. There was an ice bucket in the corner which was still sweating from a recent bottle of champagne. I checked the couch before I sat down. I didn’t want to make contact with some sleazy guy’s gene pool.

The first interview was with a five-foot-ten blonde who said her name was Katrina. As she crossed her legs, her dress spread open to her… Well, even I was shocked.

“You hear about the incident on the tram?” Lido asked.

“Everyone’s heard.” Katrina cracked some chewing gum. She sounded like a ranch hand. Her voice and her Eastern European alias were incongruent. Perhaps she told the customers that she was from a kibbutz.

“Where you from?” I asked.

“Dallas. I used to commute a lot, but I got tired of all the traveling. Now I live here permanently.”

All the way from Dallas, really? I scrutinized her carefully. At least twenty percent of her body weight was non-biodegradable. Her giant boobs protruded well out of her dress. How, I wondered, did she ever squeeze those things through the airport’s metal detector?

“How long have you been in New York?”

“About two years,” she replied.

“You came to New York to dance?” I continued.

“Well, sure,” she replied. “Everyone wants to work here.”

“Good money?” Lido asked.

“Great money!” she replied emphatically. She also gave us an affirming nod.

“Were you working here Friday night?”

“Uh huh.”

“What time did you get off?” I asked.

“About two. I wasn’t feeling well.” Katrina put her hand up to the side of her mouth partially covering it, and whispered to me as if Lido couldn’t hear what she was saying. “I got my period.”

“Sorry,” I whispered back. Katrina didn’t know diddly. I was bracing myself for a long night. I was checking the carpet for telltale stains when someone knocked on the door. “Come!” I said come, not cum.

Vincent opened the door. Paul Reynolds, one of the detectives on the squad, was with him. Paul had a duffle bag in his hand which he lifted and shook triumphantly.

“We caught a break,” he announced. There was a huge grin on his face.

Lido and I jumped to our feet. “Thanks,” I said to Katrina. “That’ll be all. Hope you’re feeling better.”

Katrina cracked her gum. “I am. Thanks.” She got up and strode to the door. I couldn’t get over the way she walked. It was like her butt swiveled on ball bearings.

Reynolds checked out her behind as she passed. “No, no. Don’t let me interrupt,” he pleaded.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” I said. Reynolds smiled. It was a typical guy’s caught in the act, shit-eating grin. I asked Vincent to give us ten minutes before he sent the next girl in. I turned back to Reynolds. “Whatcha got?” I asked excitedly.

“Our boys were cleaning up the basement of Samantha Harris’s building. Look what they stumbled on.” Reynolds reached into the shopping bag and pulled out a foot-long length of two-inch PVC plumbing pipe wrapped in a clear bag.

“What the hell’s that?” Lido asked.

“Check it out, Gus, it’s a homemade silencer. Our perp must have dropped it on the way out. It was the damnedest thing. They were kicking this thing all over the floor before someone took a good look at it. They thought it was a hunk of scrap just lying about.”

Lido and I studied the device. As I said, it was about a foot long. Restricting caps with three-quarter-inch openings were screwed onto each end. “I shined my Maglite in there,” Reynolds said, “Looks like it’s filled with tennis balls.” Reynolds pointed to the end in Lido’s right hand. “The barrel of the gun was inserted in here. There’s scorch marks on the other end. Pretty damn clever if you ask me.”

“That’s fabulous,” I said, “Nothing like a techno-fucking-homicidal-maniac to make things interesting. We’re looking for a guy like MacGyver with a few loose screws.”

“This explains why the ME found bits of yellow fiber on the two gunshot victims,” I offered.

“Good point,” Lido replied.

“I’m going to rush this down to Aaron Kurtz in forensics. He’ll go crazy when he sees it. He’s into all this homemade weaponry shit,” Reynolds said.

“I’ll take it. You know you want me to,” I said.

“I’ll take it, Chalice,” Reynolds said in a totally unconvincing manner.

I took the silencer out of Lido’s hands. “I don’t think I can take one more pair of enormous heaving breasts in my face. This is a man’s job. Besides, fair is fair.”

“What do you mean, Chalice?” Lido asked.

“You two can have at the bimbos. At least I’m leaving with something that’s long and hard.”

Lido and Reynolds cackled and then smiled sheepishly. “Thanks, Chalice. We owe you big,” Reynolds said.

I put the silencer into the duffle bag and headed for the door. “Just take it easy, you two. I’m going to dust the two of you for fingerprints in the morning.”

Chapter Thirteen

I’m sure Lido wasn’t expecting me to knock on his door at midnight, but that’s exactly what I did. “Where’s the pipe? I want to see it… now!” He had that look on his face. You know the one I mean: What the hell are you doing here? There was fire in my eyes and undeniable intent in the way I moved. There was something else in Lido’s expression, that look of astonishment that said, “Are you absolutely crazy?”

I was backing him into his apartment and he was sort of, well, backpedaling as I advanced. “What pipe?” he asked defensively. “I thought you were dropping it off at forensics.”

“No, not that pipe, the other pipe.” I stripped my pocketbook off my shoulder in a purposeful manner and let it thump on the floor.

“What the hell’s wrong with you?” He pretended to be puzzled, but only a moron could misinterpret my signals. I was hot and sweaty before I put my hands on him. “Hey, Stephanie, what gives? Really.” Read between the lines, love boat.

“Call me Chalice.” Time’s up. I didn’t know if he was kidding or confounded, either was unimportant. I couldn’t stand the way those Scores bimbos had looked at him. Even worse was the way he had responded. Gee, I hope he didn’t bring one home with him. “You alone?”

“Yeah, why?” Do you believe this guy? Actually, I couldn’t blame him. My tough-girl veneer had always ridden roughshod over any emotional stirrings that might have existed between us in the past. There was sexual tension between us, but it was always overshadowed with I’ll cut your balls off if you try. But so what? I’m a woman and it’s completely within my God-given rights to be fickle. Anyway, I was thinking with my heart and not my head, and I was about to change the nature of our relationship forever. God help the poor man.

I had him backed up against his bed within seconds. Thank God it was only a studio. I put my hands on his shirt and ripped it open. Lido no longer looked puzzled. He was grinning a big shit-eating grin. “Why, Stephanie—”

“Stop talking,” I put my lips on his, kissed him hard, then backed off and pushed him onto the bed.

“Hey, you carrying?” he asked. He was sitting on the end of the bed, looking adorable.

“Yeah and you better be too!” Lido’s white shirt was parted over his tan belly. His stomach wasn’t cut in one of those ice-cube-tray configurations, but he had a deep indentation right down the middle of it, a roadmap to the Promised Land.

I yanked the Guess dress up and over my head. I looked down at Lido through tousled hair. His hair was soft. It had fallen across his forehead, imparting a little-boy look to his rugged features. His beard was a little stubbly. Yum. I kicked off my shoes and got on the bed, straddling him. I threw my arms around him and kissed him again, a cop’s kiss, like a French kiss on steroids.

Lido pulled away this time. I knew what he was going to say before he said it. The warning was coming. “Chalice, you sure about this?”

“Thanks for being a gentleman, but I came here because I wanted to.” I looked at him with wanting, hungry insatiable wanting, and unclasped my bra. I studied his reaction. He seemed to be impressed which wasn’t bad considering he’d just interrogated thirty exotic dancers.

“You’re beautiful,” he said. Isn’t it funny? A guy sees your face every day, but doesn’t tell you you’re beautiful until he sees your boobs. I undid his belt and reached down inside his slacks. Whoopee, who cares?

Lido did a good job. In fact, I was so impressed that I made him stay and put in some overtime. Afterward, I rested in his arms, wondering how we were going to get through the next day. If it wasn’t for the psycho, I think I would have called in sick. Gus was staring at me. His eyes were soft, but thoughtful. He was probably wondering the same thing. I ran my finger over his lip. “You okay?”

Gus smiled, but didn’t answer. I could see that he was thinking. “I never thought this would happen,” he said. He started sliding off the bed. “I’ve got some Sam Adams in the fridge. Thirsty?”

I’m satisfied and thirsty as hell. “Yeah.” Lido walked into the kitchen area, leaving me to wonder what he was thinking about. What could he be thinking? It wasn’t bad enough that we had a psychopath to apprehend. I had added a whole new set of complications. Where would this lead? How would it affect the job? Maybe I was giving him too much credit. Maybe he was thinking, wait ‘til I tell the boys.

Lido came back with two cold ones. I took a long sip and he did the same. I caressed his arm.

“You know I’ll never say a word,” he said.

“I know you won’t. I’m a faster draw than you are.”

“Funny.”

“This can be as serious or as casual as we want it to be.” I put my bottle down on the end table and stood up. “Really, Gus, I’m okay either way.” Gus looked a little hurt by that, making me sorry I had said it.

“You’re too much, Chalice, you know that? I’ve had this fantasy fifty times. It finally comes true and then you go and crap on it.” I was surprised at Gus’s admission, especially after granting him unconditional absolution. He had always been on the quiet side. I guess what they say is true; still waters run deep.

“Hey, Gus, come on… I’m not making light of this. I’m just—”

“Giving me a way out if I want it? Well, I don’t.”

It’s funny with cops. In any other profession, careers would come into play. You know the old adage: Don’t shit where you eat. It’s different in the police department. Relationships were almost expected; you just had to be discreet enough not to let it screw up your performance.

“We can be cool about this, right?” I asked.

“Ever the career-minded policeman, huh?” Woman, policewoman, surely he noticed.

It was important to me. “Come on, Gus, let’s not ruin the moment.”

We were both still naked. My, but we’d grown familiar in a very short time. I took another hit of the Sam Adams and then got back into bed. I covered myself with the sheet. Lido was still standing there. Christ, he had the body of a Greek God. “Come lie down; let’s talk about it.” Gus brightened and Little Gus rose to attention. It looked like he was preparing for a pole-vault attempt. He was under the covers and next to me in an instant, smiling. “Didn’t expect it, did you?”

“No, these are definitely uncharted waters.”

Hey, what the hell’s wrong with me? Couldn’t I ever be a woman? Did I have to be a cop all the time? I turned to him, snuggling, and drew circles on his chest with my finger. “Hey, this is nice,” I whispered. I kissed his bare shoulder. “Let’s take it a day at a time, all right? Hey, what’s that poking me in the leg?”

“Nothing.” Lido pretended not to know what I was talking about, but he began to blush. The man had reloaded and was ready for action. I grabbed the barrel of his gun and aimed it at the target.

“I think I’m gonna like this arrangement.” I kissed him sweetly. It was tough making the transition from partner to girlfriend, but not one that I was incapable of.

We made love again. It was even better the second time. Most things are after you loosen up a little and let yourself go.

Chapter Fourteen

Len Isaacs poured himself a glass of water from a china carafe. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get back to you yesterday. I was away for an extended weekend — professional conference. Can I offer you something to drink?”

“No, thanks.” It was another hot day. I took off my blazer and laid it over the back of the couch. The sky was already dimming and I could see people hurrying home from work through Isaacs’s window.

Isaacs had a little stubble growing on his chin. Being around all his fellow therapists probably put the bug in his head. Have you ever noticed how many shrinks have facial hair? I think it’s a prerequisite for the degree. Somewhere along the line, most of them undergo psychoanalysis and grow a beard. I guess it’s the Freudian thing to do.

“I hope it was nothing serious—”

No, nothing serious, just another session of charred arms and terror, waking up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat with palpitations. “No, just more of the same.”

“In any case, I’ll give you my cell number. That way I’ll never be out of reach.” Isaacs smiled reassuringly.

“I’ll have to memorize it.”

“Still worried about being found out by your fellow policemen?”

Uh huh. “That’s the way it goes.”

“You know, there’s really nothing wrong with seeing a therapist. I’m sure your coworkers would understand.”

“You don’t know the job. If you think New York’s finest are enlightened, you’ve got quite a surprise coming. Tell a cop you’re seeing a shrink and right away he’ll envision you with electrodes taped to your forehead and dribble running down your chin… padded cells and men in white coats.”

“That’s ludicrous.”

“No, that’s life.”

“Come on, Stephanie. Aren’t you worrying just a little too much?”

“I’m telling you, they’d have a net over me in five minutes.”

“You would have had my cell number if you had taken one of my cards. You’re not taking advantage of all I can do for you.”

“All right, give me a card. I’ll memorize the number and then I’ll eat it.” A lot had happened since I’d called Isaacs. Last evening with Lido, above all else. There was so much on my mind: Lido, the investigation, my nightmare, and the fear of diabetes. I looked up at Isaacs. At this rate, I’d be seeing him forever.

“I think we’d better get started. I’d like to begin the session by asking you a few questions to see where they take us. About halfway through, I’d like to try some E.M.D.R. Do you remember what that is?” I nodded. I didn’t see any apparatus with flashing lights; maybe it would drop out of the ceiling at the press of a button. “Why did you become a policewoman, Stephanie?”

“I’ve always wanted to be a cop. My dad was. I guess I have this deep sense of morality. I like to see justice served. I guess it’s in my blood.” Why does everyone look at me like I have two heads when I say that? “Any of the above, take your pick.”

Isaacs pressed his pointer finger against his lips. It looked like he was kissing a boo-boo. “So, you have this inbred sense of right and wrong. Is the work gratifying? Do you enjoy what you do?”

“Very much so.”

“And it doesn’t get to you, all these murders? Innocent people shot and stabbed, abused children, beaten wives—”

“It’s not all fun and games. As you pointed out, there are some terrible, horrible things going on in the world. Some are content cultivating flowers. It just doesn’t happen to be the case with me.”

“But it’s worth it? I mean, the sense of reward from a job well done that makes it all worthwhile?”

“Absolutely. Like seeing the resolve in the eyes of a parent after you’ve obtained justice for their child. There’s nothing quite like it.”

“So it’s worth it, is what you’re saying. It’s worth all the terrible things you have to endure. The end justifies the means.”

“Yes.”

“Excellent. Do you think your father would be proud of you?”

“I’d like to believe so.”

“Excellent.” Isaacs paused to take a sip of water. “And you’re not doing this for him?”

“Excuse me?”

“I thought I was clear. You’ve chosen police work because it gives you a tremendous sense of self-gratification and not because you’re doing what would please your father. That’s what you said, isn’t it?”

Huh? “That’s correct,” I answered immediately, almost reflexively. But for the first time in my life, I had my doubts. I had never thought of that angle before and right or wrong, it opened a can of worms. I shook my finger at Isaacs. “You, you’re good!” Why, you crafty old shit. I felt like DeNiro in Analyze This. Isaacs rubbed his stubble — he looked like Freud at the height of his analytical powers.

“Just making you think.” He appeared to be quite pleased with himself. “Don’t worry, I’m not heading you toward the Electra complex. I don’t think there’s any need to swim in those murky waters.”

“Electra complex?” I turned my head askew. I’d never heard of it. I did date a guy once who was a complete fanatic about his classic Buick Electra. He used to change the oil every fifteen hundred miles, but Isaacs wasn’t talking about a car, now was he?

“The Electra complex,” Isaacs stated in a most matter-of-fact way. He leaned forward. “A daughter’s unconscious libidinal desire for her father. Like the Oedipus complex is for men, so to speak.”

“That’s disgusting!”

“Freud didn’t think so.”

“Yeah, right! Everyone thought J. Edgar Hoover was a goddamn pillar until they saw pictures of him in a dress.”

“I’m not sure I understand the analogy.”

“Let’s just say that Freud was a tad strange. I read a little about him. People with less baggage have been committed to insane asylums.”

“I think we should drop it.”

“Fair enough.”

“Let’s go back to the last constructive point. I opened the door for you, Stephanie. Do a little soul searching. Is there any chance that you became a cop to please your father?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You won’t even concede the possibility?”

“Can you please tell me what this has to do with the nightmares I’ve been having?”

“In due time. I know that you’re impatient, but this isn’t as simple as taking a pill.” Damn! “We’ve got to follow the thread and see where it leads us. I’ve got to follow the clues.” Isaacs’ eyes brightened at his own cleverness. All of a sudden, he was a cop too. “Will you accommodate me on this?”

“To a point,” I answered impatiently. “But no more of this Electra bullshit.”

“Forget that I ever mentioned it.”

Sure, that’s easy for you to do. You’re not the one who just went to bed with your father. “Done. Now, will you indulge me?” I asked.

“Of course, Stephanie. What’s on your mind?” Isaacs folded his hands below his stubbly Sigmund Freud chin.

“Well, Len, it’s a little hard to explain, but since the last time we talked, I’ve had somewhat of a revelation. I now have this sense that I’m not the person in my dream. I’m just seeing what they’re seeing.”

Isaacs recoiled. “That’s a bit unusual. What makes you think that?”

“I can’t tell you. It’s just a feeling.”

“So how do you come to see what someone else experienced?”

“That’s going to take some explaining.”

“And who do you think is being rolled into the emergency room?”

“My mother.”

“You think it’s your mother. That’s interesting.”

“That’s right, it’s just my gut feeling. That’s all I can tell you, but I am a detective and my instincts are usually pretty good.”

“Let me see if I have this right. You think your mother is on a stretcher being rolled into the hospital’s emergency room and you’re seeing everything she’s seeing. Is that about the size of it?”

“There’s more.”

“Yes?”

This was really tough to admit but I knew I had to be forthcoming if I wanted to get better. “I told you at our first session that I thought the woman on the stretcher was pregnant. Remember?”

“Yes?”

“Well, I think I’m the baby my mother is pregnant with.” How’s that for dropping a bomb?

Isaacs took off his glasses. Sweat had broken out across his temples and upper lip. Without his glasses his pupils looked extremely small, like two BBs. He wiped his glasses clean with a tissue before replacing them. “Well, I must say this puts an entirely new spin on things. Frankly, I’m a bit stymied.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No, Stephanie, I am not.”

“You’ve never worked with someone who believed that they saw what was happening to someone else?” Never for a moment did I think he had. I was, after all, a detective — I had my rod out and I was fishing.

“No, I’m sorry. I never have. Honestly, I don’t run across a lot of this in my practice.”

“Holy cow.” I pinned him with my eyes. “You’re telling me that I’m describing something so unusual that you’ve never come across it in all your years of training?”

“Well, let’s talk this through. Perhaps we’ll find something that will help me focus. In hypnoanalysis, it’s fairly common to go into the womb and even beyond. The subconscious likes to play these games and will try to please the hypnotist. Total baloney, all pretend. I don’t believe it for one moment and neither should you. Besides which, you’re not under hypnosis. Are you sure that your mother has never been in an emergency room?”

“Not that I know of.”

“But you’re not sure?”

“No.”

“That’s something we’ll have to look into. Do you fear for your mother’s life?”

I thought for a moment. The obvious answer was yes. “My mother has severe diabetes and refuses to take care of it in a responsible fashion. I’m always catching her with a stash of chocolate bars.”

“I see. All right, perhaps we’re getting somewhere.”

Isaacs continued to interrogate me about my mother’s condition and my concern for her life. I understood the direction he was taking, but he still wasn’t getting the point. He had never worked with anyone who believed they had seen through someone else’s eyes, or uterus, for that matter. Perhaps this was why I had come to him in the first place. Maybe I really feared that I was out of my mind. I had been apprehensive about telling him, but as the man had said on day one, I had to be completely open with him.

“I’m afraid we won’t be able to get into any E.M.D.R. today. At the moment, I’m not prepared to guide you through it. Can you give me a day or so to think it through?”

“Let’s face it, Len, this is not your area.” Why beat around the bush? “Perhaps you can refer me to someone who specializes in this sort of work.”

“Well, Stephanie.” He sounded a bit pissed. I guess I had been a little too direct. I should have couched my request in terms that would have softened the blow a little. “I’m afraid that I can’t just list four or five good specialists off the top of my head.” I could tell that he was making every effort to remain professional. “About the only name I have for you is Dr. Nigel Twain and frankly… well, I’m afraid you’d have to put him in the same odd closet with Freud and J. Edgar Hoover.”

“Why?”

“Well, he’s considered a bit of an oddity. I don’t mind telling you that my peers do not hold his kind of psychology in high regard. To be honest, I think they’re a little crazy, and this Twain fellow admits to having used LSD and other hallucinogens. Going to him is akin to a cancer patient running to Mexico for enema therapy.

“He used LSD personally?”

“So I’ve been told. If my information is correct, he’s also used it in the treatment of patients.”

“Wow. That sounds absolutely bizarre.”

“I can’t say he’s the first and only practicing psychiatrist to attempt rehabilitative LSD therapy, but—”

“I take it you’re not a fan.”

“I don’t even consider it a legitimate approach.”

I pondered Isaacs’s remark. As I mulled it over, I began to speak. I felt like I was a puppet and someone was working my strings. “Where can I find him?”

“You’re not serious?”

“Deadly serious. Where can I find him?”

“In the Village somewhere. He runs a facility called the Center for Transpersonal Psychology. Stephanie, this is really scary stuff. I hope you’ll think long and hard about this before getting involved with the likes of Nigel Twain, or any other paranormalist, for that matter.”

“Paranormalist, isn’t that the term they use to refer to gypsies and fortune-tellers?”

Isaacs grinned. “Exactly.”

Chapter Fifteen

Would you like me to seduce you? “Ms. Chalice, are you there?”

I had to admit I was not prepared to hear the sound of Nigel Twain’s voice, a sexy, throaty baritone that stirred me down to my toes. Nor was I prepared for the English accent. It made me drift a bit, a little tele-fantasy. I refuse to call it phone sex. I certainly wasn’t paying for it, not yet, anyway. It only lasted a few seconds, but it was great. I was a little disappointed with myself for not having thought of it in advance. His name was Nigel, not Nick or Ned. Nigel was as British sounding as they came.

“Ms. Chalice, Ms. Chalice?” He pronounced my name like no one else ever had, Chal-e-say. I had never been made love to over the phone.

“Yes, Dr. Twain, sorry. Please continue.”

“As I was saying, your case intrigues me. Even in my end of the practice, I rarely stumble across transpersonal episodes of this nature. How long have you been having these dreams?”

Keep talking. Please, just keep talking. Another five minutes and I’d have to nail Lido in the interrogation room.

“Ms. Chalice, is this a bad time?” Hell no, it’s a great time, a wonderful time. “Would you prefer that we continue our conversation at a later date?”

No! “No, I’m okay. How many times have you come across this type of thing, Dr. Twain?”

“Well actually, I’ve had experience treating several, shall we say, from-the-womb cases. None, however, were exactly the same as this. I find it highly intriguing. Would you like to explore it together?”

God yes. I had already built a composite of Twain in my mind. Careful, Stephanie, let’s not forget why we called the good doctor. “My therapist says it’s all bullshit. He says it has something to do with the Electra complex.”

“Really? I don’t see how.”

“I think he’s a Freudian.”

“Amazing, isn’t it? How the totality of modern psychotherapy is based on the work of a man who lived and died more than sixty years ago, a man whose work was patently rejected by his peers. What did your Freudian suggest, a little hypnosis, flashing lights and sleight of hand? For the love of God — I’m surprised the words hocus pocus didn’t slip out of his mouth.”

“So you think there may be something to this that the Freudian won’t acknowledge?”

“I’m not saying yes, I’m not saying no. Therapists are quick to mention Freud’s name. They use it as some kind of silver bullet, a validation for the entire practice of psychology. Laymen take stock in the name Freud; ‘Oh yes, he must know something, he used the F word.’ Jung and Adler, two of the most important players in modern psychological theory, resigned from the International Psychoanalytic Association in protest of Freud’s theory on infantile sexuality.”

“So you’re saying I should keep an open mind.” Have you ever heard anyone refer to Freud as the F word? I thought that was really cool stuff.

“Exactly. I’ll tell you up front, the majority of psychological practitioners frown upon many of the treatments we use here at the Center. They view my work as some kind of enlightened voodoo.”

Everything sounded so good in his words. He was so soothing, seemed so in command. I wanted to lie back in the powerful arms I imagined he had and surrender myself to his treatment. Too bad there was no way that his appearance could ever live up to the fantasy Dr. Twain that I had artfully painted in my mind. Then again, you never know.

Chapter Sixteen

Nigel Twain was every woman’s fantasy. He certainly was mine, except… “Bacteriophobia, Ms. Chalice.” Twain settled into his hi-back swivel. The top of his desk was barren except for a computer terminal and a telephone.

“That would explain the surgical mask and cotton gloves.”

“Exactly.”

“But aren’t the gloves porous?”

“They’re of my own creation, Detective.” Twain smiled at his accomplishment. “The cotton is laminated on the inside by a trademark Japanese process called Entrant. It’s similar to Gore-Tex, which allows the skin to perspire, yet it’s one hundred percent waterproof from the outside. I used to wear those horrible latex things under calfskin, but the smell… the smell was just horrid.”

“And the mask?”

“Treated with a germicidal agent.”

So you’re a nut. “You couldn’t find a doctor that could help you with these little, shall we call them, problems?”

“I’m worlds better than I used to be.” Oh sure. Absolutely. Twain erected a tent under his chin and spoke in an even tone. “I lived in a sterile bubble for two years. So as you see, these minor bits of paraphernalia are really nothing.” Twain broke camp and leaned forward. “It’s something left over from a paranoid manifestation, the result of a bad trip.”

“Pakistan?”

Twain chuckled in his stirring English baritone. “Let’s not play games. You’re a cop, so I’m sure you checked me out, nice and thorough. I know I did a bit of snooping before you arrived. There have been so many lawsuits levied at me over the years. Let’s just say an ounce of prevention—”

Oh God, please help me. “So we’re not talking bad trips as in travel to the third world?”

“LSD, Ms. Chal-e-say. Say it, L-S-D. I took it. I used it. It’s not a secret. It lies at the very foundation of my research. I was able to help patients in ways that conventional therapists can’t even imagine. Can you get by it, Detective? Can you overlook my research long enough to let me help you with your problems? I know you’re intuitive. That’s why you dropped your conventional therapist after just two visits.”

“So you and your patients weren’t just sitting around and getting buzzed?” I asked pointedly.

“Who told you I did that, the Freudian?” I nodded. Twain became agitated but settled down almost immediately. Marvelous self-control, don’t you think? “It’s completely infuriating.”

I was almost at a loss for words. Can you believe it? “You’re nothing like I expected.”

“And that was?”

“Timothy Leary, a 1970s California burnout type. I didn’t expect a—”

“Bald, strapping black man?” Twain cracked his neck.

I would have said Mandingo warrior. “More or less.”

“You’ll find that I’m full of surprises.”

“Well, don’t keep me waiting.”

“Very well.” Twain rose. God, he was tall and muscular. He propped himself up against the windowsill, his black-gloved hands resting in his lap. “Stephanie Chalice, born in Manhattan, New York. Your father was a New York City detective. He died from complications of manifest diabetes. Your mother suffers from the same affliction.” He glared at me. “Shall I go on?”

I no longer cared that he was a hunk, or a loon, or that he was perhaps the sexiest-looking man I had ever seen in my life. It seemed that I was not in his office for psychological help. I was there because he wanted me there, because he had something on his mind. I nodded again.

“You made detective at the age of twenty-seven, a promotion usually accorded more senior candidates. You received attention from the media for your arrest of a Libyan freedom fighter on New Year’s Eve. By the way, you photograph beautifully.” Twain winked and then continued to prattle on. “You’re assigned to the investigation of two related double homicides and you’re romantically tied to your partner, a handsome chap by the name of Gus Lido.” Twain finished rattling off everything everyone knew about me and then gazed at me evenly. “Does that just about sum it up?”

“You bastard!” I rose from my chair and walked around his desk to confront him. We were an inch apart, a distance that could either be considered romantic or confrontational. “What’s your game, Twain?”

“I’m here to help you, nothing more.”

“Well, you’re not helping. As a matter of fact, I’m feeling uncomfortable and tense.”

“I’d like to help you.” His eyes slithered over me like a long, moist tongue.

“No hidden agendas, Dr. Twain, no bullshit and no games. I thought you could help me with my nightmares, but if there’s anything else on your mind, I’ll see to it that—”

“I assure you, my intention is only to help you.”

I glared at him before we stepped apart. He was a living contradiction — big, handsome, powerful, and yet afraid of tiny germs. “Let’s hope that’s so. One lick of the lips and you’ll be back in therapy for the rest of your life.”

“I rue the prospect.”

Yeah, rue this! The freak was getting off. “So, shall we go back to doctor-patient, or am I out of here?”

Twain stood. He looked deeply into my eyes while touching my arm gently with his gloved hand. Careful, Twain, my cooties might jump out and bite you. He was such a damn contradiction, the body of Tyson Beckford and the neurotic trappings of Woody Allen. He directed me back to my chair. “Please, sit down.” I didn’t move, prompting him to add, “Please, if you sit down, I will too.”

God knows why I got back into that chair. Twain was so damn intriguing. I didn’t know whether to smack him around or tear his clothes off. Doesn’t that mean I’m conflicted? Damn, I was getting sucked deeper into the whirling vortex of psycho-dementia. Sucked, now that was an interesting choice of words — what else has he had germicidally treated?

“I didn’t mean to startle you. I assumed that as a New York City detective, you were accustomed to being spoken to directly. Apparently I caught you off guard.” Twain lowered his head. “I didn’t mean to.”

Punish me, Detective. I’ve been a bad boy. Is that what he was thinking? I’ll bet that Twain’s head was just filled with dirty little thoughts. The prospect of looking into them excited the hell out of me. “Let’s move on then. I’ve got miles to go before I sleep,” I said.

“Reciting Frost?”

“Yes, Frost. Even a cop can enjoy poetry.” And you took the road less traveled, didn’t you?

“I love Frost.” Twain’s eyes lit up as he spoke. “There, you see, we’ve found common ground.”

Just barely. I smiled.

“Fine, let me come clean then. I don’t take on many new clients, Detective. I’ve got to have a real desire to help someone before I become engaged in anything new. A new client has to be really… extraordinary.”

“And I—”

“Detective Chalice, you’re as extraordinary as they come.” He smiled strangely, like a child about to divulge a deep dark secret. He was almost giddy as he sat down in his chair. “I have a Venus obsession.” A single tear rolled down his face and disappeared behind his dark mask.

“Humor me, would you, Doctor?”

Twain opened his drawer. He had a wad of Kleenex in a Zip-lock bag. He removed one and resealed the bag before drying his face. “It’s terrible,” he said between sniffles. “I’m drawn to women and yet—”

“I get it, forbidden fruit. You want women but you’re afraid. So, why me?”

“Isn’t it obvious? You’re magnificent.”

“And Nigel wants to be a bad boy?”

“But can’t.”

“Why don’t you hire an escort? You don’t look like you’re starving.”

“Please, don’t be absurd. It’s not just your beauty. It’s your complexity that intrigues me.”

“So, you’re helping me because you think I’m beautiful and nuts.”

“Birds of a feather.”

“This is too funny to be true.” I stood and began to stride around the room. “Is this for real?”

“Even the clients I agree to see are on a six month waiting list. I saw you in a matter of hours.”

Jesus. “How lucky can a girl get?” Twain opened his center desk drawer and took out a folder. He spread its contents so that all the newspaper articles he had clipped were visible. I eased forward and took hold of the folder. Twain had clipped all the articles related to my current investigation.

“Ninety percent of what I know about you, I learned from these articles. Of course, I guessed about the relationship between you and Detective Lido. Needless to say, you did not dispute the claim. I’m the only one who can help you, Stephanie. I’m the only one.”

I don’t know why I didn’t walk out, but I didn’t.

Chapter Seventeen

Becoming unstable. It always pissed me off when my computer flashed that warning. I now understood what it meant. I was glad that I had promised to help Ma do some baking. Activities like creaming and sifting are therapeutic, churning and steaming are not. Always remember that when you’re in the kitchen. Twain had turned out to be a handful and not in the way I had hoped. He was a phobic, drugged-out English shrink with a crush on Yours Truly — Just what I needed in my life. Swell.

“Friggin’ apples are hard as nails,” Ma swore, expressive as always. She was wearing her taupe housecoat. Taupe is for baking, green is for money. Ma’s big on color association. She had a vault key pinned to the green one, remember? I wonder what she had pinned to this one, a paring knife and a photo of Graham Kerr? Remember him, the Galloping Gourmet? I think Ma still had a hankering for his schnitzel. Well anyway, she was in the taupe housecoat, bearing down on a Cortland with an apple corer, mercilessly gouging out the center. Personally, I didn’t feel too centered myself, but the hell with that now. We’re baking, right? Let’s put mental illness aside for the moment.

I was preparing the streusel topping which consisted of four sticks of butter and a full package of brown sugar. Brown sugar? Damn it. Everything brought me back to Twain. I didn’t like being out of control; I’m as anal as they come. “My God, Ma, ya think there’s enough sugar in this recipe? I hope you’re not planning on eating any of this.”

“It’s apple pie, Stephanie. What’s wrong with apple pie?” Ma swore under her breath. I didn’t hear her comment, but it sounded like a doozie.

“It’s not apple pie; it’s a friggin’ candy bar with a few chunks of fruit thrown in.” I wiped my hands on the kitchen towel which was older than I was. Ma never throws anything out. “How many times do I have to warn you to stay away from sweets?” She swore under her breath again. She looked out the window, trying to ignore me. I gave her a nudge on the hip.

“Hey! Watch it, I’ve got a sharp knife in my hands.” She slapped my hand away and swore one more time. “What’s good to eat, Stephanie, nothing?”

“Forget it. Want help with your apples?” I walked over to my bag and took out my backup piece. I had the Para-Ordnance .45 Light/Double Action out of its holster in a jiffy, ejected the clip and emptied the slide before Ma could see what I was doing.

“Here!” I stormed over to her and put a peeled Cortland on her head. “Hold this,” I ordered. I hid the gun behind my back. As she accommodated my request, I took two steps back and aimed at the apple, well, slightly higher, actually, well out of harm’s way. “This is ever so much better than that old coring tool. How many apples you got left? I’ve got a full clip.”

“Stephanie!” she shrieked. “You’ve gone crazy. What the hell are you doing?” She looked a little pale and shaky, but what the hell. What did it take to make a point around this place anyway?

“This is gonna be great. So much faster too.”

“Oh my God. You’ve lost your mind.”

“No, really, Ma, I’m a crack shot. Should I just do the apple or would you like a little off the top?”

“Cut it out, Stephanie. It’s not funny.”

“What’s the difference, Ma? You’re killing yourself anyway. At least you won’t be torturing me with a slow, agonizing death. What’s the expression, two birds with one stone?”

Ma glared at me and I glared back, will against will. Who would blink first? A couple of seconds passed. It seemed longer. I put down the gun. “What am I gonna do with you, Ma? I already lost Daddy. Do I have to bury you too? Jesus, Ma.” I began to mist up. “I’m only twenty-eight.” Damn that Nigel Twain. Here I am in the prime of my life. Stephanie Chalice: cop, hero, independent woman, child. I felt so damn tired.

“Hey, what’s up, Stephanie?” Ma walked over. My head was lowered in despair. She had to crane her neck to get a look at my face. “Let’s sit down and talk.” She took me by the arm. “Come on.” We walked over to the sofa and plopped our fannies down. The sofa still had those awful protective plastic slipcovers on them. They had yellowed and cracked with age. A plastic shard caught me right in the ass.

“I’m all right, Ma.”

“You’re full o’ shit, you’re all right. Tell me what’s going on.”

“Midlife crisis.”

Ma snickered. “You’re only twenty-eight. What gives?” I guess I smirked at her remark. “That’s better. Now spill it.”

“I’m all right. Don’t you ever get a little gloomy?”

“Gloomy? Yes, I get gloomy. I don’t impersonate William Tell with a sidearm.”

“I’m expecting my period, that’s all.”

“So take some Midol, for God’s sake. Don’t tell me this is PMS. My daughter doesn’t get PMS.”

“Do so. I’m just so naturally bitchy it’s hard to tell the difference.”

“You can do better than that.” She gave me a few moments and when she saw that I wasn’t going to talk, sighed and then slapped her leg. “I give up.” She leaned forward and kissed me on the forehead. “I’m here when you want to talk. No appointment necessary.” She stood up and reached for my hand. “I’ll scrape the damn topping off the apple pie. It’ll kill me, but I’ll do it.”

I gave her a little girl smile and then stood up. I threw my arms around her and gave her a kiss. “Love ya, Ma.”

“I love you too, honey.” Suddenly her finger was in my face. “Pull your piece on me again and I’ll put you over my knee. Got it?”

We hugged for a long time. It restored me. I wasn’t going to burden her with my loony problems: the nightmare, the homicidal maniac I was tracking, or the misguided adventures of Nigel Twain. Enough shit had fallen on her in her life. I had to figure this one out by myself.

I wondered if I would have spilled it if my father had been the one beseeching me, cop to cop. I looked over Ma’s shoulder. The Cortlands were turning brown.

Chapter Eighteen

I went to the salon the next morning. Shakira blew out my hair and did my makeup. That sort of thing always lifts my spirits. Don’t ask me why. Anyway, I paid seventy-five bucks for what usually costs me nothing. It was still cheaper than a session with the shrink and it accomplished the same thing; I swear.

Shakira was an absolutely gorgeous Hindu woman, four-foot-eight and in the same weight class as Tweety Bird, who chanted when she spoke. She had either attained a level of spiritual enlightenment not accessible to Occidentals, or Jorge, the salon’s proprietor, was doing her, and I’m not talking about the permanent wave in her hair. In any case, I’d only seen that kind of euphoria on the faces of those induced by narcotics. I don’t care how much Deepak Chopra you read, meditation alone will not make you that happy.

I was smiling as I entered the station house. I had been checking myself out in storefront windows along the way as I walked. I was doing the skirt thing again, the sluttiest I could get away with on the job. I had been thinking about Gus all morning. Shoot, did I say Gus? I meant Lido. I was thinking about sequestering Lido away for a nooner. I had never been prone to this type of behavior before, but now that I’d seen him naked… Anyway, it was good for my emotional state, seriously.

I had picked up two Frappuccinos on my way in and slid one across Lido’s desk. He caught the look on my face, checked the Mariah Carey outfit. “Oh shit!” He smiled. “So it’s gonna be that way.”

“Cold drink on a hot day, Lido. Get your mind out of the bedroom,” I whispered.

“Right!” he replied sarcastically. He bit the end of his straw and slowly stripped the paper off of it. I was in a bad way; even that got to me today. He took a short drag and ran his tongue along his top lip, playing it to the hilt.

“Don’t we have to be in forensics?” I barked. Gee whiz, what’s wrong with a girl wanting a little something-something? Get over yourself, Lido! Men!

Aaron Kurtz was a born-again cop. He’d actually abandoned the Hasidic community to become a forensic specialist. It started with a small ammo shop in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, and then a few night classes at John Jay. He got so wrapped up in forensic study that he traded his tallis for a microscope.

“Good to see you, Detective.”

I smiled. “Back at you, Kurtz.”

Lido gave him a high five. “Looks like you put on a few,” Lido commented, slapping Kurtz on the belly.

“Donuts,” Kurtz replied. It was true. Cops were lazy. My dad used to say that cops would reach for the closest woman or donut. Maybe that’s what I was doing with Lido, validating the law of proximity and frequency. Dad used to say that if two people were put in the same place often enough, they’d eventually end up in bed together. Great, there was something else to think about. Perhaps I should mention it to my bacteriophobic, LSD-experimenting, wannabe criminologist shrink. Nah, forget it. I was better off having Shakira blow out my hair. It was cheaper and less complicated.

“So, what ya got for us, big fella?” I asked.

“Come take a look,” Kurtz offered. He waddled off. My God, he was wide. He looked like Humpty Dumpty from behind.

Kurtz picked up a long-barreled weapon and cradled it gently in his two oversized hands. “It took me a long time, but I finally found a match.” He handed it to Lido. “Feather 9mm RAV,” he continued. “The markings are dead-on. Only a long-barreled instrument like the RAV 9mm could produce the unique rifling marks I found on the slugs taken from the tramcar and basement crime scenes. I fired it through the homemade silencer. It was one hundred percent the same.”

“You sound sure of yourself.”

“Absolutely sure! In addition, the metal fibers and yellow filaments found on both gunshot victims match the materials the silencer was made from: tennis balls and steel wool.”

“Brilliant work.”

“Thanks,” Kurtz said. “Let’s move on.”

“Can we trace the weapon?” Lido asked.

“Perhaps, but it will take a long time. The RAV 9mm is available by mail-order in all fifty states. They sell these things like hotcakes. Every wannabe commando has one. Great target machine: light, accurate, breaks down one, two, three. These findings will help you convict, but you’ll have to find your perp some other way.”

“I’ll add the information to our computer search all the same,” Lido said. “You never know.”

It pissed me off. Our perp was still in the driver’s seat. We didn’t know anything he didn’t want us to know. Twain had offered to help, but I had declined. Perhaps I shouldn’t have looked a gift horse in the mouth. Perhaps it took a freak to catch a freak. I was starting to get a little crazy, but nowhere as crazy as Twain, and by the time I could reach that level of dementia, New York would be a ghost town.

Chapter Nineteen

Lido and I banged egos all day. It got in the way of us being cops, which was the last thing I wanted to happen. “Proximity and frequency,” my father’s words kept reverberating in my head; two good-looking young people in the same place all the time. I was determined to be a cop first and a woman second, but for those of you who are female, you just go and try.

Lido met me outside the stationhouse. “Hey, I’ll buy you a beer.” Lido had the most incredibly brown puppy-dog eyes. You know the kind I’m talking about, the kind you can’t say no to.

Lido took me to a place called Café Remy, a Latino club down by the South Street Seaport. After two Coronas, I was three sheets to the wind. I had never danced to salsa music before, but if you’re scoring on originality, I think I did pretty well. Technically, Italy is one of the Latin countries and I’ve got an ample supply of rhythm. At twenty-eight, I can writhe and grind with the best of them. It wasn’t what I had planned, but it eliminated the need for talking. The whole place shook from the driving bass beat. Sometimes talking is overrated, isn’t it?

Lido knew what he was doing. His moves on the dance floor were smooth. I shot him an accusatory glance, the kind that says, you’ve done this before. “I didn’t know you were such a gigolo.” Lido looked at me strangely. He couldn’t hear me above the music.

“What?”

“I said I didn’t know you were such a gigolo. “

“What?”

“You’re a slut!”

“Oh.” He heard me that time, Guys love being called sluts. The suggestion really turns them on. He winked, spun me around, and began running his hands up and down my legs, tantalizing me with his fingertips. I’ll have to remember that he likes that.

There was a Latino couple at the bar. They were doing calisthenics with their tongues. The guy had his hand up his date’s blouse. Who was I to be outdone? I ground my butt into Lido and gave him the dreamy-eyed look. God, don’t they have air-conditioning in this joint?

Lido’s arms were around me, holding me tight. It felt so good. I wanted to unzip him and let Little Lido out for a merengue.

We danced for hours and became drenched, our skin glistening, our libidos steaming. I looked over at the bar. That couple was still doing their oral calisthenics. They were now up to Jane Fonda’s advanced tape. You know, the one where you have to bend backwards until your head is just below your privates. “Hey, let’s throw a bucket of water on those two. I’ve got to sit.”

Lido smiled. I kissed him on the neck. He was as salty as a bag of Lays potato chips, the original kind. He told me to stay put. He turned and maneuvered his way through the crowd. I saw him talking to one of the gargantuan bouncers. The next thing I knew, we were upstairs in the private lounge: quieter, cooler, and with far fewer inhabitants.

We started making out. In the middle of a tongue bath, I said, “You’d better take me home. Displays of affection are one thing, but I draw the line at public fornication.” Most guys would have reached down into that muddy testosterone well and dredged up something stupid to say, but Lido didn’t say a word. He just hugged me, gave me a kiss, and took me home.

Chapter Twenty

FBI agent, Herbert Ambler pushed the packet holder containing artificial sweetener across the table toward me. “We’re well stocked here, blue stuff and pink stuff. Name your poison.” He smiled wryly.

I selected a pink packet and winked.

“Pink for girls?” Ambler mused.

I wrinkled my nose and shook my head. I didn’t care to address the gender thing. “Carcinogen of choice. The other stuff grows furry little balls on female laboratory rats. Don’t need those. “

Lido smirked. “No, you don’t.” He was trying to be cute, which I chalked up to SBS, Sudden Boyfriend Syndrome. I wanted to grab his leg and make him scream like a coyote at the height of lunch hour, but Ambler would have jumped on that in a second. Behind the bifocals were the eyes of an eagle. He was smart and savvy, the whole enchilada. I played it cool. My beau’s comment was innocuous enough, typical guy/gal partner stuff.

Lido grabbed a handful of the granulated white and added six packets to his iced tea. I just rolled my eyes as he stirred.

“What?” Lido asked, catching my expression. “It’s tough to dissolve.” He wore a quizzical expression.

“Now we know why you’re so—”

Lido flicked an intimidating finger in my direction. I should have known better. “Don’t even think about it, Chalice.” Ambler laughed as he wolfed down his hefty chicken-salad club. I figured it was time to move on.

One more playful little quip and Ambler’d have us cold. “Women are dying, Ambler. What’s the Bureau got for us?” I saw him switch gears, which was exactly what I wanted. The best defense is a strong offense.

“Almost nothing you haven’t heard already,” Ambler replied.

I eyed him squarely. He was playing with us. “Then what are we doing here?”

Ambler held up a wedge of his sandwich. “Best chicken salad in lower Manhattan. Thanks.” He added a shit-eating grin for good measure.

“Who said I was buying? Come on, Ambler, tell us what you’ve got,” I implored.

“Can’t I finish my lunch first?”

“Come on, Ambler, stop dicking around. Tell me something or I’ll empty my clip into you.”

Ambler put down the sandwich reluctantly. “All right, he’s a kisser.”

Lido edged forward. “I don’t think I heard you.”

Ambler touched his finger to his cheek. “Your perp kisses, lays a big, fat, wet one on his victims during the snuff. Both Ellen Redner and the bleach-blonde computer geek had traces of saliva on their right cheeks.”

“Why didn’t our boys find that?” Lido asked unhappily.

“The city’s resources suck,” Ambler explained. “If you want good assay, you’ve got to go federal. We’re cross-typing the two DNA samples. Results will be in shortly.”

“What are we supposed to do with that?” Lido asked. “I mean it’s something, but not much.”

“Patience, Detective.” Ambler shifted in his chair and picked up his sandwich. I watched him play Lido. I knew Ambler too well. There was more. “Lysergic acid diethylamide.”

That brought me a smile. “So our boy’s a user,” I ventured.

“Long term, Chalice. Preliminary DNA analysis shows genetic deformations on the chromosome bundles from both samples. It’s consistent with long-term use. LSD is a mutagen. We found traces in the saliva.”

“I love you, Ambler.” My smile beamed across the table. Put enough money out on the street and something usually came back. That’s the way it was in the drug world. The only problem was separating the good information from the bad. Chronic stoolies are often unreliable.

“I can start making calls.” Lido drained the last of his sugar water, wiped his chin and stood up. He knew exactly what to do, Snitches and Informants 101. His derriere was at eye level now. Bless his heart; he had a butt you could bounce a quarter off of.

It was an effort, but I finally pulled my eyes off his rear end and met his gaze. I’ll catch up. I want to squeeze the Fed here. Who knows what else he’ll give up?” I winked. Lido seemed disappointed that I wasn’t leaving with him. I’m sure Ambler saw it too. Lido, you’re such a dope.

“Fine. Catch ya back at the house.” Lido saluted Ambler with two fingers. “Much obliged.”

I followed Lido until he was outside the restaurant before turning back to Ambler. “Thanks.”

“Ain’t no thang.”

“Spare me the urban shtick. You’ve got about as much soul as Al Gore.”

“Ouch! That was cruel.”

“You love it when I’m cruel.”

He chuckled. “How’s Ma?”

“As always.”

“Still sneaking the chocolate bars?” I nodded. “Some things never change.”

“I guess not.”

Ambler washed down his meal with coffee. “That wasn’t half bad.” He rubbed his tummy.

“I’d hate to see how you wolf down something you really like.”

“Same old Stephanie. So, how long have you and Lido been an item?” He glared at me, defying me to refute his claim.

“No. Absolutely not.” I shook my head and squirmed in my chair. “You’re way off base here.” I fished in my purse, took out my compact, and started checking my face. Girls are allowed to do that, even if they are cops. Ambler just sat there and waited. The old pro knew to follow his instincts. I milked the makeup thing as long as I could,

“Two attractive people: opportunity and proximity.”

“You sound like my father.”

“He was one terrific cop.”

“Bet your ass he was.” I don’t know why I got so defensive. After all, Ambler was like an uncle to me. I could tell him if I wanted to. I just didn’t want to.

Chapter Twenty-one

I spotted Twain on the aisle, eighth row back, at Saint Patrick’s Cathedral. He was cloaked in black, a hood veiled his head. The heavens rumbled outside. Storm clouds gathered. The closing of the cathedral’s heavy door behind me restored silence. It was a quarter past four. The great church was mostly empty. Dim light filtering through the stained glass painted Twain in a gothic light. I kneeled and blessed myself before approaching him.

“A Chalice in the house of the Lord? You honor me, Detective. You honor me by seeking me out.”

“How did you know it was me?”

“By your walk, Detective. It’s distinctive, like the strut of a panther.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“As you wish. I suppose skepticism is a valuable trait in an investigator.” Twain rose. I could see him glance at me from behind his hood.

“I love the cloak. Versace?”

“Testy, Detective? You must be haunted by nightmares.”

“I’m haunted by a great many things, Twain, you among them.”

“Once again, flattery.” Twain slid farther down the pew. He gestured to the space he had vacated and lowered his head. I sat down, facing him. “This cloak gives me comfort and you’d be surprised at how little attention it draws.”

“I’m sorry you feel the need to hide.”

“One does not need a cloak in order to hide, but I see that it’s losing its effectiveness. Saint Patrick’s is a poor setting for a therapy session. Why didn’t you call for an appointment?”

“I’m not here for therapy, Twain. I came for help with my case.” Damn, it hurt to say it. It was hard admitting that the psychopath had stymied us. Days were passing without us getting any closer to our killer. I wasn’t too proud to ask for help.

“Oh. The other matter, is it? The well being of citizens before that of your own? That’s admirable.” He was so handsome that I just couldn’t stand it. Cloaked and behind a mask, it was like sitting next to a dark knight. “It’s all right, Detective, let the defenses down. We all need help from time to time. I’ve helped many over the course of my professional career.”

“We think our psychopath uses LSD. We found traces of it in the saliva he left on the cheeks of the two female victims.”

Twain’s eyes sparkled. “He kisses them? How intriguing. He loves his victims, Detective. He loves them very much.”

“Then why does he kill them?”

“Crimes of passion, Detective. You can love someone and still cause him or her pain. It happens every day. You know that. I’m sure he has a good reason for taking their lives, a very good reason. Go on, I’d like to know more.”

“We’ve been combing the streets for a week, looking for our perp’s connection. No leads. He’s getting his stuff from a source we’re not familiar with.”

“And so you’ve come to me, your resident expert on psychedelic drugs. You know, Detective, I haven’t been involved with hallucinogenic drugs in several decades. It’s so sixties. “

“I love it when you’re flippant.” He chuckled in that lovely, deep, British tone. I could feel it echo within me. I wondered what he was wearing under that cloak. Was he bare beneath the black silk? Stephanie, my God, you’re in church.

“Ah, the mystical LSD. Is it powerful medicine or the devil’s drug? I know LSD. I know it well. It can be a lovely maiden or the ghastly hydra. It all depends, doesn’t it, Detective?”

“Why don’t you tell me?”

Twain focused on the statue of the Blessed Mother. “Why do people alter their minds, Detective? They do so in order to see things differently. Haven’t you ever wanted to see differently, Detective? Individuals have used it to gain profound insights into the nature of religion. I used it as a microscope into the psyche, and the army has used it as an instrument of destruction.” He turned to me and smiled slyly. “Most use it to get blitzed.” In spite of the tension, we both laughed. “Good, laughter is so very often the basis for cure.”

“I’d like to use it to find a murderer, Dr. Twain. Can we use it for that?”

“Let’s pray.” Twain lowered his head again and closed his eyes. Is this guy for real? Twenty seconds passed, thirty. “Your mouth’s agape, Detective. Is it so bizarre to petition God for his support?”

My mouth was open. I closed it quickly. “You’re praying for him to help with the case? That I don’t believe.”

“Astute of you, Detective. It’s so hard sitting here alone with you.

“What?”

“Your mouth’s open again.”

“Look, Twain, try to remember that I’m a cop.” I shot him a scowl for good measure.

“You’ve got absolutely gorgeous legs.” I tugged down my skirt, couldn’t cover up as much as I wanted to. “It’s no use, Detective. LSD has heightened my senses forever. I can see you as if you were wearing nothing at all. It’s a gift.” I wanted to slug him, but his smile was sinful. I don’t know how I kept from blushing.

Change the subject, Stephanie. Distract him. “What were you praying for?”

“A cure for my phobia, to live as part of the germ-infested world, to take you in my arms and ravage you.”

I shot out of my seat. “For Christ’s sake, Twain. One more crack and I’ll slap a pair of grimy cuffs on you.”

He bore a look of tortured nobility. “Enslave me? You are such a tantalizing little minx. Yes, very well. Put me in irons.”

“Man, you’re fucked up!” I bolted out of the church, angry, scowling, hot, and confused.

Chapter Twenty-two

“Bastard!” The door of the cathedral slammed behind me, delivering me from its sanctuary. We had angered God, Twain and I. Water poured from the sky as I imagine it must have in biblical times, the days of fire and brimstone. My kingdom for an ark. Water rose along the gutters of Fifth Avenue, rising above the curb, spilling onto the sidewalk. The sky was black. Traffic had ground to a stop. Horns blared in frustration all along Fifth Avenue. And there I was, without an umbrella or a car, unable to go forward or back.

“I’m sorry.” He was there beside me. His movements were so stealthy that he seemed to materialize out of thin air. He pulled back his hood. His looks were devastating, my dark, brooding prince. “Truly sorry. Let’s go back inside.”

“Not a chance. You’re an easy target for a lightning bolt out here. I’d be careful if I’d defiled God’s house as you just did.”

“I’d really like to help you, Detective Chalice. May I?”

“All right, but I want you to think of me as Typhoid Mary. Can you do that?”

He closed his eyes and then reopened them. “Easily.”

Hey, I don’t think I liked that.

Twain gazed at the pitch-black sky. It was as midnight. His name defined him, destined from birth. Twain, he was two men, not one: the handsome, powerful brute and the helplessly phobic doctor. Which one would win? I could tell you how I’d cast my vote.

“Give me something, Twain. Give me something I can use. I’m looking for a psychopath who uses LSD. Now can you tell me something, or can’t you?”

“I used LSD as an amplifier of the psyche. The mind is filled with so many little bits, billions of nooks and crannies, most too small to get at through conventional psychotherapy. LSD helped me to help more of my patients than hypnosis ever could. It allowed me to ferret out vital clues and amplify them so that they were large enough to observe. I was not a flower child. Do you understand?”

“I can see why you gave it to your patients. Why’d you take it yourself?”

Twain looked sad, introspective, and absolutely vulnerable. Physically, he had it all. Mentally, well, that was another story. “I couldn’t get close enough to God without it.”

“I don’t understand.” The wind began to whip up. It came in fierce gusts. I pulled my jacket tight.

“My upbringing was devoutly religious. My parents forced me to worship. I didn’t know whether my devotion was the result of brainwashing or if I was truly in love with the Almighty. The drug helped me to see more clearly.”

“How?”

“To see, you have to experience. Pious men have been using hallucinogens since the beginning of time. Shamans, tribal priests, modern day clergy, you have no idea. There are documented cases of profound, life-changing spiritual experiences as a result of hallucinogens. Perhaps one day we’ll get close enough so that you can understand.”

“Look what it did to you. It’s caused you such problems, life-changing problems.” Lightning flashed above. The air sizzled around us.

“There’s good and bad in everything. My journey has been an intensely interesting one.”

No doubt.

“My phobias were not caused by LSD. They were caused by BZ.”

“And that is?”

“A very long story. The short of it is that it’s the very last word in mind-altering substances. Think of it as LSD on steroids… But let’s talk about your case, shall we?”

Finally. Thunder exploded. I nearly jumped into his arms. We were just inches apart, breathless. I stepped back quickly. “You said he loves his victims. Let’s go there.” Good recovery, Steph.

“Isn’t that why we kiss, to show affection? Doesn’t that make sense?”

Hey, make sense of this. “You’re telling me he loved both of those women. I really doubt that.”

“I believe he did, but not as you’re thinking. He killed those women and likely several others, and he did it because he loved them. I tell you there were others, other women who fit the mold. Every time he murders, he’s killing the same girl. He’s doing it over and over again. The recent fatalities have something in common with his first victim. Find the first one and you’ll have him.”

“He left us a clue each time. He tells us to look back.” The air had turned ice cold. Twain’s black cape flapped like a flag in the blustery wind.

“Have you looked back, Detective?”

“There are only two cases that fit his MO.”

“The gunshot victims? Dismiss them. He wanted your attention. There must have been other suffocation victims that he’s responsible for. I’ll bet there are other women who got the big wet kiss. Check it out. There must have been other fatalities. The two men would never have been shot if you were giving him the attention he was looking for. He’s leaving clues, Detective Chalice. Doesn’t that make sense as well?”

“You’re saying he’s got a hard-on for the NYPD.”

“No, Stephanie Chalice. His boner is for you.”

I was stunned. I remained silent while my brain raced to compute what Twain had just told me. My cell phone rang, snapping me back to attention. “Chalice.” My voice had a desperate, emotional quality to it. Twain’s comment was still processing. It was gradually eating into my brain.

“Stephanie.” It was Lido’s voice. “Your mother’s on her way to NYU Emergency. She’s taken a bad fall. Where are you? I’ll be right there.”

I looked at the stalled lanes of cars in front of me. It was one vast parking lot. I turned to Twain. “Your car here? I’ve got to get to the hospital right now!”

Twain nodded. “Just off the corner. What’s wrong?”

“My mother’s on her way to the ER.” I spoke into the phone. “Forget it, Lido. You’ll never make it. I’ve got a ride.”

“Okay,” Lido replied. “I’ll meet you there.”

Twain and I began to run flat out on the rain-drenched pavement. It felt like I was running next to a cheetah. His strides were long and graceful. “Tell your driver to run all the lights.”

“I’m the driver,” Twain replied.

“No you’re not,” I replied. “Not anymore.”

Chapter Twenty-three

It was a miracle. The street opened up before me. I leaned on the horn as I shot past Madison Avenue. Twain’s midnight-blue Corvette seemed to blend in with the stormy sky as it raced like a stealth fighter across town. I heard an ambulance’s electronic siren yelp as we approached First Avenue. Ma was in it; I could feel it in my bones. I swung in tight, right behind it, stuck to its bumper right up to the ER entrance.

I was out of the car before the stretcher had hit the ground. Ma looked unconscious. An oxygen mask was strapped to her face. “What happened?” I screamed. A paramedic shoved me aside. I ran after them as they raced Ma into the building.

I looked behind me. There was no sign of Twain or his car. I turned back. I was living the nightmare. There was a doctor and a nurse on either side of the stretcher, backpedaling with us. Their faces were painted with concern. As we raced down the entryway, the doctor boosted himself up to the stretcher. I saw a bright object in his hand, a small flashlight. He parted Ma’s eyelid and scanned her eye diagnostically. “She’s diabetic, Type 1,” I yelled ahead. The doctor looked up.

“You’re family?” he asked urgently.

“I’m her daughter.”

“Your mother’s in shock.”

“Neighbor found her at the bottom of a stairwell,” one paramedic barked. “Multiple contusions to the head, they don’t look serious. Check her for internal bleeding. BP is eighty over fifty. Pulse is forty-five.”

The doctor pointed to the left, toward a passageway. The paramedics heeded. He queried the nurse, “Are any of the ORs available?”

“Number two is,” she replied.

“Start rapid infusion of crystalloid solution and check her hematocrit, type and cross-match for six units,” he bellowed. He tore away her blouse and began pressing lightly on her stomach. “I want a CBC count, serum creatinine, electrolyte, amylase and blood glucose. Order a full series of abdominal X-rays. Have them ready the OR and schedule an immediate abdominal laparotomy.” He was off the stretcher now, running alongside. “Call Edwards and tell him I can assist.”

“What’s going on?” I asked frantically.

“I think your mother’s bleeding,” the doctor barked. The stretcher crashed through swinging doors. I was on my way through when a male nurse stopped me.

“You’ll have to wait out here,” the nurse advised. “Don’t worry, your mother’s in good hands.”

I froze in my tracks, breathless, confused and disoriented. I stared at the sealed doors, wondering if Ma would come out alive. Someone was holding a cup of coffee in my face. “Light with Sweet’N Low, correct?” Twain was standing in front of me. He had ditched the cloak and was wearing scrubs, a surgical mask and gloves.

“What happened to the d’Artagnan getup?”

Twain shrugged. “When in Rome—” He sat down next to me. “I’m affiliated here. I was in the OR,” he announced. “They’ve got your mother’s blood sugar corrected, but she bled quite a bit. They’ve got to operate. There’s evidence of blunt liver trauma. They’re scrubbing now. Someone will be over with a release form any minute.”

“I can give her blood.”

“They’re already administering from a universal donor, but I’ll let them know. What’s your type?”

“O negative.”

Twain stood. “I’ll find out where to go for blood donation. A hospital can never have enough.”

He looked so normal in the scrubs, clean and clinical, a Dr. Kildare for the mentally ill. Perhaps it was the circumstances, but I was beginning to feel a slight bond with the odd Dr. Twain. I was glad that he was with me. Now all I had to do was pray.

I was sipping the orange juice I had been given in the blood donor unit when Twain came back. He was still in scrubs. Lido was with me as well. I wasn’t used to having two men in attendance, in particular, two who got to me the way Lido and Twain did.

Twain was smiling. I jumped up. “She’s out of the woods,” he announced. “They repaired the damaged liver.”

“Can I see her?” I asked anxiously. Lido was next to me, hanging onto Twain’s every word.

“Soon. She’s in recovery. It was a rough ride. She won’t be herself for a couple of days.”

“Thank you, Dr. Twain.” I noticed a sheepish expression on Lido’s face. “Shoot, where are my manners? Dr. Twain, this is my partner, Detective Lido.”

“Pleased to meet you, Doc. Detective Chalice told me that you came up big for her and her mom. Thanks. Don’t hesitate to reach out if there’s anything I can do for you. You’ve made a friend for life.”

“Not at all, Detective. It’s my privilege to serve.”

Shit, I didn’t know which of them to hug first. I was getting uncharacteristically misty. The cop was gone. Only the child was left, thankful for her mother’s safe recovery from harm. “Thank you, Doctor.” I was fighting it, but couldn’t stop. My arms were around Twain. Tears rolled down my cheeks. I squeezed him tightly. Don’t hate me for this, but he was as solid as a rock, arms like cast-iron sewer pipes.

I pulled back. Twain took my hands in his. I could feel the latex against my skin. He remained cool, perhaps for Lido’s benefit. “Glad I could help.” He turned to Lido. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Detective.” Then he turned back to me. “I’m going back inside to see how your mother’s coming along.” He smiled warmly. “Then I’m going to scrub. I haven’t been in an OR in years. Too many microbes for my liking.” His eyes widened, a modest attempt at feigning nervousness. “Let’s speak tomorrow.” His hands rolled off mine slowly, very slowly. I hoped that Lido hadn’t noticed. Was it Twain who had lingered, or was it me?

He began walking away. “Hey,” I called after him, “did they use my blood?”

Twain shrugged. “I’ll inquire.” He turned away.

“That’s the cuckoo? Seems like an OK type,” Lido said.

I put my arms around Lido and rested my head on his shoulder. He was no pile of mush either. “He surprised me. I guess I’ll have to look at him differently now. Everyone came through for me. Thanks.” I kissed him. He tightened his arms around me. I felt really good, but very vulnerable. I made a mental note not to let it carry over to the job.

“I’m glad your mom’s okay.”

I was feeling spent, terribly so. I was capable of chasing rocket-fast crack-heads for miles, through alleys and across rooftops, but family really got to me. I was down a father already, and Ma… Thank God we caught a break. “Let’s sit down,” I told Lido. “I’m wasted.” There was a loveseat on the other side of the waiting room. We filled it.

I rested my head on Lido’s shoulder and closed my eyes. I was in the ER again escorting Ma into the operating room. It had been freaky, almost like the nightmare. It was as if all those dreams were preparing me for the real thing. Perhaps the dreams would stop now, now that I had lived through the real thing. Had the dreams been a prophecy of sorts? I hoped that was all it was. I hoped that my brief experience with psychoanalysis was over.

Lido took the Saint Christopher medal from around his neck and put it around mine. “Why don’t you wear this a while. Saint Christopher helps me get through the tough times.” He smiled at me like my dad used to when I was a little girl. “He’ll watch over you.”

I couldn’t say no. I just whispered, “Thank you.” Then I began to cry.

Twain caught up with Carl Edwards in the doctor’s locker room. Edwards looked up at Twain. “You can take the mask off now, Doctor.” He winked at Twain. “I think the patient’s safe from the risk of infection now that she’s in the recovery room.”

Twain smiled. He loosened the top lace and let the mask flap a little, then moved to the other side of the locker room and sat down in a vinyl chair out of harm’s way. “Nice work in there. It’s been years for me. Watching you work was a real treat.”

Edwards put his foot up on a chair and tied his wingtip. “I’ve performed trauma surgery for nine years. You should see some of the messes they bring me. Today was a piece of cake.” He took his left foot off the chair and put his right in the identical spot. “What’s your specialty, Dr. Twain?”

Twain seemed introspective. “Psychiatric medicine. I’m not used to actually seeing inside the body. The psyche is messy enough for me.” He glanced off into the distance. “Just a friend of the family trying to lend a helping hand.”

“You’ve got the hard job, Doctor. I just cut and patch.” Edwards rolled his eyes. “Loose screws, that’s beyond me.” Edwards straightened up. He pulled his suit jacket out of his locker and put it on. He stopped to look himself over before walking over to Twain. He extended his hand before realizing that Twain was still wearing surgical gloves. “Oh, sorry.”

Twain shot an embarrassed glance at his latex-covered hand. “Better safe than sorry,” Twain mused.

Edwards chuckled. “Thanks for running liaison with the family, Dr. Twain.” He saluted in place of the handshake and walked to the door.

“Oh, Doctor, did you use a lot of blood?”

“Eight units, I believe. It took a while to patch that liver. That reminds me, I’ll have to raise hell with the blood unit. Some moron brought in a unit of type AB. Good thing the attending doctor checked. The patient was O positive. It would have killed her!” Edwards shook his head in dismay. Twain tilted his head, expressing disbelief. “Thanks again, Dr. Twain.” Edwards turned and left.

The door closed, leaving Twain alone in the locker room to reflect on what he had just heard. It had been almost twenty-five years since he had studied blood chemistry, but there were some things you never forgot and this was one of them.

Chapter Twenty-four

My cell phone was ringing. I dashed the length of the corridor and turned the corner into Ma’s room in the ICU. Lido had gotten a little bored the other day and had monkeyed around with my phone’s ringtones. A twenty-decibel rendition of “Foxy Lady” was pouring out of my shoulder bag: two bars, three, four. One more and it would switch over to voice mail. “Hello,” I said in a breathless voice. “Chalice.”

“Detective, hello, how’s Mother coming along?”

I’d know that voice anywhere. It drew an immediate physiological response. I won’t go into it again. “Dr. Twain, hi,” I said excitedly.

“Just checking up. I do hope there’s good news.”

I hurried out of the room. The phone wasn’t supposed to be switched on within the hospital’s confines, let alone Jimi Hendrix blasting in the ICU. There was a small lounge at the end of the hall. I rushed to it as I replied, “She’s still in ICU, but she’s awake and she started asking for food half an hour ago. I guess we’re out of the woods. You sound far away. Where are you?”

“I’m on my cellular. I would like to go out of town for a spot. Is there anything you need from me before I go?”

“When will you be back?”

“Two days or less; an impromptu holiday sort of thing. Is that all right? I’ve left instruction with my office to forward your calls to me wherever I am.”

“Whatever it is, it’ll keep.”

“Send my fondest wishes to Mum. I’ll call you as soon as I get back.”

“Take good care, Doctor.” I meant it.

Dr. Twain stowed his cell phone. Having verified Chalice’s location, he then pulled a ski mask over his face. His gloves, as usual, were already in place.

He emerged from the stairwell with keys in hand and proceeded to let himself into Chalice’s apartment. His office would return the keys to her in the morning, stating that they had fallen from her purse and had been found in Dr. Twain’s car. He had filched them in the hospital during the confusion and hysteria. It was a bold move for Twain, but one that he embraced with verve and excitement. The mismatched blood types had aroused his suspicions. It was imperative that he learn more.

Once behind closed doors, Twain flipped on the light switch and headed directly for the bookshelf. It was filled with paperbacks, mostly thrillers and police procedurals, not at all what he was looking for.

Twain marveled at how exquisitely Chalice’s bedroom was decorated. It was feminine and tasteful. It included an antique chiffonier and a sleigh bed of reasonable quality. The room held the remnant fragrance of her perfume. Twain allowed it to waft through his mask and found it intoxicating.

Her bedspread was a divine bone and china blue foulard adorned with a delicate detailed fringe. It reminded him of his childhood in London.

He glanced around the room, squinting through the uncomfortable cutouts in the ski mask. He thought of taking it off, but was too nervous to do so. Chalice might send someone to collect fresh clothing. The possibility of being discovered by Lido or another close friend weighed heavily on his mind.

There was no sign of what he was looking for. He was about to check the living room, but stopped. The force that had retained him was almost involuntary. He sat down on the edge of her bed and ran his hand over the quilt. Blast! The cool texture of the high-count percale was lost to him. He couldn’t feel anything through the gloves.

Twain bent down and sniffed the fabric. He could smell her on it. Her essence and aura were there. He closed his eyes and she was there with him, alongside him. He reached out to caress the fabric one more time. His hand dropped, only to stop an inch from the surface. How would the touch of her bedding feel to his bare skin? He withdrew his hand nervously. A moment of divine pleasure, to be followed, he was sure, by an eternity of neurosis. Along with her lovely scent, there were undoubtedly bits of skin and hair, bacteria-infested tissue. Dare he? He could wash, after all, disinfect in his ritualistic manner. He ran his hand along her supple, imaginary leg and felt himself tighten in spasm. Off! Off with it! The glove was off in a second. A micron’s width separated the tactile pads of his fingertips from the cotton’s luscious surface. There he froze, waiting, wanting, trembling, tempting fate. No!

He sprang from the bed and into the living room. He felt uncomfortable, a sense of being watched. Twain stilled his breathing and attuned his ears to the silence. A moment passed. Nothing. His eyes traveled around the room as he stood, silently waiting for any sound to confirm his suspicions. Still nothing. He finally released his breath. A smile came to him, pushing the paranoia from his mind. It was on the coffee table. Twain sat down on the couch. He refitted his glove before he began leafing through Chalice’s family photo album.

The most recent pictures were dated. Twain passed them quickly and continued to flip toward her past. He was getting closer. As he flipped the pages, Stephanie Chalice was going back in time, growing younger. He saw it all, drawing impressions along the way, as she regressed from a woman back into a child: the Police Academy, college, high school, middle school, and finally elementary school.

The dating stopped, or rather, it had begun in the early seventies. He was near the end of the album now and still hadn’t found what he was looking for. He flipped a few more pages and saw the precious newborn. He marveled at her simplicity and innocence. He couldn’t help feeling that he knew her, that he had always known her, had always wanted to know her.

He regarded the unspoiled child in the photo. Guilt rose within him. He was an unwanted visitor in her home and now in her life. He thought of what he had contemplated scarcely minutes earlier and felt ashamed. How could he have considered it? How could he have violated and defiled her home? Thank God, he thought. Thank God he had not. Tension started to creep over him again. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was not alone. He continued to feel uncomfortable, despite the fact that the apartment was silent.

And then he saw it. The photo had been taken before she was born. He slipped the picture out of its mounting brackets and flipped it around. The date was inscribed in pencil. It had likely been there for an eternity, before Chalice had grown into a woman and developed a nose for such details, a nose for inquisitiveness. He was sure that she had never checked the date. It was the one fact she had accepted unconditionally. Twain looked at the photograph of her parents just days before she was born, and his eyes began to mist over. He knew it was a lie.

Chapter Twenty-five

“Why’d you waste your money on those?”

Ma’s voice was still weak. She tried to mask her appreciation, enshroud it in cynicism. I knew better. I fussed with the bouquet of yellow tulips nonetheless: primping, fanning, arranging, anything to ignore her artificial argument. “There, aren’t they beautiful?”

It took but a moment for her heart to betray her. “Yes. Yes, Stephanie. They’re beautiful.” She grimaced as she spread her arms. “My sweet, beautiful girl.” Tears began to glide down her cheeks. A moment later, we were in each other’s arms, weeping sweet tears of joy. “I’m sorry I’ve been such an old pain in the ass.”

“It’s all right, Ma. You’ll be home making lasagna in no time.”

“Lasagna? I’d be happy with a mouthful of anything.” Her IV was still in place, a sorry substitute for a steaming bowl of pasta.

I smiled sympathetically. “Give it a little time.”

“None of this would have happened if the staircase had been better lit,” she insisted. “I don’t know how many times I’ve complained to the superintendent about the damn lighting.”

“Ma, the lighting on the staircase is bright enough to give you a suntan. You passed out because your blood sugar was all screwed up. Admit it, you were cheating again, weren’t you?”

“Bah!”

“That’s not going to work this time, Ma. Come on. Let’s face it; your days of sucking down Hershey bars are over. You’ve been caught red-handed.”

She looked up at me shamefully. Then she brightened. “Let’s talk about you, my darling daughter.”

“Let’s not change the subject. I want you to swear to me on all that’s good and holy. Swear to me that you’re not going to eat any more chocolate. It’s certain death for you, don’t you get it?”

“Okay, okay. You’ve got me,” she acknowledged unhappily. “I’ll buy that god-awful dietetic crap. Happy?” she snapped.

The twinkle was back in her eye. “Ecstatic, Ma.” I kissed her forehead.

“Now, what about you? How long are you going to chase murderers and crazies? What about my advice to you? What about the money we put away for you? Take it and put a deposit down on a nice little house on Long Island. Stop worrying about right and wrong and diabetes. Live a little.”

“I’m not ready to settle down, Ma. I’ve told you over and over, I like what I do.”

“You’ll like children more.” She began to mist up again. “I did.”

“Don’t start, Ma. It’s not fair. You’re not strong enough to go the distance.”

“I can go the distance with you. “

“Bah!” I said. A little tit for tat.

Ma shook her head in dismay. “Then buy the boat. Maybe you’ll meet a nice sailor.”

Ma!” I pretended to be shocked.

She was facing a lifetime without chocolate. It made me blush, but I had to say something to her that would make her happy. I had to give her something to look forward to, wedding plans, grandchildren, all of that kind of nonsense. “I’m dating someone.”

“Who? That’s wonderful. Do I know him?” A painful spasm brought an end to her excitement.

“Take it easy, Ma. Are you all right?”

“I’ll be fine.” She grimaced. “Spit it out already. Who is it?”

“I’m not talking.”

“Come on, Stephanie, give your mother a little happiness.”

“I’m not ready to talk about it.”

“Why?” She was visibly disappointed.

“Because I don’t know if it’s anything more than a playful romp. I’ll let you know if we get hot and heavy.”

“Why’d you save me?” Her swearing was half anger and half jest. She gazed skyward momentarily and then motioned for me to come closer. “Invite him to dinner. Let me check him out for you,” she whispered. “I’ll let you know if he’s worthwhile in two seconds.” Then she noticed the Saint Christopher medallion around my neck. “You get that from him?”

“Yes.” I nodded.

Ma crossed herself. “Thank you, God. Thank you.” A broad smile crossed her face. “A nice Italian boy?” I nodded. Gus was only half Italian but I don’t think it really mattered. “All right then. I’ll be patient, but not for long.” She shook her finger at me for good measure.

The door swung open behind us and the nurse came in. Thank God. It was time to take Ma’s blood pressure and temperature again. The nurse approached with one of those electronic thermometers. “Not again.” Ma swore.

“Stop bitching. It’s your own fault,” I told her.

“Stephanie.” She scowled at me and bit her lip.

“Look at the bright side,” I continued. “They used to take temperature rectally.” Ma grunted and wrinkled her nose.

“Can you step outside for a moment?” the nurse asked.

“Sure, I can use a cup of coffee. I’ll be right back.”

“Ask him to dinner, Stephanie. It’ll give me something to look forward to.”

She was beaming now. I tell you, they’re all the same; mothers, I mean. She’ll be crocheting booties before you know it. Fat chance, Ma. Just what you need, a cop for a son-in-law. And maybe he’ll bring you a nice box of chocolates when he comes over for Sunday dinner. I don’t think so.

Chapter Twenty-six

Zachary Clovin awoke at 5:00 a.m. feeling refreshed and full of vigor. Consistent with his morning ritual, Clovin took a cool shower, shaved with a disposable razor and Colgate shaving cream. He then made himself an omelet: four eggs, cheddar cheese and lots of Tabasco. He smothered the eggs with ketchup and washed them down with three steaming cups of Chock full o’Nuts — black. He was still naked when he cleared the dishes.

Clovin washed his plate by hand, scouring the surface with hot water and Bon Ami. Satisfied that the plate had been sterilized, he cleaned his fork and spoon in the same manner until the flatware took on a finely brushed finish. He dried the utensils and placed the plate back in an otherwise empty cabinet. He took extra time with his coffee mug. He rubbed it until his fingers were raw, until every last trace of coffee stain had been removed. He sniffed his fingertips for trace odors of egg or cheese. Dissatisfied, he showered again, this time in scalding hot water.

He had showered for hours after killing each of his victims, after holding those girls in his arms. He had gotten too close to the tram conductor and gotten the bloody spray all over himself. He had burned his clothing after that killing. His clothes were dirty, filthy, and vile.

Clovin dressed in khaki pants and a plaid shirt. He had laundered and pressed them himself; half a can of spray starch had been consumed in the process. His lace-up shoes were the height of young men’s casual footwear, but Clovin cared nothing for fashion. They reminded him of the standard issue combat boots he had worn for most of his life. He cinched his Sam Brown belt and stepped up to the window of his apartment. Looking out onto the street, Clovin observed that the mailman had just made his delivery. This pleased him. His government disability check arrived like clockwork every month on roughly the same date.

He returned home after cashing his check. The fee he paid at the check-cashing store was outrageous, but necessary. Clovin maintained no banking relationships and handled all transactions in cash. He had stopped at the local supermarket for supplies: SPAM, canned vegetables, white bread, bananas, three cans of Niagara spray starch, Colgate shave cream, Scotch Tape, and all the local newspapers.

Clovin was feeling upbeat. He put away his supplies, unbuttoned his shirt and placed it neatly over the back of a kitchen chair, careful not to wrinkle it.

He uncapped a fresh can of Colgate, ran hot water in the bathroom sink until the room was filled with steam and lathered his skull. He proceeded to drag the disposable razor over his head for twenty minutes before he was satisfied that his skull was completely smooth.

He had browsed through the Daily News on his walk home from the supermarket and was delighted to finally find an article that aroused his particular sense of interest. A week had passed without his finding anything he deemed worthy of his time.

Clovin undid his shoelaces and placed his shoes alongside the bed. He noted happily that they had not been scuffed on his morning walk. He stripped off his slacks and placed them on a hanger before picking up his newspapers and lying down on the bed with them.

He lay on his side, his head supported by his hand, his arm bent at the elbow. Clovin stroked each sheet of the newspaper as he turned the pages, gliding his fingers over the pulpy surface of the paper, allowing its texture to stimulate his raw fingertips. His temperature was rising. His senses were acute. He could smell the faint aroma of kerosene waft up from the newspaper’s cheap ink.

Clovin flipped another page. His eyes enlarged when he saw the headline. He read the story six times, until finally he had committed all of it to memory. Each word, the exact pronunciation of every name, the place, the time of day, and the covering reporter had become as one with him.

The story was not covered in the Post but he found it in the New York Times. The Times article was lengthier and far more detailed than the one he had read in the Daily News. He read it eight times, growing excited, until once again, it had been totally committed to memory. He pleasured himself by rubbing his hand over his boxers, rapidly stroking. He jumped off the bed and sprinted the short distance to the bathroom. He pushed his shorts down to his knees before discharging himself into the toilet. Clovin wrapped a Kleenex around his penis so that it wouldn’t drip onto his boxers and then propped himself up against the wall, exhaling heavily, savoring, waiting to settle down.

A moment later, he tossed his socks and boxers into his laundry basket and showered for the third time. He wrung every last drop of ejaculate from himself. After removing the drain plate, he aimed carefully, urinating into the drain before stepping from the shower. Once out, he turned the hot water in the shower on full blast. He put on fresh boxers and socks. He let the scalding water run a good ten minutes so that it would sanitize the shower floor. He poured Clorox over the drain for good measure.

Clovin got back into bed with sharp scissors and a dispenser of Scotch Tape. He clipped the two articles from the newspapers and taped them to the wall alongside the others: Sandra Desmore, Mary Beth Samuels, Amy Pollack, Ellen Redner, and finally Samantha Harris.

He had murdered them all, suffocated each one in the same fashion. He blocked the air from their noses with one hand and their mouths with the other. He had supported their lifeless bodies in his arms and kissed them gently on their cheeks before laying them to rest.

He got off the bed and glared at the pictures on the wall, the faces of the lives he had taken. He spat at them with loathing. His lungs seized while they were full of air. He could feel his blood pressure skyrocket. He started to shake and tremble until his knees buckled and he collapsed onto the floor breathless and sobbing.

He took a hinged picture frame off the dresser and held it in his hands like a delicate flower. His darling daughter Sheryl had died so young. She had possessed such intelligence and such warmth… such disappointment. She had been only twelve years old when God had received her back into His kingdom. He pressed the glass of the picture frame against his face. Tears dripped from his eyes and ran onto the glass, pooled there, and then trickled onto the floor. Poor Sheryl. It was such a tragic story, one that had haunted him for thirty years.

Five women had died and yet it seemed the police had nary a clue. The first three murders had been far too subtle. In a city like New York, three dead women found in random settings did little more than raise an iota of attention. He needed to make the killing more obvious.

The next two killings were more dramatic. A man had been killed with each of the next two women. He was not only choosing victims, he was creating his own crime scene. There was no doubt anymore. The last two murders had been reported in the news. The police had not reported a connection between the two, but Clovin knew that the disassociation was intentional. There was no mention of the clues he had left or of the fact that the incidents were virtually identical.

A moment later, he switched his gaze to the newspaper article that occupied the other side of the picture frame. His lip curled in anger, his tears dried, and his face reddened with contempt. “The devil,” he swore. The photo in the newspaper article depicted New York City Detective Stephanie Chalice taking Gamal Haddad into custody on New Year’s Eve.

Howls, the sick old doctor, had betrayed Chalice and confessed to his crimes on his deathbed. Clovin had waited three decades to approach the man and found him rotting in the penitentiary.

The military had kept Clovin focused, or rather, distracted. They say an idle mind is the devil’s playground. The last thing Clovin needed was time to think about the voices, the memories, and the pain — burnt and bloody flesh, tortured souls screaming in his head. She had caused them and there was but one way to put the pain to rest. It had taken him thirty years to realize that his job was only half done.

Chapter Twenty-seven

Zachary Clovin detested the smell of fresh rubber. It was on his hands, in the air and in his nose. He’d have to scour his skin to the bone when he was done — six down, four more to go. The tennis balls had been expertly halved with a razor-knife, and now rested on the table before him, the last one still wobbling in place. He had traced a marker line around each of the balls. Accuracy wasn’t all that important, as long as the half-spheres fit within each other. Now, all ten balls had been dissected.

He picked up the ten-inch section of PVC pipe he had just cut through with a hacksaw. As with the tennis balls, the PVC emitted its own petrochemical stench as the friction-heated hacksaw blade cut through it. Clovin hated breathing in the tainted air and chastised himself for neglecting to buy a package of filtering masks. He was breathing in poison, pure and simple. It infuriated him to build another silencer, but they were so stupid, so backwards and stupid. How many women would he have to kill? The first silencer had been left for them to find. The stupid cops needed all the help they could get.

Clovin fastened a reduction fitting onto one end of the PVC pipe with four stainless steel self-tapping screws. He was livid as he picked up the first cluster of halved tennis balls and forced them, convex end first, into the pipe. He couldn’t stand handling the raw, freshly cut rubber. He could feel the eraser-like particles rubbing their way into his skin and into his bloodstream. Working quickly, he crammed the tennis ball halves into the pipe using the butt end of a hammer like a ramrod, until they were flush against the reduction fitting. He could see the yellow fuzz through the tapered three-quarter-inch opening in the opposite end.

He tore off a large wad of steel wool, forced it into the pipe, and packed it in good and tight. Finally, the remaining tennis ball halves were loaded into the pipe in the same direction as the first ten. A reduction fitting, identical to the one used on the other end, was secured. Clovin picked up his Feather 9mm rifle and test-fitted it through the opening in the reduction fitting. It was as good as the first. Holding the home-fashioned PVC silencer as if it were an extension of the barrel, Clovin dry-fired several rounds at the picture he had most recently taped to the wall. He finally laid down his weapon and began the arduous task of cleaning and disinfecting the table’s surface.

He swept all excess materials into a plastic grocery bag and knotted it before throwing it into the Dumpster.

Clovin undressed with care, not wanting to touch the cloth. He manipulated the buttons and hooks of his clothing with his fingertips so that the rubber particles would not penetrate the fabric. Clovin pushed his pants and boxers off with his fingertips and stepped out of them, using his bare feet to hold them in place.

Standing naked, he trained his eyes on the wall of photographs — pictures of lives taken and one yet to come. The photos had been arranged from memory, like a cliché of old police movies that had been catalogued in his mind. He did so intentionally. Homicidal murderers always taped their victims to the wall. There was to be no doubt as to whom he was or what he had done. The who and the what were simple. It was the why that demanded explanation. They were so completely stupid. He had almost drawn the police a map.

He rubbed his hand over the new picture; she was next. He read the article as he caressed her picture with his hand. She was bigger than the rest, a person of high profile, a former Fortune 10 °CEO and now a political hopeful. What could be bigger? Her death would clear the cobwebs from their clouded minds. Nothing stirs the powers that be more than money, and her death would have serious financial repercussions.

When he stepped from the shower, his skin was blood red from the abuse of a cheap scrubbing brush. Water-diluted blood flowed in the crevices around his nails. The offensive odor of rubber was gone, yet in his mind it persisted.

He changed into clean boxers before securing his right wrist to the bedpost with a cloth strap. Two hits of Orange Sunshine rested on the nightstand next to a glass of water. He laid the first piece of blotter paper on the back recess of his tongue, the next just forward, contiguous with the first. The paper moistened, releasing the bitter substance. Hallucinogen-saturated saliva ran off the sides of his tongue. He tasted it at the back of his throat. He settled in and waited for the show. Two tabs of LSD, it was going to be like an E-ticket ride at Disney World.

Chapter Twenty-eight

Nigel Twain was seeing that which couldn’t be seen on the map: dirt roads, ramshackle homes, and abject poverty. It had been that way ever since he had turned off State Road 3. Blustery winds pummeled his car. Caught in the draft of a livestock transport, dust whipped around Twain’s rental car. He viewed the ambient air as it swirled past the windshield and checked the setting on the climate control to ensure that it was set on recirculate. He was in his own little sanitary bubble, safe and protected from the filth of the outside world.

Except for getting stuck behind the transport, Twain had made good time coming down from Charleston. He had used Lysol to disinfect the rental car before setting off from the airport. The lemon scent was still discernable in the recirculating air.

His secretary had made an excellent wardrobe selection for him from a NoHo shop. Twain was now attired in black jeans and a plaid shirt. Calfskin driving gloves, which concealed the thin germicidally treated ones worn beneath, were uncommon but otherwise acceptable. A bandana, loosely tied around his neck would be brought up around his mouth and nose when required.

The honorable Scranton Franks of the New York State Surrogate Court had proved to be an invaluable association. Franks had been a patient of Twain’s many years before securing his appointment to the bench. His authority had allowed Twain access to records and documents that were sealed to the general public and otherwise beyond Twain’s reach.

Such had not been the case in Charleston. He had been barred access to the records kept at the Department of Vital Statistics. His New York State medical credentials meant nothing there. Likewise, his thinly veiled bribe of the official on duty had been received as warmly as a fart in church. Twain had left the state capital building disappointed and empty handed.

Light was ebbing as Twain approached the outskirts of Quarrier, West Virginia. Lightning crackled in the distant sky. A high-pressure system was moving in. The winds he had encountered on the drive in had intensified significantly.

With the assistance of the AAA, Twain was able to negotiate the simple town and found his way to the home of Dr. Everett Howls without difficulty.

He took a deep breath before exiting the car. He had made the transition from doctor to detective without difficulty. His incentive was great — he’d allow no harm to come to Detective Stephanie Chalice. He was not aware of when he had made the decision, but at some point he had, and now he was committed to her with all his heart and soul. Twain was convinced that New York’s murdering psychopath and Detective Chalice were on a collision course. He wondered, What did he want with her? He wasn’t sure about his powers as an investigator, but felt that his medical oath carried forward. She was still his patient and if it took a little detective work to solve her problem, well then, so be it.

In the span of forty-eight hours, he had successfully broken and entered, discovered information he considered vital to the investigation, coerced a high-standing New York State official, and taken possession of records he had no authority to legally possess. So far, so good.

Two hayseeds shot daggers at him as they marched past him on their way down the road to Billy Bob’s Bar and Grill. Thirty minutes and out, Twain surmised, before the boys have a chance to put on their hoods and grab the cross and gasoline can.

The next part would be more difficult. He’d never questioned anyone before, not as a cop anyway. He’d spent his professional career prying secrets from people, but for different reasons entirely. He had always acted as the healer and not as an instrument of justice. With that in mind, he kicked open the door of the rental car, secured the bandana around his face and ran frantically through the wind and dust to Dr. Everett Howls’ doorstep.

He rapped three times with the knocker, a brass horseshoe, while simultaneously pressing the bandana against his face to keep out the dust. “Come on, come on… Open the door.”

A woman answered bitterly from behind the door. “Who’s there? Speak up. I don’t hear so well.”

“Mrs. Howls?” he began. “My name is Nigel Twain, Dr. Nigel Twain. May I speak with your husband?” The debris-charged air continued to attack him while he waited for her reply. “Mrs. Howls, is that you? Is this the residence of Dr. Everett Howls?” No reply. “May I speak with him?”

“Only if you’re a darned ghost.” The door opened abruptly. Mae Howls’ eyes widened with surprise at the sight of her unexpected visitor. “An English black man?” She was aghast.

“That’s Dr. English black man to you,” Twain mumbled.

“What? Speak up,” the obstinate old woman shrieked. “What’s your business?” She peered at Twain through wire-rimmed bifocals that seemed to sink into the creases in her puffy, weathered skin. “Why’re you wearing a mask? Just stick up a bank or something?”

“The dust—” The bandana attenuated his voice considerably. “May I come in? It’s the dust, you see.” He was holding his breath when possible, trying to minimize his exposure to the tainted air.

“There’s nothing in here of value and I’ve lost both my breasts to cancer.” She glared at him defiantly. “So there’s nothing in here worth stealing or fuckin’. Still want to come in?”

Twain twitched nervously. “Yes. Yes, I do,” he said after a moment. He was gasping for air. “Please,” he added with urgency, “I’m choking out here.”

Mae Howls stepped aside. Twain took a huge step past her, threw his head back, and filled his lungs with the musty air. He felt a sharp jab in the back of his leg. “Make some room for me. Think I want all this shit blowing in the door?” He turned to find the butt of her cane pressed against his leg. Charming!

“May I—”

“No. Don’t sit. Take that fool bandana off your face so I can see who I’m talking to and tell me what the hell you want.”

Twain backed away a bit and reconsidered removing the bandana after he smelled her foul body odor. “I’m harboring a nasty cold. It’ll be better if I don’t.”

“Crap.”

“Am I to understand that the good Dr. Howls has passed?”

“Yes,” came her shrill reply. “Dead two months. Don’t you Englishmen know nothing?”

“I’m sorry.” Twain thought, why am I apologizing? “Mrs. Howls—”

“Call me Mae,” she insisted. Suddenly they were kin.

“Mae, I’d like to ask you a few questions about your husband.”

“No! No! No! I dern told ‘em all, I don’t know nothing. Now git the hell out of my house before I start ta hollerin’ rape.” Her face grew redder and redder until it looked as if it might burst. “I’m ‘n ole lady. Let me live out my life in peace,” she bellowed. “Was it Sheriff Wilde that put you up ta this? Git out, goddamn it and tell that sombitch sheriff not to send no more coloreds to my door. Git out!”

Twain held out his hands as a show of submission. “I’m going, dear. I’m going.”

He was in his car a moment later, doors locked, engine running, climate control engaged and set to recirculate. He stared at the Howls’ house in disbelief, wondering what he had done to release such a tidal wave of anger. He rested a moment until he saw her weary eyes lurking behind the drawn curtains. Then he put his rental into gear and drove away.

Chapter Twenty-nine

Clovin boarded the downtown N train at West Fourth Street, chin down, the brim of his cap tugged low enough to obscure his features. Squeezing between two work-worn straphangers, Clovin found a concealed vantage point from which the young detective was visible. His secrecy permitted only fleeting glances at her. Yet, in his mind, he was able to hold and retain the split-second images and cast them into a detailed composite of his subject.

Traces of LSD were still in his system, just enough to color his perception and heighten his awareness. He could still taste the bitterness in his mouth, still the image on the blotter paper: a black and white etching of Jesus’ baptism. It had been one of the better trips, one that had left him wanting more, feeling supreme and self-confident.

It had been so easy to find her. The city unfolded before him. Like a giant blossoming flower, her nectar was easily found.

He wanted to learn everything about her: the sound of her voice, the tilt of her head, her smile, and her aura. He wanted to know them all. With his eyes closed, he could smell her, the delicate combination of perfume and perspiration. All of his senses were keen; he could select her odor at will from that of the other passengers on the train.

Snapshot by painstaking snapshot, he built his composite of her. By attuning his ears, he could separate her heartbeat from the others; hear the blood course through her veins and the breath whistle through her lungs. It was that which he longed to still, to silence forever, and in so doing, silence his own mania, decades of torture and anguish. “Silence,” he murmured. “Silence it forever.”

In this moment he knew her, who she was; her past. Here I am. Turn and see me. How pathetic that she cannot hear me. She is not as strong and not as blessed as me. The newspapers have overstated her skills — Inflated adulation for a female cop, richly endowed with beauty.

Doc Howls had given him the name, but he would have known her without it, recognized her at first sight. It angered him that she did not represent a greater challenge. Why was she getting the attention and not him? It had always been that way.

A contingent of Chinese laborers spilled off the train at Canal Street. It had been their stench he had labored most to filter out.

With the distractions now gone, his connection with her was strong, as direct as a mother with her fetus. He could hear her pulse in his ears, and feel the beat of her heart in his chest. The signals grew in amplitude, louder and louder, louder and louder until they were deafening, until his lungs were on fire and his eardrums were ready to burst.

Silence her! Silence her now! he ordered himself. Do it now and be done. End it here! He could feel the tips of his fingers tingle, aching to be at her throat. He could feel his arms around her, tendrils of destruction enshrouding her, asphyxiating her. Vanquish the fire that burns within your lungs. Use this opportunity. Do it now!

The blackness of the subway tunnel grew brighter as they approached Whitehall Street. The station’s stark white ceramic tiles bleached his vision and clouded his mind. No, not like this. Not here. His alter ego reverberated in his head. She must come to you. Be patient and stick to the plan. He ground his nails into the palms of his hands until blood ran down his wrists. He raged within. Quiet! I must have quiet!

His shoulder smashed into hers as he pushed through the crowd and exploded out the train door. “Hey, asshole, where’s the fire?” He could feel her eyes sear him as he escaped down the platform. He could feel the heat spread out across his skin, seething heat from her burning stare. Spontaneous combustion was mere seconds away. In a moment, the flames would consume him and she would win. He raced up the stairs, hoping God would send rain to extinguish the fire. At the base of the stairs, he could see the darkness of early evening in the unobstructed sky.

He faltered on the steps as the flames leapt up and surrounded him. He felt the fire inside him and all around, consuming him, charring and torturing him. He had underestimated her. Her beauty belied her powers. They were strong and lethal.

He lurched against the stairwell wall — his hand found support against the tiled surface. The tiles were cold to the touch. Yes, cold. Cold to extinguish the fire. He pressed his back flat against the tiled wall of ice. Ah! It was soothing. White ceramic doves interspersed between the pale, white tiles fluttered into his mind, calming him. Better, better, much better. He collapsed, fell unconscious on the steps, and remained there until a subway cop saw him and helped him to his feet.

Chapter Thirty

Hilary Glenn glanced at Evan Wainright as he burst through the door. Reading the expression on his face, Hilary knew the message before it was announced. “He’s done! He’s through!” Wainright was burning the carpet to his boss’s desk. “Rubio’s thrown in the towel.”

It had been a rather somber morning, drab overcast skies, storm clouds, and the intimidation of intermittent thunderclaps. Wainright’s face brightened the room. Responding to his excitement, Hilary rose quickly, her arms opening and then closing around her campaign manager. “Thrown in the towel? More like capitulation and the abject admission of failure, don’t you think?” She gave Wainright a buss on the cheek. “You’re awesome. Did I ever tell you that? You cut Rubio’s heart out and printed it on the front page of every newspaper in New York, splayed raw, dripping blood. The man had no choice.”

Wainright licked his fingertips in mock delight. “Cut it out? I reached in and tore it from his chest.”

“How ghoulish,” she gushed.

Wainright smiled. “Anything for you, Madam Senator.”

“Not just yet. We’ve still got a long road ahead of us, a full six months of campaigning.”

“Then why is it that you can’t help blushing? You know there’s not a single candidate in the pack who’s strong enough to catch you now that Rubio’s out of the way. Come January, you’ll be the United States senator from the state of New York and then—”

“Then what?”

“Then the first female president of the United States.”

Hilary tightened her grip around Wainright and pressed against him. “Pipe dreams from a devoted campaign manager.”

“Come on, Hilary, stroke me a little.”

She pressed her mouth to his, kissing him passionately. An idle hand wandered to his groin. Wainright tried to pull away, but her grip, as her will, was ironclad. “Hilary, Jesus, I meant my ego. Stroke my ego. God, if someone walks through that door, your heart will be on the front page dripping blood next to Rubio’s.” Sweat broke out across his forehead. He tried to pull away again, but Hilary tightened her grip and then gently plucked his lower lip with her teeth. “Shit,” he swore, “that’s gonna show.”

“Power’s such a fucking turn-on. Whew!” She stole another quick kiss before letting him go. “Wasn’t it worth it?”

“Shit. We’ve got the fundraiser tomorrow night.”

“Don’t be such a baby. Put a little ice on it. It’ll be fine.”

“I hope so.” Wainright smoothed his hair and the fabric of his suit. “We can’t do this,” he warned. “There’s too much at stake.”

Hilary turned back to her desk. “I can fuck the voters of New York and if I want to, I can fuck you.” She sat down, picked up a pen and signed the document in front of her. “Don’t forget it, Evan. When you signed on as campaign manager, you signed on body and soul.”

Wainright’s jaw fell open just as he heard someone rapping on the door behind him. Thank God. It spared him the embarrassment of an innocuous and ultimately humiliating reply. “Come in,” he blurted, conjuring up an authoritative voice.

Zachary Clovin opened the door, took in the scene before him and understood exactly what had just transpired. His powers were so keen that it was as if he had just watched the entire episode on videotape.

Clovin was dressed in faded coveralls with the Harvard Services logo embroidered on a breast patch. He carried a five-gallon pail in his left hand. “Sorry to interrupt.” He spoke timidly, head buried, eyes averted. “Scheduled window wash.” He was doing everything possible to contain the contempt within him.

Hilary glanced behind her. The windows were filthy. She smiled. “Yes, by all means.” There were two large windows in Hilary Glenn’s campaign office. “Let a little light in to brighten up the place.” Clovin nodded. “Do be careful,” she continued in her pretentious politician’s manner. “Thirty-five stories is quite a ways up.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll be quick.” Clovin’s eyes studied the carpet as he walked, head down, to the window. He dipped his squeegee in the pail of soapy water and began applying it to the glass.

Hilary winked at Wainright. “Thanks for the good news, Evan. Is there anything else?”

“No, no, that’s all,” he said uncomfortably. “If you’re finished signing those authorizations, I’ll drop them on Marge Caputo’s desk.”

Clovin understood the reason for Wainright’s clumsiness. He handled the squeegee deftly. The insides of the windows were done before Hilary was able to hand the documents to Wainright.

Hilary glanced at Wainright knowingly and then mouthed, “Get out,” punctuating her instructions with a warm yet forced smile. Wainright countered with a sheepish smile of his own and then walked to the door. Clovin had already fastened his harness to the outside of the window frame and was shimmying out.

Clovin watched the door close behind Wainright. He slid the window down until it made contact with his legs and then pressed down a little farther for an added feeling of security. Glenn was back at work. Clovin’s pulse quickened. He liked watching, planning, imagining, and fantasizing above all else.

There was no conscious connection between Clovin’s brain and the precise movements of the squeegee. All relevant thought was focused on Hilary Glenn, former CEO of Vycon Petroleum, senatorial hopeful, and his next victim.

He focused first on the back of her head, studying the apex of her parted hair. Roots of black and gray were just visible in the crevice where the beautician’s dye brush had not reached. Her hair was straight and bluntly cut. It terminated at mid-neck. Clovin was delighted at the sight of her pale and slender neck. It was almost a child’s neck, smooth and hairless. He could see her well from where he sat. He could feel himself touching her and savoring the supple tissue of her skin beneath his fingertips.

The office was thick with her perfume. He had gathered her scent in his mind and now relished it. It was a familiar bouquet that Clovin had come across before, CK something or other. All the young harlots wore it. Glenn was a bit older than the rest, closer to fifty than forty. He had to imagine her as a younger woman. It took an extra but rewarding effort.

Glenn had taken good care of herself. Clovin’s eyes ran down the back of her blouse. He had an excellent angle from which to appreciate her and familiarize himself with her contours. He lingered on the slender hollow of her waist. He closed his eyes and felt himself behind her. His arms were around her now, one around her tiny waist, his hand over her mouth. His thumb and forefinger pinching her nostrils firmly and effectively, yet not hard enough to cause a bruise. His face was buried in the recess of her sylph-like neck, the aroma of her perfume pervading him, intoxicating him. She was a child in his arms, weak and defenseless. He could feel her struggle for air, writhing against him, and stimulating him but not sexually. This was not about lust. These roots were deeper, much deeper.

She was powerful with toned, well-conditioned muscles. Her struggle was excellent, better than the rest had been. It took additional effort to keep her under control, to restrain her. He liked the fight and liked winning even more. She was exhausting herself in his arms, struggling against hope, oxygen-deprived muscles becoming fatigued, spent, and exhausted. He felt her heave. Her lungs were already filled with carbon dioxide, her own self-manufactured poison. It disappointed him when she began to abruptly weaken. A moment later he had to hold her up, as she had grown slack within his arms. She was perishing, almost lifeless. In ten seconds, it would all be over. He thought about giving her a breath, a second wind, but that would have been cruel and this was not about cruelty. This was about right and wrong. A man was meant to be king in his castle and never anything less.

A sharp rapping noise abruptly brought him to attention. Glenn was in front of him, smacking her solitaire diamond ring against the window. “Hey! Hey! Are you all right?”

Clovin’s eyes opened slowly, dreamily. A moment passed before he knew what had happened. He took a deep breath before yanking the window up. He looked ashamed. “Sorry. I guess I’m getting too old for this.”

“You’d better get in here. You scared the hell out of me!” Glenn grabbed him by his coveralls as he unfastened his safety rig.

“That’s all right,” he said as he slid off the window ledge. “I’m all right now.” He stumbled as his feet hit the ground. Glenn’s hand caught his. No! No! Don’t touch me. He felt the softness of her skin against his. No! Stop! Her embrace was provoking him, calling him into action. Not now, he told himself. It’s too soon. He looked into her eyes. His eyes were red, wild and frightening, like those of a tortured beast.

His intimidating gaze forced Glenn to take a step back. “Do you need a doctor?” she asked. How about a straightjacket?

Clovin felt the contact break. Control returned as her hand slipped through his fingers. “No, just a little embarrassed. I’ll be fine.” He straightened. “I’ll get someone else to finish. Sorry.” He grabbed his bucket and harness and hurried to the door. It snapped shut behind him.

“No problem,” Hilary Glenn muttered. She was practicing her acceptance speech in her mind. Strange man, she thought. A moment later, she went back to work, having no idea that she had just courted disaster.

Chapter Thirty-one

Twain leaned on the horn. The service station looked open. He could see an attendant with his feet up on the desk in the office some thirty feet away. He’d been waiting several minutes and no one had come out to take care of him. What does it take to get a tank of gas anyway?

Another moment passed before Twain hit the switch that electrically lowered the window. “Pardon me. Pardon me.” Opie is either deaf or ignoring me. Twain was really starting to hate the small West Virginia town. It had taken him half the night to disinfect his motel room. Thank God I packed my own linens, towels, and pillows. The motel’s name was the Weathervane, but Twain had dubbed it the Malarial Vector. A full can of Lysol and half a box of alcohol wipes had been exhausted and yet he still felt as if the night had left him contaminated.

A twister had set down overnight and torn up part of the town. Though the Weathervane was well out of harm’s way, Twain had thought the rickety motel door might come apart at any time. The fear of having the filth-saturated wind howl into his room made for particularly poor sleeping. Although the morning was clear and sunny, Twain was not.

Twain leaned on the horn again. This time the attendant got off of his chair. He came to the door and hollered, “We ain’t got no gazz.” He looked at Twain with pity. Darn fool.

Twain’s temper boiled over. He slammed the gear selector into park, shut off the engine, and jumped out of the car. As he did, an electronic voice reminded him to take the keys out of the ignition. “Is everyone in this town rude?” he muttered. He stomped off toward the office. Ten feet in front of it, he halted in his tracks and reached for his bandana. He considered his proximity to the bumpkin, about ten feet away in bright sun with no wind. There was no need for it; even redneck microbes couldn’t jump that far. All the same, he tugged it into place. It was time Nigel Twain made a statement of his own. “Why don’t you put up a sign if you’re out of gas?” Twain swore.

“Ain’t got no sign,” the attendant explained.

Naturally. Twain fumed while he considered his alternatives. “Where’s the next station?” Exasperation seasoned his words.

The attendant pondered the simple question. “About twenty miles up the road.”

Twain did some quick calculations. The low fuel light will be flashing the entire time. I’ll have to listen to that stupid electronic warning voice for half an hour, but I’ll probably make it. He eyed the attendant and assessed that he was in his mid-forties with thinning hair and bad posture. He was muscular with broad shoulders. Twain looked into his eyes. The bloke’s pilot light hasn’t been lit for years.

“Well, well, well. What we got here?” A man in overalls and a faded Atlanta Braves baseball cap came out of the garage wiping grease off his hands. Gray pork chop sideburns protruded from the cap and extended down the sides of his face. “Do my ears deceive me? A black man talking the King’s English?”

“Yes!” Twain replied indignantly. How would you know the King’s English? He was not accustomed to being such an oddity, nor was he accustomed to being in the company of those so provincial. Remember where you are, he told himself. “And you are?”

“Well, this is Pruett’s Repair, ain’t it? Well, I’m Pruett.” The man advanced, laughing and extending his grimy hand. He spat chewing tobacco at the ground next to Twain’s feet. “Sam Pruett, I’m pleased to meetcha.”

Twain sidestepped Pruett’s excreta and then eyed his filthy paw apprehensively. He began coughing violently and placed his hand over his mouth to contain it. He poured it on long enough to intimidate even the likes of dirty old Pruett, and made a face at his own slobbered-on hand. “Better not,” Twain explained. Pruett stopped advancing. Twain blew a sigh of relief.

“Are you from England?” Pruett inquired.

Twain nodded. “London, actually. Are you?”

“Me?” Pruett slapped his leg and started howling. “Me? That’s funny. A funny, black Englishman. Well, I’ll be darned.”

And you’re a bum hole, Twain thought.

Pruett glanced off in the direction of Twain’s rental. “Is that one of those talking cars? I swear I heard it remind you to take your keys.”

“Yes, it is,” Twain replied. “Well, actually, it’s a rental.”

“Well, I’ll be darned,” Pruett commented. “My car don’t talk.”

Probably a cognitive disorder, Twain mused.

“What’s your name?” Pruett inquired.

Twain pondered the request and then figured, What the hell. “Twain. Nigel Twain.”

“Nigel Twain,” Pruett repeated. “That sure sounds like an English name. Nigel, is that right? I’ve never had an Englishman in my station, let alone a black one. There many black fellas like yourself over there in London?”

No, I’m the only one. “Several, actually.”

“Is that right? Well I’m right proud to meet an English black man.” Pruett registered his hands on his hips and then looked over his shoulder at the other attendant. “Richard, an English black man, do you believe it?” Richard stared blankly and did not comment. Apparently Richard was not the brightest bulb.

“Richard!” Pruett hollered. “This fella’s from England. Ain’t ya got nothing to say?”

Richard pondered the request. “Hi.”

“Go tote them new tires into the bay, will ya?” Pruett ordered. Richard nodded. He seemed happy to be off the hook. “Simple as a stick,” he whispered to Twain. “Been that way ever since I found him, charred from fire, scared half to death, thrashing around the woods like the scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz. Po’ thing, couldn’t even remember his name. Good around the shop, though. Strong as an ox.”

“That’s sad. Did he have any psychological counseling?”

“A shrink?” Pruett slapped his leg again. “In these parts? We ain’t even got a general doctor no mo’. Doc Howls was the last one and he got sent to the penitentiary. And that’s been a good five years. What’s with that bandana a yers? Fixin’ ta rob a bank? Ha, ha.”

“Ha, ha,” Twain mimicked.

“I’m recovering from a bit of oral surgery; afraid you might find the sight of my lip a bit unsettling.”

“I see.”

“I’m vaguely familiar with that name. Are you referring to Dr. Everett Howls?”

“You know him?” The surprise was good enough for a third slap on the leg. “What a small world, a foreigner like you knowing old Doc Howls.”

“I’m not a foreigner. I’m from New York. I came down here to ask Dr. Howls a few questions. An odd matter came across my desk that required the doctor’s explanation, but I understand he passed away.”

“Has he? Ain’t heard nothing ‘bout him in years. His missus is a real mutt. I don’t waste no time trying to make conversation with that old girl.”

Amen, Twain concurred.

“Well, I can’t say I’m sorry to see him go, seeing what he done.”

“And that was?”

Twain could see the West Virginian sun burning in the reflection in Pruett’s station window. The man smiled at him. “Come on inside and set a spell. I’ll tell ya all about it.”

An unexpected thought occurred to Twain as he entered the garage.

“Something wrong?” Pruett asked.

“No. Why do you ask?”

“You just got a funny look on your face.”

“It’s nothing,” Twain replied, but in his mind the seed of possibility had already begun to grow.

Chapter Thirty-two

Clovin hated the paint, a gritty, caustic emulsion that stained his skin and burned the mucous membranes of his sinuses. He found the work embarrassing as well. It was beneath a man of such grandiose intellect, but it paid well. More importantly, it was off the books. Between his military disability and the painting job, Clovin was getting on quite well. It allowed him the indulgence of his hobbies and vices: gadgets, guns, and above all else, LSD.

It was only that morning that he had finalized his plans for Hilary Glenn’s murder. Standing beneath the rusted beams, power sprayer in hand, he felt the powerful rattle of the compressor’s engine feed through the sprayer wand and knew how he would do it. The pulse of the paint through the wand reminded him of his days in the military and the feel of an automatic weapon discharging in his hands. It was a feeling of great power, a feeling he longed for. It brought him a satisfied grin.

It took a long moment for him to return to the present. Staring into the bathroom mirror, it dawned on him that circumstances had changed. He was no longer in the army, but he was on a mission all the same. First Hilary Glenn and then… it was almost over. The moment of resolution was fast approaching.

The protective garb helped, but did not prohibit a bloom of reddish brown paint from encircling his face. It started at his cheek, a clearly delineated line that began where his mask ended and grew darker toward his ear. His wrists were stained where the mist had seeped between his gloves and the elasticized sleeve cuff. The commercial material he deployed to inhibit rust had to be delivered under pressure. Clovin knew that despite precautions, the material was everywhere, impregnating his skin, the mucous membranes that lined his lungs, his hair, and his eyes.

Working methodically, he began to rub his skin in a circular motion with a cotton ball saturated with an acetone-based solvent. He started with his face and then worked on his wrists and ankles. Thirty minutes later, standing naked before the bathroom mirror, Clovin was satisfied. He ran the shower until the water was scalding, and stepped in armed with a brush and pumice soap. He emerged at four-thirty, raw and adequately cleansed. The paint pigment was still there, embedded where the brush could not reach. It was in him, like a cancer, replacing healthy cells with prostrate. He could not see it or smell it, but knew that it was there.

The task had left him ravenous. He prepared a ritualistic meal: vanilla-flavored soymilk and high-fiber cereal. He consumed half a quart of milk and one third of a box of cereal. He believed that dinner should be the lightest meal of the day.

He napped until seven and then did his last tab of Alice in Wonderland. Lying in bed, he saw the spring sky begin to darken, and felt the need to kill well up within him once again.

Dawn was on the rise. Clovin reveled in hypnagogic sleep, lavished in the bliss of an LSD-induced stupor. It had hit him just right, the orange tint of morning sky, chemical tranquility, stupor, and bliss. He was feeling no pain. The demons had released him, his flesh slipped, uncharred, from the fiery dragon’s mouth. He turned his head from the light. Hilary Glenn was next to him in bed, naked, sleeping soundly on her side, a sheet hanging limply from her hip.

He touched her shoulder; her flesh turned purple beneath his fingertips. He could see waves of energy radiating out from beneath them. He slid his hand down her arm and watched it turn magenta and then bright red. He slid the sheet from her hip. There was only blackness beneath it, absolute blackness. He stared at the void until it began to undulate and grow into a shimmering, milky white. He drank from it. His lips tingled and soon began to burn. The burning intensified as it traveled toward his stomach. He tried calling to her through sealed lips, but was unable to produce an intelligible sound. He began to rock furiously and slam his hands down on the mattress around him, pounding it forcefully. He had to get her attention. He couldn’t kill her until he saw her eyes, her unsuspecting eyes. Only then could he end her life, hold her in his arms and smother her, bar the air from her lungs until she withered and died.

She seemed to stir. It was coming, the moment he had waited for like seeing a deer through a rifle site… at last. He felt himself tense in expectation. Hilary Glenn rolled over and faced him. Her eyes were cool green eyes. They were devoid of warmth, but unsuspecting. He pulled her closer. She snuggled against him like a child.

He placed his hand against her cheek. She was illusionary, ghostlike. How could he smother that which he could not hold? He screamed. This time he heard himself bellowing furiously at the top of his lungs firing resentment. He reached for her arm, but that too was insubstantial. His hand fell through her, touching the sheet.

Hilary glared at him. Blinding beams of light projected from her eyes, scorching him, burning away his flesh. He covered his face until the pain subsided. He looked again. Hilary Glenn was gone.

He heard a tapping on the window. She was there, sitting outside on the ledge as he had at her office. She was laughing at him, mocking him. He flew from the bed, bringing his mass against the glass, but it would not shatter. Hilary’s mouth opened. It was black and cavernous. The void grew, and then she disappeared again.

He felt himself heaving, spent with exhaustion. Sweat poured from his brow, scalding his raw skin.

“Daddy? Daddy, I’m here.”

Clovin turned. Sheryl was in his bed, looking as she had on the last night he had seen her alive, pigtails broadcast over the pillow, wearing the printed nightgown they had purchased for her in Charleston.

“Where have you been, Daddy? I’ve been looking for you.” She extended her arms. Her eyes were dark and lifeless. Clovin sighed. She had been dead for thirty years, but she had never gone away.

Chapter Thirty-three

Tony Scosdolocus aka Tony Skuz opened the door of his canary-yellow Mustang. Before stepping out, he checked himself in the rearview mirror. His thick black hair and mustache had been freshly shorn that morning. He had restyled his hair using an excessive amount of gel. He’d combed every last hair methodically, until his mane had the appearance of molded plastic.

He got out and tugged on his jacket. He had never worn a tux before and loved the cummerbund. It held in his beer belly better than his Sans-a-Belt slacks ever had. “Yeah, I’m telling ya, we gotta take up golf. That’s where the money’s at.”

Alex Pareya sneered at Tony Skuz as he got out of the car. Julio Vargas, his usual partner, had called in sick at the last moment. Pareya knew better. He knew Vargas was shacked up with his girlfriend and just wasn’t getting out of bed. Tony Skuz was the resident joke at Prestige Security, the guy no one wanted to partner with. Now he was Pareya’s joke.

Tony Skuz came around the car. Pareya grabbed his tuxedo jacket from behind the front seat and put it on. Skuz pointed at Pareya’s hair. Pareya glanced up. “Oh yeah, thanks,” he replied resentfully, before pulling off his doo-rag and tossing it into the car. Being told anything by Skuz bothered him.

Pareya checked his hair in the side mirror. When he looked up, Skuz was fitting an earpiece. “Hey, c’mon, no fucking toys, man.” The earpiece had come from an old transistor radio. Tony Skuz had wrapped the cord around a pencil and baked it in a toaster oven so that it remained coiled and had the appearance of a Secret Service ear set. The end of the cord was tucked into his shorts. “You look like a fool, man. Take it off!”

“No way. It looks good,” Skuz said.

Pareya cursed under his breath. He wanted to kill Vargas for saddling him with the buffoon. “You think that’s gonna get you laid, man? You think the girls gonna mistake you for some kind of tacky, out of shape James Bond or something?” He sighed with disgust before turning and walking off.

Tony Skuz was hot on his heels. “You’re fuckin’ A, I look like a million bucks. This place will be crammed with eligible snatch.” Skuz began to strut. “And the pussy king is here to pillage.”

Pareya waved him off, dismissing him. “You aggravate me, man. You want these saggy, old, society bitches? Good luck, man.” Pareya, like most of his Dominican friends, was partial to fifteen-year-olds and not the least bit interested in mature women despite their ample endowment with coin of the realm.

Tony Skuz was not fazed by his partner’s unhappiness. As always, he thought better of his own ideas. This was his first assignment in Manhattan and Skuz was electrified with excitement. He’d seen Hilary Glenn’s picture in the news. The papers had reported that the private fundraiser hoped to raise a half a million for the Glenn campaign. It was a small black-tie affair, an intimate group of well-heeled supporters. Tony Scosdolocus was thrilled over his newly found celebrity. Working security for swanky politicians was far better than his day job.

Make sure the Motorola unit works,” Pareya barked.

Skuz pulled a handheld narrow-band radio from his jacket pocket and turned it on.

A street person was camped out not far from the entrance to the supper club in which the fundraiser was being held. Skuz wrinkled his nose as he walked past. “Filthy bum. Get the fuck outta here.” He shot the derelict a distasteful look, dusted himself off, and continued on inside.

“My partner will cover the door. I’ll work inside.” Alex Pareya spoke to Alice Tate in a professional manner. He had already decided to station Skuz by the front door, therefore limiting his exposure to the guests.

“Please be discreet,” she replied. “Blend in. I don’t want the guests to notice the two of you at all. I want them concentrating on their generosity, not the security. I don’t want them distracted or bothered in any way. Are we clear on this?” Pareya nodded.

Tony Skuz walked through the door. He heard Alice Tate’s remark and ignored it. “Tony Scosdolocus,” he boomed as he extended his hand. “Good to meet you.”

Alice Tate, Evan Wainright’s right hand, declined the handshake, smiled quaintly and replied, “My, my, aren’t you hot shit?” She turned back to Pareya. “Be invisible,” she demanded, before racing off.

“You got your gun?” Pareya asked.

Tony Skuz patted his ankle and winked. “That’s affirmative.”

“Good,” Pareya replied. “Don’t use it. No one gets in without an invitation. Can you handle that?” Skuz nodded. “If you need me, I’ll be inside. One more thing.”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t need me.”

Hilary Glenn emerged from her limousine looking radiant and supremely self-confident, on the verge of cocky. A barrage of camera flashes greeted her. Reporters holding foam-clad microphones, each stenciled with a TV station logo, pressed in on her. She glowed with self-importance as she encountered them.

“Ms. Glenn, what do you think of your chances now that Mayor Rubio has bowed out of the race? Do you think it’s a sure thing?” Michelle Wong, the ABC reporter, posed the question.

“We take nothing for granted,” Glenn replied modestly. “There’s still a long road ahead of us.”

“Ms. Glenn, how much money do you expect to raise at this evening’s event?” asked a reporter from the Post.

“As much as humanly possible.” Her response raised a flurry of laughter. Her years in corporate life had prepared her for this. She was such a polished phony, it took your breath away.

Evan Wainright was now out of the limo. No one even noticed him emerge. “That’s all for now,” he announced. “There are a hundred hungry supporters inside and I want to make sure they’ve got the strength to take their checkbooks out of their pockets. We can’t keep them waiting, now, can we?”

Hilary looked stunning in her beaded Armani evening gown as she draped a hand crocheted shawl over her bare shoulders. The back was cut away in a provocative wedge. It was taut at the waist, accentuating her splendid figure. She had begun pushing her way through the crowd of reporters when she noticed the vagrant huddled against the adjacent store’s façade. She smiled inwardly — the political wheels were turning. “Just a moment,” she announced. She began walking in the derelict’s direction. The press followed her. “Give me a little space, please. I don’t want to frighten him.” God, I’m good.

Two of the reporters looked at each other. They hung back with the rest of their colleagues, allowing Hilary Glenn ten feet of privacy.

“Hilary, do you think that’s a good—” Wainright warned. A scowl cut him down quickly.

“Are you hungry?” she asked. The vagrant nodded, never lifting his head or exposing his face. Hilary turned back to the press. “The homeless deserve our help,” she announced in a sympathetic voice. “I’m going to take care of this as one of my first orders of business.” She turned back to the vagrant. “I’ll have something brought out for you to eat. Would you like that?” She regarded the urchin, covered in rags, all of his worldly possessions in a torn duffle bag at his side.

The vagrant buried his face more deeply into folded arms. His reply was muffled but understandable. “Blow me.”

Chapter Thirty-four

Tony Skuz wandered into the kitchen. A half-consumed tray of canapés had been abandoned and was within his reach. He popped a crab cake into his mouth and wolfed it down. “Fuckin’ A,” he opined. He dipped a second into a dish of dill mayonnaise and smiled with delight upon tasting it. The pastry chef eyed the freeloader with outrage. “Hey, you make these? They’re fucking terrific.” The pastry chef grumbled heatedly and dashed away. Tony Skuz placed several crab cakes on a napkin and continued to whittle down the supply.

A smack on the back of his head induced a choking spasm. “What the hell are you doing in here, man? Didn’t I tell you to stay out front?” Alex Pareya didn’t care to be a babysitter, not for a fat, overstuffed fool like Tony Skuz. His dark complexion flushed an unsightly red.

Tony Skuz coughed, dislodging a chunk of crabcake into his hand. “You almost killed me, you Dominican asshole.”

Pareya glanced in disgust at the glob of partially consumed fish in Skuz’s hand. “Throw that away and get back outside!” he ordered.

“What’s the rush? Most everyone’s here that’s supposed to be here. They’re supposed to feed us, aren’t they?”

“No. Go wash up. I’ll cover the front door until you get back. Make it fast.”

Pareya disappeared through the kitchen’s swinging doors. “Asshole!” Skuz reiterated. He cleaned his hand with a linen cocktail napkin, picked up a used champagne flute and swallowed its contents. “Kiss my big fat ass, you piece of garbage.”

He strolled leisurely through the dining area, checking out the food and the cling of evening attire over the derrieres of the female attendees. He caught a scowl from an outraged husband before finding his way to the men’s room. Standing before the lavatory mirror, he patted his hair. It was still as hard as nails.

A distinguished gray-haired gentleman stood alongside him, using the adjacent sink. Tony Skuz thought that he looked every bit as good as the man he shared the room with. He was younger too, which meant better. “They got some high-class snatch out there,” he offered.

“You’re observant,” the elderly man replied.

“Security,” Skuz replied haughtily.

“Good, I’ll rest easy.” The older gent rolled his eyes before refocusing on himself in the mirror.

Hilary Glenn slid into the seat next to Evan Wainright. “How are we doing, darling?”

“Like taking candy from a baby,” Wainright cooed. His lower lip was still red and puffy.

She continued to focus on her guests as she waved to a couple on the dance floor and discreetly placed her hand over Wainright’s fly. “I hope you’ve got a nice, large figure for me.”

Wainright tensed reflexively. He couldn’t help turning toward her in bewilderment. “Hilary!”

“How much?” she insisted. He could hear the teeth of his zipper tick open one by one.

“My goddamn wife’s here,” he blustered past gritted teeth.

“Relax. I just saw the good Mrs. Wainright in the ladies’ room. How much?” Her hand was inside now, stroking him deftly.

“Three hundred sixty-four thousand,” he whispered. “I’ve still got half the crowd to work.” His eyes darted nervously around the room.

Glenn’s eyes widened. She looked at Wainright gleefully as she withdrew her hand, leaned over, and whispered in his ear, “Before you leave tonight, I’m going to give you the blowjob of the century.” She winked and then stood abruptly. “What did Stuart Isaacs shuck out?”

“Nothing yet,” he replied.

“I’ll go work him over.” She waved at NASDAQ’s Vice Chairman and discreetly adjusted her cleavage. “We’ll see if this really is a Miracle Bra. Don’t forget to zip,” she reminded him.

Wainright was doing so when the terror of a gun blast tore through the room. His heart knocked against his chest. Women shrieked. A few alert men hit the floor and pulled their companions down alongside them. A few seconds passed in which nothing but horrifying silence transpired. He could hear the seconds ticking in his ears, waiting, waiting…

Alex Pareya’s last steps as a living being were toward the center of the restaurant. Staggering, he made it to the dance floor. The stain of fresh blood had spread across his white tuxedo shirt. He reared and collapsed face first onto the wooden floor. The air exploded with a hundred shrill screams and then fell silent.

Tony Scosdolocus tensed with nervousness. He listened at the men’s room door as the inner room erupted in hysteria. He grabbed at his ankle, tearing his slacks as he gained his Browning 9mm. He heard the hysteria die down, opened the door fractionally and peered out. The street bum he had encountered on the way into the supper club was standing twelve feet away with his back to him. Alice Tate was standing just in front of the bum. Skuz recognized her immediately, the cut of her gown from the rear, her long leg, cast askew from the gown’s thigh-high slit. The fuckin’ bum? he said to himself. He remembered Alex Pareya’s instructions about not using his gun. I don’t need the Browning to toss this crud. He holstered the 9mm.

“Hey! I thought I told you—” Tony Skuz grabbed the vagrant’s shoulder and spun him around. The muzzle of the MAC-10 jabbed him sharply in the belly as it discharged twelve rounds, tearing his torso to shreds and punching him forcefully back into the wall.

Zachary Clovin spun back around in an instant, his eyes flashed maniacally, the muzzle of the assault rifle smoked in his hands. Alice Tate was now unwanted baggage. He pushed her away and fired a short burst into her back. She staggered, twitched, and collapsed. He glared at everyone in the room; motionless, petrified people. The weeping was music to his ears. “Three dead, I don’t know… fifty to go?” He began firing singles around the room. The first shot caught a waiter in the face, the next punctured Stuart Isaacs’s right ventricle, killing him instantly.

Clovin fired a burst at the ceiling, cutting the chain that secured a massive chandelier. It plummeted twenty feet to the floor, pinning Evan Wainright’s leg beneath it. “Fucking ouch!” Clovin confronted Wainright and stood over the cowering politician. Wainright’s wife defied fear and ran to her husband’s side. “He’s been a bad boy. The boss has been sucking his dick.” Celia Wainright stared at Clovin in fright and disbelief. He put the MAC-10 to Wainright’s temple and squeezed the trigger. Her husband’s skull exploded, covering her with his blood and brain tissue. “Judge, jury, and exe-fucking-cutioner.” Celia Wainright blacked out and rolled over the body of her decapitated husband.

The next burst sprayed bullets across the room. A wall-length mirror shattered. A million glass shards rained down, halting Hilary Glenn in her tracks. “How long do I have to wait for my dinner, bitch? You weren’t even sincere about that, were you?” He approached her as if he were stalking prey, grabbed her by her dress and pinned her up against the wall. “I can be a gracious host too.” He put the muzzle of the MAC-10 to her lips. “Getting excited? It’s big, black, and hard.”

Hilary Glenn’s face was a portrait of terror. She saw her own terrified reflection in Clovin’s eyes. She’d remember it forever.

“Are you ready for it, Hilary? Here it comes.” Clovin brought the weapon up to eye level.

“Jesus Christ.” Glenn shuddered.

“Ba-boom!” Clovin thundered, simulating the explosion of a MAC-10 blast. The blood drained from Glenn’s face and her eyes began to roll up into her head, but the back of Clovin’s hand brought her back. “Not until I tell you,” he snarled. Then he reversed the MAC-10 and brought the butt crashing down on her head.

Chapter Thirty-five

Twain continued to be the target of idle curiosity as he raced through Yeager Airport. He had become accustomed to the uninvited stares, had hardened himself against them over the years. He tugged his cell phone from his pocket and tried Chalice once again. He heard the phone ring four times and then the switching signal as his call was once again transferred to voicemail. He had left two messages already. There was little point in leaving a third. Each breathless and frantic message had instructed her to call back as soon as humanly possible. As if that wasn’t enough, he had added, “This is urgent,” at the end of each one.

Blast! Where is she? he wondered. The pieces were still falling into place. He had learned so much in so little time. He turned the corner and headed full speed toward the departure gate. He had so much to tell her. He couldn’t wait to get her on the phone.

The last flight back to New York was about to leave. “Wheels up at 10:05 sharp!” he had been told when he booked the tickets over the phone. He glanced at his watch. 10:06. “Blast!” The departure gate was in sight now. He could see the illuminated boarding gate number, but nothing else. His view of the gate area was obscured by the congestion of humanity, travelers intent on their own arrangements. He hoped that the airline’s claim for promptness was grossly exaggerated.

Desperation swept across his face as he came upon the gate. The airline attendant was sealing the jetway door. “No! Please wait,” Twain called out frantically. The attendant’s eyes widened at the sight of him approaching. He was expecting an argument, but much to his surprise, the attendant tugged a ring of keys from her pants pocket and proceeded to unlock the door.

“The two of you just made it,” the attendant stated in a reassuring voice. She was a pleasant senior with silvery-blue hair. Her nameplate read Clara. “The flight was delayed a few minutes because of bad weather between here and New York.” She extended her hand and took the tickets from Twain. “It’s your lucky day. We’re pretty prompt, you know.”

“So I’ve heard.” Twain was panting through his bandana. The heat and moisture on his face felt like he had just run through the Yucatán jungle at the height of the summer rainy season.

“You must have run a long way.” Clara tore the boarding passes along the perforation and handed them back to Twain. His cell phone rang. “You’ll have to turn that off,” she told him. “There are phones onboard.”

“This won’t be but a moment,” Twain said, turning away from her.

“I can’t hold the flight any longer, Sir. Please go aboard.”

“Sorry.” Twain looked at her apologetically and answered the phone. “Hello.”

“Nigel, it’s Detective Chalice. What the hell is going on? Are you all right?”

Twain could feel the extent of the concern in her voice. “Yes, yes, I’m fine. Where are you?” He was thrilled to hear her voice and wanted to tell her everything he had learned, but not over the phone, not news like this. He couldn’t. As a trained psychiatrist of many years, Twain knew that this kind of information was best presented face to face. Even then, he knew, Chalice’s reaction would not be good. Of all the things he knew about Stephanie Chalice, this would hurt her the most.

“I’m at the station house. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but Hillary Glenn has been abducted.”

“Please board the plane,” Clara insisted. She was growing visibly upset. “Everyone’s waiting for you.”

“Stephanie, I’m just boarding a plane at the moment. Don’t go anywhere,” he warned. “You’re in grave danger.”

“From whom?”

“I’ll call back the minute we’re airborne. Please, promise me that you’ll stay exactly where you are until you hear back from me.”

“Call me right back.”

“I will.” Twain ended the call. “Unavoidable,” he said, apologetically to the silver-haired matron. Under her watchful eye, he and his newly found companion boarded their flight to New York.

Chapter Thirty-six

I got out of the police van with Mike Gluck, Bill Hanley, and Ed Holeran. Hanley had worked with my dad and had come up from the academy with him. Holeran was a former narcotics detective who had transferred to homicide. He was no kid, but as savvy as they came. Gluck was a youngster like me, a six-foot-eight Jewish boy from Borough Park. He was bright, but too nice for his own good as far as I was concerned. I’d seen him play basketball at a PBA picnic. He had hands of stone and a pair of lead feet to match. Between sports and police work, he had definitely made the wiser choice going with the NYPD.

They weren’t Lido, but they were good men, all three of them. Lido had been temporarily reassigned and had become the department’s liaison to the FBI in the investigation of Hilary Glenn’s kidnapping.

I had spoken with Lido on the way over. It sounded like he and Ambler were becoming close. God only knew what the two of them were talking about. All right, we all know they were talking about me. I would have loved to be privy to their conversations; two investigators, each manipulating the other, trying to get the dirt on Stephanie Chalice without letting on to the other. The bullshit must have been incredible.

My phone call to Lido had explained where I was and what I was doing. He and Ambler were sitting on pins and needles, waiting to hear what I had found.

We’d used the unmarked and come up the block undetected using no lights nor sirens. Twain had told me little, except the man’s name. He said, “The man you’re looking for is Zachary Clovin. I’ll have a great deal to tell you when I get back.” He communicated that his plane was getting in late and that he had a lot of exciting news to tell me the next day. I’d pushed him to find out more, but the mysterious doctor insisted on telling me in person. The last thing he said was troubling, “Be careful, Stephanie. This man is looking for you. “

Clovin lived in a walk-up on Sixty-third, between First and Second, a top-floor apartment facing the street. We left Gluck out front, knowing that if Clovin fell while fleeing down the fire escape, Gluck, with his hands of stone, would drop him. You can’t say we don’t think things through, even if it’s only for our own amusement.

There was no sheet on Clovin, meaning that either he had turned homicidal late in life, or had never been caught. I was betting on the latter. We had his military records. Clovin had served a twenty-year hitch. He had been all over the world with the Army Corps of Engineers — eminent qualifications for a perp that had working knowledge of the Roosevelt Island tram and had rigged a passenger elevator.

I pulled his military photograph from my pocket and studied it. There was something hauntingly familiar about Clovin, but try as I might, I couldn’t place him. The man’s face had perp written all over it. A flattop haircut wasn’t good enough for this guy. He was buzzed bald. Clovin had that hardened look, as if he had survived torture or something. Maniacal too: like some kind of failed laboratory experiment.

The tenement was old but immaculate. Too bad. It always added to the ambiance when rats scurried past your feet while you were trying to take down a crazed murderer. Oh well, I’d have to make do.

Hanley, Holeran, and I moved up the staircase in unison, guns drawn. The stairwell had an unsettling chill in the early hours of evening, almost eerily so. I was suddenly feeling very sober. It was a combination of things: the crazed look on Clovin’s face and the dead women. Were there only two dead women? If Twain was right, we had just scratched the surface. I felt outrage building within inside me. Control it, I told myself. Stay cool under pressure. This guy is smart. Be smarter.

I had relayed Twain’s remarks to my new partners and they insisted that I enter behind them.

“Department of Health,” Hanley announced after knocking three times. He was on the left side of the door. Holeran and I were on the right. He knocked again. “Hello, hello. Anyone home? We’re here to check out a complaint.” A nervous moment passed in silence. Hanley raised his eyebrows. You can only stand in a combat position in the hallway of a dimly lit tenement for so long without looking stupid. The sound of shattering glass sent us into action.

“Gluck!” Holeran peeled off and charged down the stairs to back up the basketball star. Hanley turned and faced the door. He put his two hundred twenty pounds into it and took it off the frame.

He took the lead. I was right at his butt. Again, it was nothing like Lido’s. We stole into the apartment. All was quiet. There wasn’t much to it, a two-roomer with a small eat-in kitchen. The place reeked of ammonia and something else that I was sure could peel paint. I could see the windows immediately upon entering. The fire escape was visible through one of them. No broken glass.

We moved toward the window. Down on the street, Gluck and Holeran had someone in custody. I knew in an instant that it wasn’t Clovin. We had accidentally rousted Clovin’s next-door neighbor, likely a paranoid street dealer. We’d get nothing on this guy either. I was betting that it would be your typical flush and flee proposition.

Hanley and I began casing the apartment. Clovin’s bedroom was our first port of call. “Sweet, merciful Jesus,” I heard Hanley call out from the bedroom. “Chalice, oh my God. Come take a look.”

Funny, one picture is worth a thousand words, but a wall of pictures could be summarized in two. “Holy shit!” It was all there in front of us. The faces of Ellen Redner and Samantha Harris were the ones I recognized, but there were others. No doubt, they too had met with the same unhappy ending. Twain had been, forgive the play on words, dead on.

He had found Redner and Harris through the newspaper. I took a moment to read the articles Clovin had clipped and taped to the walls. Samantha Harris’ photo had appeared in the Sunday Times, a colorful piece about a mature woman in a business dominated by young bucks. Colorful? Yes, as in blood red. The byline was Software Sam.

Ellen Redner had received an honorarium for her charitable work with Children of the South Bronx. These were special women: intelligent and strong. Was that it, a woman’s place was in the home, dutifully by her man’s side? Was death the price for their independence? Was it supposed to be mine?

There were three others. The newspaper clippings about these women were posthumous, obituaries from local papers. These three were the fruits of Clovin’s labor rather than his research. I checked the dates. They were all prior to Redner and Harris. Twain was right again. Clovin’s first three homicides had been too subtle. The messages and gunshot victims had been his way of getting attention. I’d say he’d accomplished what he had set out to do.

Hilary Glenn apparently deserved honorable mention. Several clippings were set off apart from the rest, arranged in a line on Clovin’s night table. She met his requirements and then some: rich, successful, and in the public eye, not exactly the demure or homespun type. I cursed myself for not having seen it coming.

Hanley bounded into the room. He had worked up a sweat tossing the other room. “I found the stuff he used to build those homemade silencers: tennis balls, steel wool, PVC pipe, hacksaw, and these, thank God.” Wearing latex gloves, Hanley held a weapon in each hand. “A Feather 9mm RAV and a MAC-10. Better in my hands than his.”

“Big amen. We’d better alert Lido and Ambler. They’re chomping at the bit, waiting to hear from us.”

“I’ll take care of it.” He lumbered out of the room purposefully. We had our man; now all we had to do was catch the son of a bitch.

I turned back to the wall of death. This time, it really got to me. Was Twain right about this too? Had Clovin done all of this just to get my attention? There were five already dead, likely six. Hilary Glenn’s chances of making it to the Senate were looking extremely remote, distant in fact.

The images on the wall hit me in the gut. What kind of cop was I? I needed answers and I needed them now. I had to stop this bastard. I didn’t know why the perp had made it personal and it was killing me. Damn it! Why hadn’t I forced Twain to tell me what he knew? I had been in such a hurry to nab Clovin that I forgot the first rule of good detection: Know the perp and know what he’s thinking in order to know what he’s planning. I had acted too quickly and now all I could do was guess.

I pulled on my gloves and began going through Clovin’s stuff. The first drawer was empty except for a metal container of Altoids breath mints. There were blotter squares within it, probably tabs of LSD, a box full of Mad Hatters. How horrifyingly appropriate.

The end table’s top drawer contained a folded side-by-side frame which I opened. Facing me was one new image and one that was familiar. The first photo was that of a young girl. She looked about eleven or twelve, dark hair, a bit on the frail side. It was an old picture; I could tell by the yellowed border around the photograph and the period dress the child was wearing. Who is she? I wondered. The other half contained another newspaper clipping. The headline read: “New Year’s Blast Avoided.” It was my photo, taken as I led Gamal Haddad, the New Year’s Eve terrorist, into custody. I have to say that the picture captured it all — the face, the eyes, and the take-no-crap expression; everything the perp needed to know. For some reason, I had become the object of his fatal desire, doomed for my accomplishments. Or was it for what I represented: strength, success, and independence in a man’s world? Or was he just a homicidal maniac?

Now that we were sure who the killer was, we’d be able to get a ton of information from the intelligence community. The prospects of finding Clovin were good, but I had learned that there were no guarantees in life. Our files were full of wanted perps — horrible, vile monsters that had never been apprehended. That said, Zachary Clovin would be brought to justice. I give you my guarantee.

Chapter Thirty-seven

I found Ishmael Gray at the Nassau County Correctional Facility in East Meadow, New York. East Meadow was a bustling little suburb not far from the oft referred to Levittown. It looked pretty, but the traffic was as bad as it is in Manhattan. I thought about the house-in-the-suburbs proposition that Ma was pushing on me. It just seemed to me that the suburbs should be more tranquil than this. Strip mall after strip mall, massive assisted-living communities for seniors, and a big-ass correctional facility right smack dab in the center. That boat was looking more and more like the right decision all the time.

I had donned my most unflattering pantsuit in anticipation of my visit to the correctional facility. There’s no point in describing it. It was just blah, a present from my cousin in Staten Island. God only knows why I hadn’t given it away. It was one of those “Softer side of Sears” getups. In any case, it was closer to a burlap bag than anything else I owned.

The other convicts seemed unaware of Gray’s presence as he rolled his wheelchair into the visitor’s room. Gray’s hair was light brown, parted in the center and grown out to his shoulders. Inactivity had cultivated a large potbelly, upon which his folded hands rested peacefully. “Gray, Ishmael Gray?” I asked.

Gray replied without opening his eyes. “Used to be. Now I’m R22861.” His eyes sprang open without squinting. I saw at once that he was blind. “Either way, I’m the man you’re looking for.”

I’m Detective Chalice.”

“Nice to have a female visitor even if I can hardly make you out.”

“How bad is your vision?”

“I can see shadows, just enough to keep out of harm’s way. But I guess you’re not here for a second opinion on your outfit.” Gray took a couple of playful exaggerated sniffs. “That’s not polyester, is it?”

Shit! He has me dead to rights. “Yeah, yeah it is.”

Gray winked. He wasn’t looking at me when he did, but the wink was meant for me. “You don’t seem like the polyester type.” You see, even a blind man knows. “So what can I help you with, Detective?”

“What can you tell us about Zachary Clovin?”

I could see surprise register on Gray’s face. “Ooo-wee, Old Zack the Wack. That crazy son of a bitch, what’s he done?”

“He’s a person of interest in a multiple homicide investigation.”

Gray bunched his chin and began rocking back and forth in his chair. “Multiple homicides, my, oh my. Always knew something like this would happen once he got out. Military discipline’s the only thing that kept that crazy fool in check. He was stoned half the time and off showering the rest. Don’t quite know how he served out all those years, and as an engineer, no less.”

“We contacted Sergeant Keith McKenna, your former CO. He said that if anyone could tell us about Clovin, it would be you.”

“Sure, we were close, close to dead.” Gray’s head lowered. “It’s a shame a man has to lose so much before he straightens out.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“There are only two categories of lifers in the U.S. Army. You’ve got your Academy boys, ROTC and such, and you got your lost souls, the stupid asses, and the don’t-know-what-to-do-with-their-lives types. I was one of those. Zachary Clovin and I were two of the sorriest pieces of flop in the outfit. I was on the run, just a stupid kid who thought the Army would hide me from the police. See, I murdered a man and thought the uniform would make me invisible.” A tear rolled down his cheek. “It was a bad deal. What I did was justified, but the long years of running and hiding turned the facts into mush. A good lawyer could’ve straightened things out. Instead, I spent twenty years in the military. The police picked me up three months after my discharge. Twenty years of hiding and wasting my life,” he stated remorsefully. Gray quickly wiped the tear from his cheek. “Crap. You didn’t come to hear about me anyway. Wacky Zack and I were volunteers in an army experiment. I’ve been paid off by the government to keep my mouth shut, but look where I am today, blind and crippled, doing life in the middle of suburbia. Don’t figure I owe no one any allegiance.”

I placed my hand on Gray’s shoulder. “Tell us about it.”

Gray turned his head toward me. “Been a long time, Detective Chalice. Can’t remember the last time I felt a woman’s comforting touch. You’d better take your hand off my shoulder, though. Ain’t good for me to be seen this way.” I understood the implication and complied immediately. “Much obliged, ma’am. They did LSD testing on us. They thought LSD could be used for brainwashing and to disorient the enemy. Clovin and I spent three years in wonderland.” Gray chuckled. “I’ll be damned if the time didn’t pass like it was ten minutes. It took me a long time to shake it. LSD ain’t addicting like heroin or cocaine but you can sure take a liking to it, especially if the real world ain’t a happy place for you to be.”

Gray reversed his wheels until he was facing us again. “Clovin never shook it. He couldn’t get it from the army anymore, so he went off base and bought it. When he couldn’t find any, he’d swallow anything that came out of a test tube: BZ, psilocybin, mescaline… anything he could get his hands on. Clovin worked on engineering projects all over the world. He must have experimented with all kinds of shit. Can you imagine the sorry-ass construction that sick son of a bitch is responsible for?”

“I guess he wasn’t as strong as you were.” I didn’t know Gray’s story, not really. Everyone in the joint had a sob story and his was just one more. Despite all I knew, I couldn’t help feeling sorry for the guy. A cop has got to be tough, but she’s also got to listen and have an ounce of carefully placed compassion.

“He was strong,” Gray continued. “He was damn strong. Whatever I was running from, the ghosts that were chasing Zack had him running twice as fast. Wouldn’t you after you burnt your family alive?”

I gasped. I suppose it was the long pause that tipped Gray as to our surprise. “Well that’s it, isn’t it; you’ve caught up with him the same way the law caught up with me?” Gray read the silence perfectly. “Oh no. Zack’s done something else, hasn’t he?”

Yes, all that and then some.

Chapter Thirty-eight

The LIE was bumper to bumper and it was close to six when I emerged from the Queens-Midtown Tunnel. My cell phone rang the second I hit the first traffic light.

“Stephanie Chalice, you put in your papers and didn’t tell me or something? I haven’t heard from you in days.”

“Funny, Ambler, very funny. Whazzup?”

“I need you down here at headquarters right now. I need Lido too. Ah… you’re not together, are you?”

“Don’t bust balls.”

“Sorry, couldn’t help myself.” He chuckled. “Is he?”

“Yes,” I fired. “I just nailed him six times and we were on the clock the whole time. Actually, I’m just about to pick him up.”

“That’s very nice, but why the hell are you telling me?” Ambler asked. As if he didn’t know.

“I thought I’d tell you, so you wouldn’t have to spend time coaxing information out of Lido.”

“I’m tempted to tell you off, but I’ve got more important things on my mind,” Ambler huffed. “We’ve got a big development. Can’t wait to show you.” His voice was almost shaky with excitement.

“Give me a hint, Ambler.” The bastard. He had already hung up.

I picked up Lido and we hustled down Broadway. Twenty-six Federal Plaza came into view.

I stopped in the ladies’ room before meeting with Ambler. I fussed with the polyester frock, cinching the belt to make it look less frumpy. If a blind man had something to say, imagine what Ambler would come up with. I had buttoned the collar to the neck for my trip to the correctional facility. I looked in the mirror and loosened it. I had misplaced my Saint Christopher medal. Spreading the collar reminded me that I’d have to look for it when I got home.

I also took the opportunity to call Twain. I was dying to talk to him, but Ambler’s news had to come first. I told Twain that I’d call him the moment I was free. He sounded disappointed, but what could I do?

Ambler and Lido were swilling down old coffee. It smelled like something they had filched from the forensics lab. The old boy’s club was in session when I arrived. The two of them clammed up when I walked in. “You look like the cat that ate the canary.”

Ambler jumped off the desk he had been sitting on. He appeared moderately nervous, which was a sure sign of guilt. “This way,” Ambler instructed. The fact that the boys broke up their conversation so quickly only confirmed that they had been talking about yours truly. It didn’t take any great investigator to figure that out. What I wanted to know was, who had been asking the questions?

I whispered into Lido’s ear, “God help you if you and Ambler were discussing what I think you were discussing.”

“I’ll take the fifth,” he replied.

Ambler hustled us into the elevator and up to the forensics lab. It was filled with techs, gadgets, and gizmos. Two huge air scrubbers dominated the ceiling, keeping the lab odor-free. A proper-looking woman whose nametag read Doris Fuchs approached Ambler. “I’m set up in the back,” she told him. Fuchs looked like she was pushing sixty with her dyed auburn hair and clawing perfume, which, believe it or not, I placed immediately. My Aunt Connie had always worn Shalimar. She was gone, but the scent of her perfume would linger in my mind forever.

Ambler ushered us toward the back of the lab where he finally made the introductions. “Doris Fuchs, this is Detective Chalice and Detective Lido, two of New York’s finest.”

“Hello,” she replied with all the warmth of a seasoned mortician.

Ambler stood next to us. I grabbed his ear. “New York’s finest. I ought to kick your ass. What were you and Lido jawing about?”

“Pay attention to the technician, Chalice,” Ambler said. “This is much more important than your alleged puppy love conspiracy.” I snarled at Ambler and reluctantly followed his instructions.

Doris Fuchs was waiting patiently for our attention. I guess she figured quitting time was going to come around one way or another. “I’ve got two microscopes set up. I’d like you to take a peek into each of them.” With that, Fuchs stepped aside, allowing us access to her experiment.

“After you,” Lido offered. He had a playful smile on his face. I shot him a scowl as I maneuvered past him. This was far from over.

I bent over the first microscope. There were brown and gray spots on the slide. Nothing biological, just spots. The second was identical. I glanced up excitedly. “Gus, you’ve got to see this.”

Lido checked the first slide and then turned to me with a forlorn look. “What?” He shrugged.

“Nice-looking spots. This reminds me of a Daffy Duck cartoon I saw when I was a kid. You put water on those spots and they grow into Martians, right?” I looked up at Fuchs. She had no sense of humor at all.

“The point is that they’re identical,” Fuchs advised.

Got it. Next?

“Breakdown by chemical composition and spectrographic analysis confirm the same.”

“Herbert, what the hell are we looking at?” I fired.

Ambler rolled his eyes. “Thanks, Doris. I’ll take it from here.”

“Nice meeting the two of you,” she offered. I checked my watch. It was past five — Fuchs was probably late for her canasta game.

Fuchs squinted at me disdainfully before walking off. “Nice dress,” she scoffed.

Why, you…

“Guess you got yours,” Ambler blurted before propping himself up on a nearby windowsill.

Yeah, kiss my…

I could see lower Manhattan behind him. The sun had set. The evening skyline was magnificent. It helped to calm me down.

Ambler cleared his throat before he began. “The slides were made from residual material found with the footprints that were lifted from the tramcar and—” Ambler raised his eyebrows, heightening his sense of the dramatic.

“Come on, Ambler,” Lido shot. “Spit it out.”

“Party poopers. The other set of prints were taken at the Hilary Glenn fundraiser.”

Lido and I looked at each other. “No shit!” came out of our mouths simultaneously.

“Wow. Good going,” Lido offered.

Ever the ham, Ambler, took a bow. “There’s more,” he announced. “These are paint samples. They consist of PSN-12 and GE-40. They’re lead-lock paint inhibitors.”

“And I’ll bet you’re about to tell us the significance of that, aren’t you?” I can be such a pistol.

“These are industrial materials, not exactly the kind of stuff you find at Home Depot. Our boys didn’t think much of it when they found it on the tram and dismissed it out of hand. There’s certainly a call for its use in that instance, but when they found it in the middle of the dance floor at the fundraiser, it hit us like a ton of bricks.”

“Ergo, it’s traceable. We find out who’s working with this stuff and we’ve got a good lead on Clovin.”

“Exactly, Stephanie. These materials are used for encasement. They’re used in the refurbishing of old construction and such. They power-spray it over rusting iron and flaky delaminating lead-based paint. There are a finite number of projects going on. This is the break we’ve been waiting for.”

“Have you come up with the number of projects this lead-lock paint stuff is being used on yet?” I asked.

“The computers are still processing the request and my team is still checking out leads, but I don’t think that it’ll take very long. I should have a preliminary list in no time at all. It won’t be fully comprehensive, but it’ll give us a good, solid start.”

I would make sure that it did. But hey, what about Clovin, our pressure-spraying painter of a perp? He had just vaulted the dung pile to become one of the most wanted men in America. He was certainly the most wanted man on my list. I had the feeling we would soon cross paths.

Chapter Thirty-nine

Lido huddled just within the loading dock bay at United Encasement Systems. A light rain had begun to fall. Lido looked out into the night. Irradiated by the light of the sodium lamps, the rain droplets glistened like falling diamonds before a sapphire sky. A multitude of white commercial vehicles were distributed at fixed positions around the parking field: large material transports, panel vans, and economy passenger cars. Each was stenciled with the company logo: red letters UES within a hunter-green oval.

He had spent the last two hours combing through case upon case of employment records. Clovin’s name had not surfaced.

UES was the largest encasement firm on the East Coast and the principal user of the industrial paint compounds PSN-12 and GE-40. There were several smaller regional firms using these materials. Each would have to be checked out individually if, and it seemed likely, nothing was found at UES.

Herbert Ambler approached Lido and handed him a coffee cup. “How much longer?” Lido inquired.

Ambler put his foot up on a sealed five-gallon pail of paint and began sipping coffee. “All night if necessary.” He winked at Lido. “Getting lonely?”

Lido tried the coffee and grimaced. “Kiss my butt.”

“Is that a bribe?”

“Don’t you ever give up?”

“I’ve put in eighteen years as a Fed. Does that answer your question? If I didn’t have a sense of humor, I’d be as tight-assed as everyone else at Twenty-six Federal Plaza.”

Lido poured the contents of his coffee cup on the ground outside the loading bay. “What do you want to know?”

“Excuse me?” Ambler scrunched up his nose.

“Come on, Ambler. You’ve been bugging the shit out of me for days. So tell me what’s on your mind and let’s get it over with. You want to know if we’re doing it, or if she’s good? Come on, spit it out.”

“I’ve known Stephanie since she was in grade school. Chalice’s dad and I knew each other forever. He’d be on the job now if his health hadn’t taken a turn for the worse.” Ambler took his foot off the pail, crushed the coffee cup in his hand and stepped up to the plate. He was shorter than Lido, but he looked directly into his eyes, no more than six inches away. “I’ve been part of her family since I was a wet-behind-the-ears investigator. So, Gus Lido, what I really want to know is, do you care for this girl, or is this just hot sex? It may be none of my business, but I figure I owe it to my old friend to find out.”

Lido wrinkled his forehead and pursed his lips momentarily, uncertain of how to respond. “Not that it’s any of your business, but it’s beyond physical, Herb, way beyond.”

Ambler gave Lido a playful slap on the cheek. “That’s what I thought… and don’t worry about what you told me. I’ve cracked tougher eggs than you. I won’t say a thing,” Ambler said gleefully and then backed away.

“I don’t believe you. That was it?”

“The whole enchilada, kid. I needed to know what kind of guy you are.”

“Amazing.”

Ambler grinned. “Why don’t we go back upstairs and see if we can wrap up for the night? It’s after ten. These people are getting pretty testy and I don’t know that I blame them.”

Lido walked alongside Ambler. “I’m glad that Stephanie’s as important to you as she is,” Lido said. He put his hand on Ambler’s shoulder. “Stephanie told me you were all right.”

“Just keeping my eyes open, Lido. She’d do the same for me.”

Lido and Ambler took the stairs two at a time. They stopped outside the company’s executive offices. “You think there’s a decent place to eat around here? I’m absolutely famished.” Lido rubbed his belly to demonstrate.

“Matter of fact, there is. Let’s see where we stand and I’ll take you out for a fat, juicy steak,” Ambler replied.

“What happened to the all-night-if-necessary attitude?”

“Don’t get me wrong, I want Clovin as badly as anyone, but have you ever read the file on Hilary Glenn?”

“No. What’s up with her?”

Ambler pushed air past his sealed lips. “Let’s put it this way. We’re sworn to serve and protect, right?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, between you and me, we won’t be serving or protecting anyone by finding Hilary Glenn. Getting her back and setting her safely on the path to the Senate will be the worst thing that ever happened to the people of New York.” Ambler cleared his throat. “Remember the gas shortages of the seventies?”

“Vaguely. I was just a kid.”

“Well, guess how the young Ms. Hilary Glenn got promoted to the CEO spot at Vycon Petroleum?”

“Let’s hear it.”

“She was only in her twenties, for God’s sake.” Ambler rubbed his nose. “Anyway, her father the charming Roger Glenn was a ne’er-do-well Connecticut, white bread WASP who didn’t have two nickels to rub together until he married Samia Farouki, Hillary’s mother. She calls herself Samantha Glenn now but the Farouki family controls two thirds of the oil production in Saudi Arabia.”

“So you’re telling me that Hillary is the self-serving type and the Senate seat just puts her in position to help her family become even richer.”

“That and a bag of chips.”

“Okay, she’s an opportunist but it sounds like you missed your refresher class in motivation. Where’s that rah, rah, go-getter spirit you Feds are famous for?”

Ambler pursed his lips. “I’m still here, aren’t I?”

Lido nodded. “Good. Let’s get this over with.”

Tara Hughes cringed when she saw Ambler and Lido in her doorway. “I’ve gotta go,” she said in dismay. She was shaking her head from side to side as she spoke into the phone. “Yes, eat without me. I’ll be home when I can. Love you too. Bye.” She made no attempt to conceal her irritation. “Yes, gentlemen. What is it now?”

Lido and Ambler invited themselves in and sat down in the chairs positioned in front of Hughes’ desk.

“We’ve come up empty,” Ambler explained.

“As I was sure you would,” Hughes blurted. UES’s VP of Human Resources was worn to the point of combustion. “I’d like to send my staff home. They’re tired and hungry.”

“Me too,” Lido added, unmoved by the complaint. “This goes beyond dollars and cents, Ms. Hughes. “Lives are at stake, very important lives. So what we do in a case like this is start all over again so that we’re absolutely sure we haven’t missed anything.”

“Oh, dear Lord,” Hughes moaned. “I’ve had it,” she said, throwing her hands in the air. “We’re leaving. You can sleep here if you like. You’ve been through everything. There’s nothing here!” She stood up and yanked her drawer open. She grabbed a handful of the drawer’s contents and threw it on the table. “Here!” she bellowed. “Look all you want. The computers are on and the files are unlocked. Help yourself.”

Ambler and Lido looked at each other. Ambler turned to Hughes. “Better sit down. I want to go through the payroll for the last two years one more time.”

“Why?” Hughes asked indignantly. “The printout hasn’t changed. What do you think you’re going to find?”

“You never make out any manual checks?” Lido asked.

“Not for payroll. All full-time employees are on the computer. ADP pays them every other week. The only one with a regular checkbook is Lloyd Bochner, the comptroller.”

Lido and Ambler stood. “Get him down here!” Ambler demanded.

Tara Hughes was glad to hand them off to the comptroller. “I’m leaving,” she told Bochner.

“Edward wants you to help these men as long as they need it. Call him if there

are any problems.”

Lloyd Bochner acknowledged the instructions she had relayed from UES’s president. “Will do.”

“I’ll make this short and sweet,” Lido announced. “We want to see any manual checks that have been cut for part-timers, outside contractors or freelancers for the last two years.”

Bochner’s expression froze. “You’re kidding, right?”

“The FBI doesn’t kid,” Ambler replied. “Is that your way of telling us there are more than a couple?”

Bochner reached for the phone. “I’ll have to call—”

Lido grabbed his hand. “No, you don’t. We made a simple request. Take care of it.”

Bochner didn’t reply. He stared at his desk blotter, searching for a solution that wasn’t there.”

“Oh, for the love of God, we’re not the goddamn IRS,” Ambler blurted. He turned to Lido. “Son of a bitch is afraid of getting pinched for cheating on the payroll taxes.”

Ambler turned to Bochner. Sweat was pouring from the comptroller’s forehead. “So, what’s it going to be? We’re looking for a man named Zachary Clovin. Now, is he hidden away in your dirty little file or isn’t he?”

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, Bochner nodded.

Ambler slammed his fist down on Bochner’s desk. “Goddamn it. You son of a bitch, you cost us two hours. Why, I ought to tear your throat out.” He turned back to Lido with a knowing expression on his face. “All right, Lido, here we go.”

Chapter Forty

The smash of Clovin’s hand across Hilary Glenn’s face summoned her back to the conscious world, but did not succeed at reviving her. Again, his hand exploded across her face, again and again, until adrenaline forced her awake. Simultaneously, searing pain ripped through her wrists, arms, shoulders and back. Her trunk was painfully locked in spasm. Glenn’s eyes twittered open. Clovin stood beside her, the sickness of psychosis manifesting itself across his face.

Her position had not changed; nor would it until death blessed her with its arrival. Bound by her wrists, she dangled from a nylon rope, her toes hanging little more than an inch above the floor. As before, she knew that pleading was useless, but she tried nonetheless. She hadn’t been fed or given any water. She had no saliva to moisten her throat. Her voice was no more than a hoarse whisper. “Please let me down.” The floor was so close she could almost feel it. She ached for the pads of her feet to caress the surface. “I beg you.” Her dry, pasty eyes closed. There was no moisture available for her to produce tears.

“It’s so close, isn’t it, the cement floor beneath you? I could let you down but I won’t. Why should I? Why are you wasting my time? By the way, your dress fits you better than it did when I seized you. Too many social occasions, Hilary.” He pretended to whisper. “You’ve put on a few. Shame I don’t have a camera. You’re looking stylishly anorexic. Of course, you’ve been eating low-cal, now, haven’t you? Let’s see if I can smell it on your breath.” In his stocking feet, Clovin was still far taller than she was. He bent over and pretended to sniff her mouth. “That’s a new one on me. Help me out with this, Hilary. I’m not sure… oh wait, I know. You’ve been eating your trusted campaign manager. That’s it, isn’t it?” Hilary Glenn blinked her eyes sadly. She had nothing left with which to register the insult. She stared at her captor through tortured eyes. “You’ve been a very naughty politician, sucking off Mr. Wainright. Evan’s a—” Clovin grinned, “was a married man.” Clovin seated himself on the floor at her feet. “Now he’s a corpse.”

“Money.” It was the only thing left to try. She felt her shoulder joints tearing from their sockets. “How much?” she offered in a hoarse, muffled voice.

“You think I want money? You really are a stupid cow. That’s the way you’re accustomed to having it, right, Hilary? Men at your feet, anybody for a price? How does it feel to have absolutely nothing? Can’t you place the face?” Hilary squinted, but in her failing state, Clovin’s features seemed distorted and unrecognizable. “That’s right, we all look the same, don’t we? Faceless voters. You don’t give a shit who we are as long as you get elected. Next time you’d better be nicer to the Window Washers’ Union.” He searched her face and finally saw a spark of recognition. “That’s right, I was in your office. I cleaned your windows right after you and Wainright had gotten off on one another. Pity, isn’t it? Had you pushed me from the window instead of pulling me in, you wouldn’t be in the situation you are right now. How does it feel to know that the one time you acted in good conscience, you signed your own death warrant?”

Hilary Glenn’s voice was barely audible. “I’d spit in your face if I could.” She was overcome from the ordeal.

Clovin stood abruptly. “Sorry, Madame CEO, I couldn’t quite make that out.”

He turned until his ear was in front of her mouth, so he could hear her failing voice. “I’d like to spit in your face,” she repeated.

“You can’t, though, can you? The old bag’s all dried out.” He sniggered. “Would you like something to whet your whistle?” Clovin produced a dramatic smile. “How about it?”

Glenn narrowed her eyes, sneering until the total extent of her malice was focused on Clovin.

“No? Well, then I think it’s just about that time. We’ve been hanging around here long enough. Oops, sorry, bad choice of words, but I assumed there’d be people looking for you. Apparently no one gives a shit! I guess everyone’s figured out that New York State and the rest of the world would be far better off without you.”

Clovin waited until he could see the sadness register in Glenn’s eyes and then walked into the shadows. She tried to follow his movements, but her eyes burned from dryness and could not be kept open for more than a few seconds at a time. She could hear him though, tinkering with something in the shadow. Metallic sounds, sounds to dread. She then heard a small engine starting. Her body tensed with fear as the engine caught and began to race. She tried to manage some dignity as he emerged from the shadows, wheeling the power-paint compressor in her direction. He set it in place and then picked up the spraying wand and held it to her face. She began to retch from the intense odor of the petrochemical. Bile poured forth from her empty stomach and when there was none left, Clovin forced the wand into her mouth and pulled the trigger.

Chapter Forty-one

Assault. There was no other way to describe the action taken in the attempted apprehension of Zachary Clovin at the Brooklyn Navy Yard, the site where he had been working. There was no subtlety, no stealth, and no ingenuity. Of the five million feet of under-roof construction, ninety percent of the Brooklyn Navy Yard had been renovated and subsequently rented by commercial tenants. Only ten percent remained, as yet unimproved, leaving a mere five hundred thousand square feet of decrepit, rotting, rusted, and highly compartmentalized space for the FBI and NYPD forces to search and secure.

Storm clouds had come. The FBI and NYPD forces assembled in the pelting rain: hundreds of agents, at least twenty personnel transport vehicles, tactical units, helicopters, emergency lighting, and electric generators. The area to be covered resembled Anzio after the war: crumbling walls, debris, rusting metal pipes, rotting water-damaged materials everywhere.

Ambler and Lido stood side by side as the agents under Ambler’s command filed past them into area one. The half million square feet had been broken up into ten fifty thousand square-foot parcels for the purpose of permitting a thorough and comprehensive search. All tactical personnel had been issued protective headgear and boots. They had all been cautioned as to the building’s dilapidated and unsafe condition.

“Looks like a goddamn rabbit warren,” Ambler grumbled. “Son of a bitch could be anywhere.” He stumbled over a stack of discarded railroad ties. “This won’t be easy.”

Teams of techs transporting portable lighting systems moved ahead, illuminating the dark vastness one area at a time.

“Can’t see shit,” Lido extolled. He had a large Mag-lite in his left hand. “Got about ten thousand of these?”

Ambler smirked. “Better off blowing the roof and waiting ‘til morning. Some of my less than gifted fellow agents might get lost and never find their way out.” He lifted his radio, holding it horizontally below his mouth. “Johnny Biz, how long before you get the disco ball lit?”

A squawk came over the handheld radio, followed by the voice of Special Op, John Byzantine. “Give me ten minutes, Ambler. I don’t want my men hurt while they set up in the dark.”

“Hurry it up, will ya?” Ambler checked his watch. It was almost midnight. “I don’t want this asshole slipping through our fingers.” He turned back to Lido. “I’ve got an effective area of containment around the perimeter. My three priorities are safety, lockdown, and apprehension, in that order. If you’ve got a particularly bright and innovative idea you want me to ignore, tell me now.”

Lido smirked. “What a piece of work.” Disregarding Ambler, Lido gazed around at the foreboding structure as quadrant by quadrant became illuminated. “Look at this place,” he remarked. “It’s the land time forgot. Hard to believe.”

“What is?” Ambler asked while directing traffic ten paces away.

“My grandfather worked here during the war. This place used to go twenty-four/seven. They built the Iowa here. In its day, it was the most powerful warship in the world.”

Ambler turned and squinted over the top of his glasses. “Are you kidding me or what? I’m trying to apprehend Clovin, or haven’t you noticed? So, if you’re finished with the history lesson, why don’t you give your partner a call and see where the hell she is.”

Lido summoned up an insulted look. “Yes, Master. The least you could have done was buy me dinner. I’m starving.” He pulled out his cell phone. “No signal.”

“In the Mobile Command Center.” Ambler pointed in its general direction. “They’ve got some rations in there and you can reach Radio Free Europe on their equipment.”

“Radio Free Europe? Now who’s living in the past?”

“I’m busy here, Lido,” Ambler replied lightheartedly. “Just go call the missus.”

Twain glanced out through the rain-pummeled taxicab window. Night had fallen on the city like a gloomy pall. Storm clouds had made the night even blacker than normal. There were so many thoughts whirling through his mind. He was on his way to meet Chalice. He couldn’t wait to see her and tell her what he had learned, and yet, the knowledge had to be imparted carefully. Twain wondered how she would take such awful news. Chalice was a strong woman, but how strong could anyone be?

He was rather proud of his discovery. It was his insight that had led Chalice to Zachary Clovin. He had wanted to see Chalice earlier in the day, but her schedule was impossible. It was all bottled up inside of him, just waiting to be uncorked.

Worthwhile information often comes from the most unexpected sources. Pruett, the redneck grease monkey, had proven invaluable. Twain glanced at his companion, who was out cold, snoring with his face against the fogged side window. Twain had to smile. Pruett liked to talk. The sad tragedy of the Clovin family was still vivid in his mind. Julia, Zachary Clovin’s pregnant wife, and their son had been trapped in their burning home. Julia and her unborn child were pronounced dead on arrival at the hospital. Zachary Clovin had been away on a construction project and was never questioned in regard to the suspicious fire. And then, there was the bombshell about old Doc Howls — no wonder the town treated his widow as if she had leprosy. Twain checked his watch. They were almost there. He couldn’t wait to see Chalice. He began rehearsing what he was going to say. Chalice had told him that her time was short.

Lido put on his hard hat, ignited his Mag-lite and reentered the structure. Two FBI agents were posted at the door. Both carried assault rifles. Recognizing Lido, they waved him through.

Lido followed the voices until Ambler and his team were in sight. “Nothing?”

“Nothing,” Ambler confirmed.

Lido stopped in his tracks and began sniffing. He had picked up a distinct odor. Looking around, he spotted an observation room one flight up. “Hey, you check up there?”

Ambler came running back. Both men aimed their beacons at the shadowy doorway. “That’s next,” Ambler reported. He turned his beam on the wrought-iron stairwell. “Let’s make sure it’s structurally sound before it collapses with us on it.” He turned away. “Hey, get one of the structural guys to… Hey, Lido. Don’t be a—” Lido tugged on the railing, testing it as only a foolhardy New York City detective would. “That’ll come down on top of you. Watch it!”

Lido shook his head, dismissing Ambler and began taking the stairs two at a time.

“Shit!” Ambler swore and reluctantly chased after him. Ambler scurried up the staircase and stopped short right behind Lido. “You’re an asshole!”

“Shush. What’s that?” Lido strained to listen. Seconds passed as he tried to recognize the sound.

Ambler aimed the beacon at the floor. “Here’s a clue, Sherlock.” The floor was an inch thick with bird guano. “You’ve got a keen nose for bird shit.” The ceiling was twenty feet high. He cast his beam at it, illuminating part of the otherwise pitch-black room. Thirty pigeons were perched on a rafter above them.

“No, that’s not it. Smells like a body shop in here.” Before they could look around, lightning flashed outside. Silhouetted by God’s frenetic strobe was the dangling figure of a woman. “Goddamn it,” Lido yelled. The room went black.

Ambler hollered down the stairs, “Lights! I need ‘em and I need ‘em now!”

Lido and Ambler approached the figure slowly. As they did, the odor of petrochemical grew stronger and stronger. They both covered their noses as the fumes grew overwhelming. Ambler’s eyes began to water. A second lightning bolt flashed, illuminating the room as if it were daylight. “What the—” Ambler strained to keep his eyes open, fighting the intense fumes to take advantage of the split second’s light.

“Where the hell are those beacons?” Lido screamed. “Merciful God.”

Lido studied the figure with his searchlight as lithium lamps were set up around him. “Hit it,” one of the techs yelled. A generator rumbled to life. The lights faltered and then grew brilliant.

“Cut her down,” Lido cried. “Cut her down right now!” It took a moment until they could get a ladder into position. “What’s on her? What the hell is that?”

“Break some windows!” Ambler screamed. “Get some fresh air in here.” Two agents picked up old chairs and shattered the windows in the room. Wind gusted in, eradicating some of the odor. Intense rain entered the room at an angle. Thunder boomed as the agents cut the rope that bound the corpse by her wrists. They began lowering her carefully to the floor.

“Is that her?” Lido asked, shaking his head sadly. “Jesus!”

Ambler moaned. “Yes.” Hilary Glenn’s body settled on the floor.

“Ambler, over here,” one of the agents called out. Ambler and Lido hustled over. “It’s a power sprayer.” A fifty-five gallon drum labeled GE-40 lay empty at its side.

“Son of a bitch,” Ambler swore. “The bastard. He used it on her.” Paint had dried thick around her mouth. Even after curing, it was apparent that the paint had been sprayed into her mouth, pooled there and then poured out. “He suffocated her, just like the rest.” Lido leaned over, examining the sarcophagus. “Oh shit!” He turned white.

“What now?” Ambler barked as he scrambled to Lido’s side.

“It’s not… Oh shit, it is.”

“What?”

“Around her neck.”

“Oh no!”

Chapter Forty-two

A quick shower was just what I needed. I was in and out in ten minutes, hair dripping-wet. It was a jeans and T-shirt kind of night, wet and dreary. Besides which, I wasn’t going to go rolling around the old Brooklyn Navy Yard in a Chanel suit. Oh, for the record, I trashed the polyester dress the minute I got home.

Lido and Ambler had come up big. They had tied Clovin to United Encasement Systems and then to their project at the Brooklyn Navy Yard. My boys were there, on the scene and ready to rock and roll. I’d be with them in thirty minutes if I only knew where Saint Christopher was hiding. I couldn’t remember where I had mislaid it. It had been missing for a couple of days. I wondered if Lido had noticed. You’d think things like this wouldn’t happen to a detective, but as you can see for yourself, they do. I’m sure it will turn up in the most unlikely place.

I eased into western boots, reached for my sidearm and came up empty. “What the hell?” I was really getting upset with myself. Something about the day must have put me on the fritz. I had gotten close to Clovin, but not close enough. The scumbag was still walking the streets, still a free man, stalking women who had had the backbone to do something meaningful with their lives. It felt as if I was still in his apartment visiting the shrine of psychopathic lunacy. To be so close to him, to feel his evil around me, must have set my mind off balance. I walked back into the bathroom. Nothing. Damn! An uncomfortable feeling crept over me. I felt as if someone was messing with my head.

Lido and Ambler ran out into the pouring rain. “Get a chopper,” Lido ordered. “It’s the fastest ticket.”

“Choppers are down for the storm. We’ll have to four-wheel it,” Ambler shouted.

“Shit! It’s twenty minutes with no traffic.” Lido was talking to the wind. Ambler had already grabbed a car and fired it up. He pushed the door open as he screeched to a stop alongside Lido. Lido jumped in and they were off before he could pull the door shut. Lido righted himself as Ambler turned off Cumberland Street. He pulled out his cell phone and hit the send key. Chalice’s number was still on the phone’s display.

I heard my cell phone ringing in the bedroom. “Christ! Now what?” I raced out of the bathroom. I was reaching for the phone when…

“Shit! No answer!” Lido howled.

“Try it again, maybe she’s in the can,” Ambler grumbled.

Lido hit the send key again — four rings and the switchover to voice mail. “Come on, Stephanie. Pick up the damn phone.” Lido turned to Ambler. His forehead was creased with worry. “I don’t like it. I spoke to her fifteen minutes ago. She said she was going to change and come right down.”

“I don’t like it either. Better call—” Lido already had 911 on the line. He had identified himself as an officer, given his badge number, and called in the signal thirty, which meant officer in need of assistance.

“They said you were smart, but I’m not impressed.”

The object of all my intense loathing manifested itself in front of me. Zachary Clovin was in my apartment, in my bedroom, confronting me.

“In fact, I think you’re a fucking ignoramus,” he ranted as he paced in front of the window, glaring at me.

My first thought was to tell him that I didn’t give a rat’s ass what he thought, but that wasn’t prudent, not right now. “It would be wise for you to surrender. Let me take you into custody and the sentencing will go better for you.”

“Ha!” he roared. “Sentencing? There’ll be no sentencing. Not by you. Not by judge and jury. I will proclaim sentencing on you, you stupid, stupid child. You don’t even know who I am.”

I was glad the bed was between us. I was unarmed and certain that he was responsible for me being so. He was manic. I could see it in his eyes, his twisted features and his cold detached stare. Zachary Clovin looked to be around sixty. He appeared trim, fierce, and powerful. I assessed by his jerky, abrupt movements that he had a hair trigger. I was trained in hand-to-hand combat, but knew that it would be smarter to talk him down if I could. “You’re Zachary Clovin. We’ve been looking for you, Mr. Clovin. You’ve been a naughty boy.”

“Boy?” he raged.

Oops!

“I’m not the child here,” he swore. “You’re the child.”

Yeah, right, whatever, and my father can beat up your father. “I suggest you surrender now and avoid additional problems. I’ll make a phone call and have a unit down here in three minutes.”

Clovin grinned at me, a creepy chilling grin. He put his hands together for me. Son of a bitch.

“Take me in, Detective.”

My handcuffs were looped over the back of my jeans. I had them out at once. Clovin looked straight on as I circled around the bed toward him. I could see his eyes register my position peripherally, like a crocodile ready to snap. “Put your hands behind you, Mr. Clovin,” I instructed. I just couldn’t get his expression out of my head. It tore at me. He’s insane, I told myself. Stay sharp.

I was behind him now, constantly assessing my surroundings in the event he decided to make a move. The first cuff ratcheted like a vault around his wrist. The second one was coming down when he began to pull away. I put my knee in his back which forced him facedown on the bed, but his strength was unreal. He sprang backward and smashed my head into the bedroom wall.

I could hear my cell phone ringing as I slipped in and out of consciousness. Clovin was fast, catlike. He was behind me in a second. I could feel his arms, like a boa constrictor’s, encircling my waist, welding me to his rigid body. His arms continued to tighten, squeezing the air from my lungs. “I smothered you before, Sheryl, but you refused to die. How many times do I have to take your life, sweetheart? Just one last time, baby. Just one last time.”

I felt myself slipping away. My head was swimming and my extremities felt like lead. I drove the heel of my boot into his instep with every ounce of force I could muster. He yelped painfully. I put my feet against the bed’s frame and slammed Clovin back into the wall. His grip weakened. I drove my elbow into his ribs and broke free, tearing myself from his grip. His nails dug into my arm as I broke away, tearing the flesh. A stream of blood ran down my arm and into my hands. “Fuck you, freak,” I screamed at the top of my lungs. “You want to kill me? I’ll see you in hell.”

Clovin recovered quickly. He shook his head and whipped it back in my direction. “I’ve suffered since you were born. You’ve taunted me since you were an infant, always laughing at me, manipulating me, and stealing your mother’s love from me. I won’t suffer anymore. I destroyed my home because of you, everything I had. I burned my wife and son. Dear merciful Jesus,” he screamed, “show me salvation.” His eyes searched for heaven. His hands were clenched. “I’m sorry, baby. I’ve got to end this. This time I’m going to finish it; I’ve got to stop your evil. Only the devil could raise a pregnant mother from the ashes. Only the devil could compel her to walk miles to deliver. Only the devil could reincarnate itself in such an exotic guise. You’re the devil, Sheryl, evil and corrupt.”

What the hell was he talking about? He started to advance toward me. There was no time to ruminate now. I grabbed an empty vase and hurled it toward his head. He ducked and the vase crashed through the window. The hysterical cry of an RMP’s electronic wail breached the apartment. “You’re finished, Clovin. Hear that? You’ll be in a padded cell before midnight.”

“Nooooo,” he cried as he sprang toward me. He came down on top of me which knocked me off my feet. I threw punches at his head, good solid blows, but he was completely unaware of them. He forced his hand over my mouth. I tried to pry it free, but he was too strong.

“The old bastard, Howls, tried to carry your secret to the grave, but I forced it from him.” Clovin pushed down harder on my mouth. He was ready for the kill. “Stephanie Chalice, Sheryl Clovin, lives I created, lives I can take. With your death, I’ll silence Sheryl forever.”

“What?” Suddenly a face appeared before me, the face of the young girl I had seen in his apartment. Oh shit, the asshole thinks I’m his daughter. Go for the groin, I thought. Nerve impulses raced to my knee. Clovin cringed as I made contact. He released involuntarily and rocked painfully onto his knees. Sorry, Dad. Just then, the door splintered behind us.

Clovin looked up. He seemed confused, dismayed, and frightened. “Richard?” he bellowed.

Who the hell is Richard?

A shadow of horror covered his face as the second wild beast entered. Richard or whoever the man was, stormed into the room. He began to stalk Clovin, moving purposefully in his direction, and then suddenly stopped. He must have felt my eyes on him as I pulled myself off the floor because he turned to face me. He froze momentarily. His mouth gaped. His eyes softened as he stared at me in disbelief. Tears streamed down his face. In the next second he was back on course. “No, Father, not again!” Richard screamed.

They locked in a death grip, each bent on the other’s destruction. They were like crazed titans, smashing wildly around the room. Richard slammed Clovin into the wall, putting him through the Sheetrock. I heard bones crack as Clovin’s arm bent back behind his head. He looked at Richard and began to tremble violently. In the next instant, Clovin’s leg went up behind him and smashed Richard in the groin, breaking his grip. Richard clutched himself as he staggered backward.

Clovin pursued his wounded opponent and backed him toward the shattered window. “You were in cahoots,” he swore, as if he had been blessed with a revelation. “The two of you were always together, two demon seeds vowed to their father’s destruction.” He scalded me with his eyes.

So now what? I’ve got a brother too?

“The devil and her apprentice,” Clovin accused. He seized Richard by the shoulders, forcing him toward the window. “Don’t you see, Richard? Sheryl is the devil.”

I saw my automatic on the floor by the bedpost. I retrieved it and fired a round into the wall above the window. Clovin spun at the sound of the blast. “Sorry to break up your little reunion. Back away from the window, you two clowns. I’ve had enough of your shit!”

Clovin turned toward me, but suddenly Richard’s hands were around his throat. Clovin began to gasp as Richard choked the life from his father’s body. Clovin’s eyes bulged. His mouth opened in search of air, but found none. I wanted to appreciate this bitter irony. I wanted this thing named Zachary Clovin to be extinguished by someone’s hands, suffocated in the same way he had killed five innocent women, but I knew I couldn’t allow it. “Let him go, Richard.” I leveled my automatic at him. “Let him go. Now!”

It was the elbow in his gut and not my command that broke Richard’s deathlike grip. Richard wheezed as the air was driven from him. Clovin was at his throat, driving him out the window. I fired another round into the wall, but this time it had no effect.

I wanted to fire at Clovin, but didn’t want to hit Richard. “Shit!” I stuffed the .45 into my jeans, rushed up to Clovin and rabbit-punched him in the kidney. I saw the spasm rack his body, but he never broke his grip on Richard’s throat.

They were halfway out the window. In a moment, the law of gravity would step in and supersede those of the state of New York. I grabbed Clovin by the throat and tried to pull him off, but he was intent — possessed with a madman’s strength. I saw the panicked look on Richard’s face as he began to topple out, eight stories from oblivion and going fast.

My eyes dilated with astonishment. Twain was at my side. “Grab Richard,” I screamed. Twain’s gloved hand shot out like a harpoon, grabbing Richard by the wrist. I snatched my automatic and shot Clovin in the leg.

Clovin’s head rotated back in my direction, but he held fast. He was intent on sending his adversary to his death. I put a second bullet in his other leg, and he went down.

Clovin turned to me. “Moloch,” he screamed. I was familiar with that word. He was calling me the devil. The wild-eyed monster shuddered, winced and stumbled, but somehow got back up on his feet.

He put one lifeless leg in front of the other. “Jesus Christ!” I bellowed. Someone needed to tell this asshole it was time to lie down. I had him framed in my sights, squeezing down on the trigger.

“Stephanie, don’t!” Twain screamed.

My head spun in Twain’s direction for a split second. In an instant, Clovin was back in my sights. “What?” Twain was losing the battle with gravity.

“He’s your father!” Twain screamed. His head and torso were almost out the window.

“My what? No he’s not!” I snapped. I began to tremble. My father? I turned just as Clovin sprang toward me. I stepped aside. Resentment fired the first round. Hatred squeezed off the next three, a perfect grouping that pierced each compartment of his frozen, psychopathic heart. How could this thing have been my father? Never!

Clovin’s eyes rolled upward as the bullets punched him into the wall. He collapsed face first on the floor in front of me. I was tempted to spit on him, but the sight of Twain and Richard going out the window preempted any further display of contempt.

Twain was fighting to keep Richard from going over, but Richard was Twain’s match in size and weight, and the pendulum, it seemed, had tipped in their disfavor.

I sprang forward a second too late. Richard’s scream filled the air and then trailed off into the night. I trained my ears, but never heard the thud. Twain was out the window, hanging onto the sill with one hand. I knew I wasn’t strong enough to pull him back in, but I hoped I could help him enough so that he could shift his weight and do the job himself. “Give me your hand,” I yelled.

I leaned out and saw Twain’s panicked eyes searching for mine. He was so large and powerful, but he was paralyzed by the situation. “You can do it, Nigel. Just give me your other hand.” He reached for me. I saw his eyes follow until his hand was just an inch from mine. His glove had come off while trying to save Richard. His eyes jumped to my hand and then he froze. “What the—” Why’d he stop? And then I understood. The fear in his eyes had grown a hundredfold. My hand was covered with blood. “Come on, Nigel. Take my goddamn hand.”

In his phobic mind, it was as if he were reaching for the head of a venomous snake. I counted to three and then made the decision for him. I lurched out the window and seized his free hand. I grunted as his weight registered with me. He was hanging like meat on a slaughterhouse hook, a look of abject hopelessness on his face. “Come on, Nigel. Come on, Nigel… I can’t hold you forever.”

And then he came to life. His arm tensed as if a pneumatic winch had kicked in. In a second, both of his hands were on the window ledge and he was pulling himself up.

I scanned the pavement for Richard’s lifeless body, but couldn’t find it. I had my bloody hands on Twain’s coat as I yanked him back into my apartment.

Chapter Forty-three

I needed a vacation after that night. I’m not talking a weekend in Atlantic City; I’m talking the whole damn summer, so that I could chill, decompress, veg out, and what have you.

Chief of Detectives, Sonellio, good as gold, granted my request for a two-month leave of absence. The summer was mine, to put my life back into order. God only knew, I needed it. Twain’s story had come as a terrible blow and it was a long time before I was able to accept it. He had provided all the paperwork necessary to support his claim. I pored through it over and over again. In the end, I was unable to refute his findings.

In exchange for the father he had taken from me, God had given me a brother. Richard survived. A tree limb had broken his fall. He was still hobbling around and his arm was in a sling throughout the summer. Lord knew he’d never regain that which had been taken from him: a legitimate life, his mother, and kid sister, Sheryl. He was an interesting man, forty-five years old, an oxygen-starved ember striving to become a brilliant flame. I didn’t know if he’d ever be able to overcome all that he had been through, but with God’s help and my own, we’d give it a hell of a try. He’s a sweet and loving man. He calls me the replacement baby, for I had been brought into the world to replace his dearly loved sister, that poor unfortunate girl. I accepted her legacy with pride.

Zachary Clovin, whatever he had been, was no more. And the few of us who knew who he really was would take that terrifying truth to our graves. I’m no longer worried about my genetics, the threat of diabetes, or anything that had carried across to me from Zachary Clovin. I’m a product of my environment. Looking back, my environment had been pretty damn good.

I thought that attending his funeral would kill me, but it didn’t. As strong as I was before this all happened, I was stronger now and thoroughly convinced to continue my career in law enforcement. I now had a new reason for being a cop. I wanted to make up for the horrible acts Zachary Clovin had committed. Justice had become my mission.

The nightmares have finally stopped. Modern psychiatry will tell you that it’s just not possible, but somehow, I had seen what my biological mother, burnt, bloody, and pregnant, had seen almost thirty years ago as she was being rushed into the emergency room. Doc Howls had falsified a slew of documents. He had pronounced mother and unborn child dead on arrival. I now know that my biological mother had survived long enough to see me born.

I guess what they say is true: God works in mysterious ways. Doc Howls must have collected a bundle for illegally orchestrating my adoption, as I’m sure he did with all the other babies he had sold. I was brought up by fine people who taught me the value of freedom. Howls ended up losing his own.

My relationship with Ma would remain unchanged and cherished for the rest of our lives. My parents had no knowledge of Howls’ illegal activities. As far as they and the state of New York were concerned, everything was completely legitimate. I would have liked to know my biological mother. I would have liked to have found out the truth much sooner, but I have no complaints about who I am or how I got here. I was loved and nurtured by two of the finest people who ever walked the Earth. As an added benefit, I can now eat Ben & Jerry’s Phish Food with reckless abandon. Case closed.

Dr. Nigel Twain had performed an amazing piece of detective work, piecing together Pruett’s story: Doc Howls’ foul crimes and the secret of my adoption.

Perhaps the years of LSD-expanded consciousness had helped him. If you believe as he does that life is preordained, then perhaps he was born specifically for this reason, to reunite me with my brother and bring an end to the misery and madness of Zachary Clovin. Of course, he should have told me that Ma couldn’t be my biological mother because of our different blood types. Oh, and sharing his other discovery with me would have been nice too. You know which one, the picture of my parents taken shortly before my birth, the one in which Ma wasn’t pregnant.

Twain took a real chance playing detective on his own. He could have gotten himself killed and jeopardized the case. God knows I’ll never forgive him for breaking into my apartment. But Twain had acted out of love and his devotion to healing and righteousness. He proved to be a true friend, one I was counting on to help me overcome the enormous emotional burden, newly weighted upon my shoulders. His odd brand of medicine had proven most effective.

I lifted my head off the towel. The sun was baking me like a clam as I rested on the deck of my new boat, Ma’s fifty-thousand-dollar contribution toward my emotional health and well being. I peered over the railing at Richard and Twain from where we were anchored, just a few hundred feet from the jetty. Twain had promised Pruett that Richard would be in good hands. After all, Pruett had raised Richard as if he were his own and spared him the pain of growing up as a murderer’s son. Although Zachary Clovin did not stand trial thirty years ago, the people of Quarrier knew the truth. Pruett had promised to visit, but had yet to specify a date. I didn’t know if we’d ever see that country boy in the big city, but if he wasn’t coming, I’d go to him. I owed that man a righteous hug and then some.

The boys were fishing off the pier. Richard was showing Twain how to bait a hook. Yes, Twain had been rewarded for his efforts. His life or death decision not only saved Richard’s life, it ended Twain’s years of seclusion and phobia. For years, men have been telling me that I have a magical touch. Perhaps there’s some truth to it, one touch and Nigel Twain was cured forever. Yes, of course, I saved his life, but you know that already.

I waved to them and they both waved back. Twain was grinning happily and fitting an earthworm over the end of his fishing hook.

My Saint Christopher medal was hot as a stone, but now that I had it back, I would never take it off again. I slid it along its chain until it rested alongside me on the deck. It meant more to me than ever, for it had been given to me by a very special friend.

Gus was lying facedown on a towel just a foot or so away. “You’d better turn over,” I instructed. “I’m going to need that body tonight and I don’t want to hear about your terrible sunburn.” Gus winked at me, then closed his eyes. He was proving to be the man I knew he could be. His hair was mussed from swimming. It was the little-boy look on the body of a real man, a man with a heart and soul. It didn’t take much getting used to.

A stiff breeze whipped by, cooling the moisture on my skin. I felt so good, I almost wanted to cry, but I didn’t. I don’t believe in sappy endings. Life is to be enjoyed unconditionally. Remember that and have a great life.