Whiskey Sour

"Pleased to meet you."

"I love that sweater. It brings out your eyes."

"A recent purchase. The sweater, not the eyes."

Chuckles on both our parts. He led me through the carpeted hallways of Lunch Mates. It resembled any other office, with generic artwork on the walls and the obligatory Habitrail of cubicles where employees pecked away on computers between coffee breaks. It could have even been my workplace, except it was brighter and everyone looked happy.

We made small talk about the weather and current news events, and then I was led into a corner office complete with view, fireplace, and a decor that made it look like a cozy den. We sat across from each other in two deep suede chairs, our knees almost touching. He reached over on the table next to us and picked up a leather binder.

"What we're going to do, Jack, is have you answer a few questions about yourself and make a data sheet like this one."

Matthew held up a glossy piece of paper with a picture of a woman in the upper right-hand corner. It almost looked like a resume.

"This data sheet will be given to men who would be a likely match for you. I'll also give you data sheets of men...it is a man you'd like to meet, correct?"

"Yes. I've decided to give heterosexuality one more shot."

He gave me a million-dollar smile, and I flashed my five-buck grin right back. The Vicodin guide to better living through chemistry.

"So...if you and a man choose each other, we pick a place and set the date. If you'd prefer, you can fill out the data sheet yourself, but I like asking the questions because then I have a better idea of personality and compatibility."

"Ask away."

I leaned back and crossed my arms, held the pose until I realized I looked too defensive, then set my hands in my lap and crossed my legs. That was awkward as well, but I stayed that way rather than shift again so soon.

"You mentioned you were a police officer. For how long?"

"Twenty-three years. I'm a lieutenant. Violent Crimes."

"Tell me about your job. Do you enjoy it?"

I took a moment too long to answer. Did I enjoy it? How could I enjoy Violent Crimes? I dealt with the worst element of society, I witnessed atrocities that regular people couldn't even comprehend, I was overworked, under-paid, and socially retarded. But I still kept plugging away. Did I actually enjoy it?

"I like getting the job done." I crossed my arms in the defensive position again.

"Have you ever been married?"

"Yes. I was divorced fifteen years ago."

"Children?"

"Not that I know of."

Pleasant laugh. "Education?"

"Northwestern. Bachelor of Arts."

"What was your major?"

What the hell was my major? "Political science."

"Do you have any hobbies?"

Was insomnia a hobby? "I play pool. I like to read, when I have the time."

He paused frequently to write things down. I reviewed in my mind what I'd said so far and was less than impressed. I was coming off like the most boring person to ever walk the earth. Unless I wanted to get hooked up with someone who was comatose, I needed to spice up my answers.

"I got into a fight the other day. Bar fight. See the bruises?"

I pointed to my face and grinned. My painkiller high had overtaken my better judgment.

"And the other day I got shot. A maniac broke into my apartment."

"My goodness. Where were you shot?"

"My leg. It goes with the job. Maybe you saw me on the news yesterday."

And from there it went downhill. I talked about my acts of heroism. I talked about being a great kisser. The interview ended after I let him feel my muscle.

Then he led me to another room where he took my picture and my money; a chunk large enough to knock me out of my good mood. Before I had a chance to reconsider, I was handed a sheaf of men's data sheets, patted on the shoulder, and walked to the door.

I was silent during the cab ride home. Gradually the painkiller wore off and my leg began to throb again. Even worse than the pain was the growing sense of humiliation. I felt like I'd won the Kentucky Derby for horses' asses. I'm sure that when I left, Matthew had a firm opinion on why I needed a dating service in the first place. To add injury to insult, I was out almost eight hundred bucks, and all I had to show for it was a list of men who Matthew thought would be compatible with the idiot I'd become.

I put the Vicodin in the medicine cabinet and took four aspirin. My cell phone rang, and I flipped it to my face, half hoping it was my surveillance team calling to say the Gingerbread Man was standing behind me with a gun. I would have let him shoot me.

"Jack? Herb. I know you're resting, but you'll want to hear this. We've got a positive ID on the second girl. Her roommate called in. Are you up to move on it?"

"I'm up. I'll see you in ten."

I called my team and told them the news. Much as the job was wearing me down, it did help me to forget my life, which was what I needed at that moment.

Clearheaded, I managed to start my car on the third try. During the drive I tried to shake the image of being the last kid picked for a backyard football game.

I couldn't.

Chapter 23

HE KNOWS WHAT JACK IS DOING. All those lies. All those insults. She's trying to flush him out. Force him to make a mistake. It's a clever move on Jack's part, and even helps her save face after the pain she suffered the other night.

But it still burns. The city isn't likely to tremble in fear if they have an image of the Gingerbread Man being cowardly. He has to correct that image, and make Jack pay for the lies. It's all about power. That's all it has always been about.

He knew he was different at a very young age, after he tied up the family cat with yarn and poked at it with a stick until its insides oozed out. Father beat him with a studded belt when he found out, demanding to know how he could do such a horrible thing.

But it isn't horrible to him. It's exciting. Thrilling. The fact that he knows it's wrong makes it even more so.

Throughout adolescence he continues to pull the legs off frogs, and throw lit matches at his sister, and call people up and say he's going to kill them. Because it's fun.

Sometimes he tries to determine why he is the way he is. Throughout his life he's never felt anything. Certainly no love for anyone other than himself. No guilt, no empathy, no passion, no pity, no happiness. It's a sad thing not to know how to laugh, when everyone around you is laughing. Humans could have been a completely different species, for all that he understands their interactions, their society, their culture.

As he grows, he learns how to fake emotions so he doesn't stand out. He's a spectator in a strange world, a chameleon that can blend into the scenery but is never truly part of it.

Until he learns to feel something, by killing the cat.

It's enthralling to kill the cat. It makes his heart pound and his palms sweat. The feeble escape attempts of the cat are genuinely amusing, and Charles laughs for the very first time. And when the cat finally dies, when it's lying there inside out with its blood turning the ground to mud, he feels something more than amusement. He feels sexual arousal.

Why does the death of a simple kitty cat bring out all of this in him? Charles has only one answer -- power. Power over life and death. Power over suffering. Suddenly, he can feel. The blind can see and the deaf can hear and he knows what his purpose is.

All of these people, with their silly relationships and their bullshit lives, are only here for his amusement. He isn't less than they are. He is more. More intelligent. More evolved. More powerful. He embraces the feeling like a miracle drug.

As he gets older, he learns to hide his obsession from others. Neighborhood pets disappear, but it rarely leads back to him. He has a little place, out in the woods, where he takes the animals. Where no one will hear the screeching. Where he can bury them when he's finished.

Fantasy often accompanies his mutilations. He imagines himself the ruler of the world, with all creatures trembling before his might. Like Satan on a throne of bones, torturing the meek, laughing at their pain. Dragging it on, sometimes for days, keeping the animal alive.

Or sometimes the animals represent people. His classmates. His teachers.

Father.

It's invigorating to pretend that the dog he's tied up and castrating is his father.

From what he's read about serial killers like himself, there are several features they all share. Kind of like a big fraternity, everyone conforming to a basic set of rules.

Most apply to him as well.

Fantasy plays a big part in recreational murder; in fact the stalking and the planning and the dwelling on it are almost as much fun as actually ending someone's life.

Most budding serial murderers show evidence of the triad when they're children; bed-wetting, starting fires, and hurting animals. He lays claim to all three, wetting the bed until his late teens.

There are also stressors and escalation.

A stressor is an event that unleashes or sets off a murder spree. This particular spree in the Gingerbread Man's career of slaughter can be linked to a very specific occurrence. And as for escalation...like any drug, the more you get, the more you need later to feel the same high.

The majority of serial killers were also abused as children, physically or sexually...

He didn't like to think about that.

At age fifteen he gets a job at an animal shelter.

His fantasy world quadruples overnight.

There are plenty of things to do at the shelter to amuse himself. This is where he learns to give injections -- too many injections, poisonous injections, eyeball injections; at one point he keeps a log of different things he injects into animals, with descriptions of what happens.

The stressor comes when he gets caught mistreating one of the animals and is immediately fired. His rage is all-encompassing. He continues to visit at night, letting himself in with his keys, but it isn't enough. He needs more.

So he decides to kill a human.

He picks a girl at school. A freshman. Fat and pimply. He watches her for a week to make sure she doesn't have any friends.

Then one day at lunch he sits down next to her and asks if she wants to see the puppies where he works.

She does.

Don't tell anyone, he warns her, or he could lose his job. She promises she'll keep it quiet, thrilled that someone is actually paying attention to her.

They walk there after school. He tells her they'll enter the back way, takes her into the alley, and sticks her with an animal sedative.

When the shelter closes for the night, he lets himself in.

After trying unsuccessfully to rouse her, he uses her sexually, and then pulls her into the crematory.

That wakes her up. For a little while, at least.

Three young women disappear from his town that year.

No one ever questions him.

And now, many deaths later, he's ready for the big time. Headline news. National attention. All the murders that came before were practice, a warm-up for the main event.

After he kills the last whore, the one who started it all, he'll write a long letter to the media. Explaining what they all had in common. Explaining the reason he leaves the cookies. Making a mockery out of Jack and the CPD.

Promising more deaths someday soon.

It will go down in history as the greatest unsolved case of all time. And with good cause. All of the planning and preparation, the stalking, the plotting, the violence, and the surprise ending will make this the crime of the century. Worth all the time he's spent hunched down in his truck, following these whores around. Worth all the pain that lousy bitch has caused him, her and all the others like her.

When he was a child, nothing ever made him cry. Not even the time Father made him kneel on tacks and beg for penance.

"You have the devil in you, boy," Father would say.

Father was right.

Chapter 24

NOW THAT I WAS VICODIN-FREE, stairs posed a real problem. The pain was bearable, but the muscle I'd injured was apparently essential for climbing, and it wouldn't do what I commanded. To get to my office I had to ascend them sideways, like a crab, using both my cane and the handrail.

"We do have an elevator, Lieut," mentioned more than one of the uniforms who passed me going up or down.

"It's not the destination so much as how you get there." I'd grin through my sweat, but after the twentieth stair I began to doubt my own wisdom.

Benedict was waiting for me when I reached my office. "I see you took the stairs. Or are you fresh from the sauna?"

"The leg keeps stiffening up. I need to stretch it."

"That's a nice sweater."

"Just got it. Thanks."

"Are you wearing perfume?"

"Maybe a touch. Why?"

"No reason. So how'd that lead pan out at Lunch Mates?"

Smart-ass. "Shouldn't you be eating something about this time of day?"

"That does sound tempting. We'll stop on the way. I'll drive, if you don't mind. And unless you'd like me to carry you on my shoulders, I think we should take advantage of modern technology and use the elevator."

"If it's convenient for you, who am I to argue?"

We took the elevator, and Herb's car, and after a quick stop at the local Burger King drive-thru we headed for Theresa Metcalf's apartment.

"So, did you join up or not?" Herb asked, finishing off his last bite of burger.

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Must have been expensive."

"It was. Now let's pretend for a moment that we're both cops and we have other things to discuss."

"Sure. You gonna eat those fries?"

I gave Herb my fries.

Benedict turned off Addison and on to Christiana. The houses here were city houses; two-story, built in the late forties, with concrete porch steps and just enough front lawn to be able to mow with scissors. Unlike the suburbs, where every fourth house was the same model, these were each unique in their design, brickwork, and layout. Herb had a house like one of these. I might have had one, had I made some better decisions in my past.

Herb found the address and parked by the nearest fireplug. Theresa's roommate, Elisa Saroto, answered the door after the fourth knock. She was in her mid-twenties, thin, wearing jeans and a white blouse. Her dark brown hair hung down to her shoulders, framing a face that would have been pretty if not for the expression of grief.

After introductions she led us into the kitchen, where she sat down in front of a cup of coffee. Next to the mug was a photo album. She'd been reliving memories.

"We went to Fort Lauderdale last year." She opened the album and began to flip through it. After finding the right photo she pulled it from its slot and handed it to Herb. A close-up of two women, obviously Theresa and Elisa, both smiling and sporting deep tans. I thought of the picture in my pocket that we'd taken of Theresa at the morgue. We'd found our second Jane Doe.

"These two surfer guys tried to pick us up," she continued. "Bob and Rob. It was so funny, Theresa and Elisa and Bob and Rob."

We lost her to sobbing. Herb located a box of tissue on the counter and offered her one.

"Ms. Saroto." I eased it in while she was catching her breath. "What kind of person was Theresa?"

Elisa wiped her nose and snuffled.

"She...she was my best friend. We met in college. We've been roommates for five years."

"Did she have enemies?" Benedict asked. "Ex-boyfriends who couldn't let go, problems at work, with the family..."

"Everyone loved her. I know that sounds stupid, but it's true. She was a great person."

"Did anyone ever call and make threats? Obscene phone calls?"

She shook her head.

"Had she been acting strange lately? Afraid?"

"She's been fine...Shit. Why did someone do this?"

A new round of sobs. Benedict and I stood there, uncomfortable with her show of grief, wishing we could take it away. You never get used to people's suffering. If you do, it's time to get out of the job.

"How about boyfriends?" I broke in. "Was she dating anyone?"

"No one steady since Johnny. He's her ex-boyfriend...fiance. They were going to get married. I was her maid of honor. She pulled out a month before the wedding."

"Why was that?"

"He was cheating on her. When she found out, she dropped him cold. He kept calling, begging her to reconsider. Jerk."

"And when was this?"

"Six, eight months ago? Her wedding was set for May, so a month before that."

Herb asked, "What was the boyfriend's name?"

"Tashing. Johnny Tashing. But he didn't kill her. He's a loser, but he still loves her. There's no way he could kill her. Not like that. Not horrible like that."

We went on for twenty more minutes, asking more questions, handing her more tissues. Theresa Metcalf had been a waitress at a club named Montezuma's. The last time Elisa had seen her was three days ago, when Theresa was leaving for work. Elisa had spent the last few days at her boyfriend's apartment, and hadn't known Theresa was missing until seeing her photo on television. She didn't recognize the picture of the first Jane Doe. She didn't know who killed her friend. She didn't know why anyone would.

After the inquisition, we walked down the hall to Theresa's room. It was neat. The bed was made. The closets were organized. Nothing appeared out of place or unusual.

Benedict and I busied ourselves looking through drawers and shelves for anything that could give us a clue as to Theresa's life and schedule. We found a box of letters, an appointment calendar, and some canceled checks. Nothing else warranted further attention.

Then we checked all the doors and windows, looking for signs of forced entry. We found nothing.

"Did Theresa have a purse?" I asked Elisa.

"Sure."

We searched the bathroom and the rest of the house and came up empty-handed. Theresa must have taken her purse with her. That meant she probably wasn't dragged forcibly from her house. So our working assumption was she'd either been grabbed by surprise somewhere else, or she went willingly with someone she knew.

Benedict gave Elisa a receipt for the items we took, and we asked her if she would stop by the morgue sometime tomorrow to identify the body. Normally we'd ask next of kin, but according to her roommate, Theresa was an only child and her parents were dead. Elisa agreed to come in around ten.

"So where to?" Benedict queried as we climbed back into the car.

"Two choices." I grimaced, trying to get my leg into a position that didn't hurt so much. "Work or the ex-boyfriend."

"I'd like to read through the letters we took before we tackle the ex. I saw his name on a few of them."

"Then it's off to work we go."

"You can adjust the seat, Jack. It's all electric."

Comfort won out over ego and I began pressing buttons. By the time I'd found the perfect combination of tilt and lift, we'd reached Theresa's place of employment a few blocks away.

"They don't look open." Herb pulled in front of the club. We couldn't see any lights on through the tinted windows.

"Alley entrance. I'm sure someone's inside, setting up for the day."

Herb parked on the street, refusing to leave his nice car with electric seats in the alley. We walked around and banged on the back door until one of the kitchen workers answered. Our badges got us inside, and after an intense session of question and answer with the manager of the club, we learned that Theresa did indeed work there, but she hadn't shown up for her last four shifts.

We got an employee list, along with the current work schedule, and asked if any other employee had been missing shifts lately. None had. Neither had any employee been dating or harassing Theresa. Had any customers? Well, the wait staff got hit on all of the time, but none fit the stalker category. We'd have to talk with the other servers to be sure. No reaction to the picture of the first victim.

Benedict and I walked back to the car. Routine dictated that every employee had to be questioned and checked out. We'd run them all through the computer for priors, and then we'd begin the lengthy and time-consuming process of interrogation, checking alibis, running down new leads. Hopefully something would break loose, but I wasn't crossing my fingers. The more we turned up, the more it seemed that Charles picked women at random. Maybe all a girl had to do to get on his list was be young and cute.

We (Herb) stopped for doughnuts on the way back to the station, picking up a dozen and the obligatory coffee. Since Herb's tongue had been mangled, he'd actually been eating more than usual.

"I once knew an overweight woman who was anorexic," he told me. "She refused to give in to her disease, so she ate nonstop. I refuse to let a little mouth pain deter my eating habits."

"Who said overcompensation isn't healthy."

"Pass me another cruller."

I was unable to talk Herb into taking the stairs when we got back to the station, even when using big words like arteriosclerosis and myocardial infarction. It was a good thing I saved my energy, because waiting for me in my office were the men in gray, ready to save the world and document it in triplicate.

"Lieutenant Daniels," Agent Coursey said. Or maybe it was Dailey. "We've got good news."

I hoped it involved them being reassigned.

"Vicky worked up a new profile of the suspect, and we're 77.4 percent sure that he's French Canadian, and most likely owns a horse."

"Our killer is a Mountie." Herb said it deadpan.

"A what? Hmm, that's good. We hadn't thought of that."

They looked at each other, and Benedict and I took the moment to do the same.

"How about the candy," I asked. "Did you get anything?"

"There have been over six hundred recorded cases of food tampering in the last fifteen years. More than two hundred of those were with candy. By limiting the search to individuals who used razor blades, fishhooks, and needles, we narrowed it down to forty-three cases. In only two reported cases had a perp used all three. Both in Lansing, Michigan. On consecutive Halloweens, in 1994 and "95."

I felt, for the first time in this case, the stirrings of excitement. This could be a solid lead.

"Arrests? Suspects?"

"None."

The hope leached away.

"Both times, a bowl of candy had been left at an unoccupied house. No prints, no witnesses, no confessions, just several dozen kids taken to the emergency room, and one terminal occurrence."

"Have you gone through the Lansing files, found anyone arrested there in the past who might be our man?"

"We've cross-referenced arrest records with anyone fitting our profile, but no one came up who was French Canadian. Several suspects owned horses, and we're checking them out."

Patience, Jack.

"How about apart from your profile? Anyone arrested in Lansing for kidnapping women? Raping stab wounds? Leaving notes for the police? Any unsolved murders that involved abduction, torture, and mutilation? This guy has killed before. You've pretty much confirmed he's been in Michigan. Did you follow up on any of this?"

"We're checking," the one on the right said, hooding his eyes in a manner that could only be described as sheepish. "However, if you could spare the manpower, we'd like to check out some local livery stables and investigate this horse angle."

I blinked. Twice. I was a deep breath away from spouting off, when a uniform knocked on my open office door. It was Barry Fuller, a large patrolman who used to be on the Chicago Bears. He was assigned to the Gingerbread Man task force, though in what capacity I'd have to admit ignorance.

"Officer Fuller." I bid him entrance, happy to be interrupted.

Fuller came in, giving the FBI a sideways glance.

"We...I took a call this morning." I now remembered that Fuller had been assigned to work the phones, sorting out fake confessions and tips. "It was Fitzpatrick, the owner of the second 7-Eleven. He wanted to add to his statement."

"Add what?"

"He remembers hearing an ice cream truck before he saw the body."

"Like one of those Good Humor trucks with the music?"

"Yeah. It was playing one of those pipe organ songs, he thinks it was "The Candyman.""

I rolled this around in my head. We knew the perp drove a truck. An ice cream truck would be practically anonymous; there had to be hundreds in Chicago. I turned to Herb.

"We need a list of all ice cream trucks registered in Illinois and Michigan. And we need to find out if any special kind of license or permit is needed, and check that list for priors; stick with assault, rape, burglary...don't bother with traffic violations. Then we need the list cross-referenced with Dr. Booster's patient list. And we need to talk with that kid Donovan, who found the first body."

"I did that," Fuller said. "I called him. He remembers hearing an ice cream truck as well. I've also gotten started on the DMV reports. The problem is, they only register make, model, and year. An ice cream truck is a Jeep, and there are thousands of Jeeps in Illinois. More in Michigan, I can guess. We can't break it down by drivers, because anyone with a standard class D can drive a Jeep. If the guy has a business license, it could be possible to find him through that, but that goes by village, not state. It could take weeks to check every suburb."

"What about companies that sell ice cream that have drivers?" Benedict was thinking out loud.

"There are six in Illinois," Fuller answered, surprising us. "I'm having them all fax employee lists as well as driver routes."

"Nice job, Officer," I told him. "We'll put someone else on phones, and you're in charge of gathering all of this information. I want a progress report every morning, and I'll need Donovan's and Fitzpatrick's depositions ASAP."

Since I liked initiative in my men, I also threw him a bone.

"There's an extra case file on my desk, go through it, see if anything shakes loose."

He grinned, I suppose from the opportunity presented to him, and then left. In two minutes' time, an ex-football player who walked a beat proved to be of more help than two federal agents with years of experience. It didn't surprise me.

"Maybe he's selling ice cream on horseback," Benedict offered to the Feebies.

"Parlez-vous Fudgsicle?" I added.

"His driving an ice cream truck does not preclude ownership of a horse," the one on the left said, "but we'll need time to assimilate this new data and consult with Vicky."

"Maybe you should do that."

"We are well aware of the fact that you don't like us, Lieutenant. But we're all trying to do the same thing here. We're trying to catch a killer. We do it by analyzing data and comparing it to thousands of other documented cases, in order to get a picture of the unsub. You go on the news and talk about bed-wetting and cowardice. To each his method."

Then they turned as one and left.

"Ouch," Herb said, "that was awful close to an actual insult."

"I may need a hug, Herb."

"I'm here for you. At least until Lunch Mates sets you up with someone. Did I mention how darling you looked in that sweater?"

"Aren't there any doughnuts left you should be attending to?"

Benedict's eyes lit up and he attacked the box. I washed down two aspirin with the last of my coffee, and then was forced to refill it with the sludge from the hallway vending machine. When I returned, Herb had valiantly triumphed over an eclair and had begun poring over the letters we'd taken from Theresa Metcalf's room. I sat down, stretched my leg, and attacked the appointment book.

It was a typical Day-Timer, every date in the month with a page of its own. There was an address book at the beginning, which was mostly blank except for a few unlabeled phone numbers that would have to be checked out.

Going page by page, I came across many notes and appointments involving her canceled wedding. She'd met with several caterers, bakeries, florists, photographers, etc. Again, all would need to be interviewed.

Every seven days she wrote down her work schedule, which hardly varied one week to the next. Birthdays for both Elisa and Johnny Tashing, her ex, were labeled in advance. There had been two dentist appointments and a doctor's visit, but it hadn't been to the late Dr. Booster's office. She'd also written in her dates with Johnny, which ended abruptly on April 29, when she wrote PIG! next to his name and underlined it.

Also in April were two meetings with someone named Harry. Just that name and a time -- six o'clock in both cases. Once was on the twentieth, and once on the twenty-eighth. Nothing else about Harry, or Johnny, from then until present.

I called up Elisa and asked if she knew anyone named Harry, from back in April. She said she didn't.

"Any mention of anyone named Harry in the letters?" I asked Benedict.

"Nope. But her ex-boyfriend had a real flair for the romantic. "Your breasts are like two ice cream scoops, and I want to lick them up.""

"Isn't that Shakespeare?"

"Yeah. King Lear."

"Does he seem like a wacko?"

"No more so than any other hormone-crazed guy who wants to get laid. He says "I love you" a lot, and it seems sincere. Most of these letters are from when they just started dating. They'd been going out for a few years."

I set the appointment book aside and dove into the canceled checks. There was a big stack of them, dating back to 1994. Luckily they were in chronological order.

There was nothing unusual for the last few months. Rent, gas, phone, electric, groceries, clothes, all the normal things people pay for. Then, when I got to April, something abnormal.

She'd written two checks for two hundred dollars each to a man named Harry McGlade.

I frowned and showed them to Benedict.

"Sounds familiar. Cop?"

I nodded. "Used to be. Private now."

"You know him?"

I nodded again and extended my frown. I hadn't seen McGlade in fifteen years.

Fifteen very pleasant years.

"So Theresa must have hired him for something. I wonder what for."

"The mind boggles. I can't see anyone hiring Harry for anything."

"Something to do with the boyfriend?"

I shrugged. Only one way to find out, unfortunately.

"I'll go pay him a visit," I conceded. "You want to tackle the boyfriend?"

"I may do just that. You sure you don't want to tag-team them?"

"I'd rather meet with McGlade one on one."

"I sense some history here, Jack, that you aren't telling me about."

"Let's just say he's not my favorite person."

Which may have been the understatement of my life.

Chapter 25

THE ASPIRIN WASN'T HELPING MY LEG much and I felt every bump and crack in the road during the ride to McGlade's. A call to the phone company had confirmed his address to be the same as it was fifteen years back, when I'd last busted him.

He lived in Hyde Park, near the Museum of Science and Industry and the University of Chicago. Hyde Park wasn't really a park at all, but a multitude of apartment buildings sectioned off from shops and stores, sort of like a housing development.

I parked in front of a hydrant next to his building. A group of teenagers hanging out on the corner made me as a cop and walked off as I struggled to get out of my car. I suppose I was just cursed to look like an authority figure.

After finding the appropriate buzzer, I pressed once and waited, half-hoping he wasn't home.

"Harry's House of Love. You buying or selling?"

"I'm gagging. Lieutenant Jack Daniels, Violent Crimes. Buzz me in, McGlade."

"What's the magic word?"

"Now."

"Nope. Try again."

"Open the door, McGlade."

The door buzzed, but only for a second. By the time my hand reached the knob, it had stopped.

"McGlade..."

"When did you become a lieutenant, Jackie?"

Harry was the only person who called me Jackie.

"The nineties. Now you can either buzz me in or I can shoot the lock off and then arrest you for destruction of property."

He buzzed, but only for a millisecond like before. I was ready for it this time, and pulled the door open.

The lobby was dim, the carpet worn, the heat barely on. I saw a roach scurry along the wall and blend into the peeling paint.

Harry was on the fifth floor, and since I hadn't brought my cane, I took the elevator. When I located his apartment, the door was already open. He was standing in the middle of his den, pulling on a pair of pink paisley boxer shorts.

"Normally I don't dress until later in the day, but I don't want you getting any ideas."

He was as I'd remembered. A little older. A little chubbier. But he still had the same three-day beard, the same unkempt shock of brown hair, the same twinkling brown eyes that always seemed to be laughing at you.

"Christ, Jackie, you look old. Aren't they paying you enough to afford Botox?"

Exactly as I remembered.

I took a step inside and looked around. It was a pigsty. Laundry and garbage and junk covered every inch of the floor. Empty cans and wrappers and moldy socks and sour food were strewn around in such abandon that it seemed like someone had blown up a landfill.

"Jesus, McGlade. Do you ever clean up?"

"Nah. I pay a girl to come in once a week. But every time she comes over we just hump the whole time and she never has a chance to clean anything. Want to go into the kitchen, have a seat?"

"I'm afraid I'd stick to something and never be able to leave."

"No need to be rude," Harry said. Then he belched. I closed the door behind me and noticed the aquarium against the wall. That must have been where the smell was coming from. Moldering fish corpses and chunks of multicolored rotting things bubbled around in the brown water, buoyed by the tank aerator. I watched a corn dog float by.

"Some kind of fish disease wiped out my whole gang within twenty-four hours," McGlade explained.

"There's a shocker."

"I like it more now. There's always something new growing, and I save a bundle on fish food."

I pulled my eyes away.

"I'm here to talk about Theresa Metcalf. She was a client of yours. Back in April."

"Got a picture? I can't place the name."

Theresa's roommate had given us some snapshots, but I'd forgotten them back at the station. Instead, I handed McGlade one of Theresa done up by the makeup artist, with the digitally added eyes. It was as close to lifelike as we could get it.

"Yuck. Ugly."

"She's dead."

"Then she'd smell bad too."

"Do you remember her?"

"Not offhand. No. But then I have a hard time remembering last week. How long has it been, Jackie?"

"Not long enough."

McGlade raised an eyebrow.

"You're not still mad at me, are you?"

I took the picture back, careful not to touch his hand.

"If you don't feel like cooperating..." I began.

"You'll drag me in. Can't it wait? I was watching the new Snow White DVD, the director's cut with the extra footage. The gang-bang scene is next."

I frowned, wondering how to play it. I needed the information, but taking McGlade in would mean having to drive with him.

"Do you keep files?" I asked.

"Sure. At the office."

I let out a breath. My head was beginning to hurt, probably because I'd inhaled something toxic, and I was quickly losing the little patience I'd brought along. I took another cautious step forward, and something crunched underfoot.

"Hey, watch out for the pizza, Jack. I'm not done with it."

"Get dressed," I ordered. "We're going to your office."

"Kiss my piles. It's my day off. I'm not going anywhere."

"Then you're under arrest."

"For what?"

"For being an asshole."

"You can't do that. I've got an Asshole License."

"Okay. How about for assaulting an officer?"

"I haven't laid a hand on you."

"Seeing you in your underwear qualifies as assault."

McGlade shook his head.

"When are you going to get over it, Jackie? It was a long time ago. I paid for it, didn't I?"

"You have the right to remain silent, and I sincerely hope you do."

"This is ridiculous."

"Good. Resist arrest. Maybe you'll find someone down at County General that likes your boxer shorts more than I do."

Harry sighed. "Fine. You win, O Mighty Lieutenant. We'll go. Just help me find some socks."

"Find them yourself."

He bent over and picked some pants up off the floor. After sniffing the crotch, he deemed them okay and put them on. Years ago, I learned that the best way to deal with Harry was excruciating patience, punctuated by occasional outbursts of hostility. It still held true.

"What's the big deal anyway?" he asked, smelling a sock.

"She was murdered."

Harry gagged and dropped the sock back on the floor.

"I didn't do it."

"I'm sure you didn't. It was the Gingerbread Man."

"No shit? No wonder you've got your undies in a knot. If you told me that earlier, I would have been much more helpful."

"I bet."

Harry picked the sock back up and put it on.

"Can we stop for coffee on the way?"

"No."

"Maybe a bagel too."

"No."

"I know a great place nearby. If you don't like it, I'll pick up the tab."

"I hate it already," I said.

McGlade found a stained shirt and a suit jacket that didn't match his pants. He buttoned up the shirt incorrectly and had to redo it. I needed more aspirin.

"So what's with the limp?" Harry asked as we walked to my car. "Boyfriend wearing you out?"

"I got shot."

"Who would shoot a sweetheart like you? You sure you can drive okay? We could take my car. It's a lot nicer than yours."

"Shut up and get in. The more you talk, the more I feel like arresting you again."

"So nasty, Jackie. When was the last time you got laid? Pretty thing like you should be able to find a guy."

Following Harry's lousy directions, our meandering took us to a corner bakery, where I got coffee and McGlade got a large orange pop and blueberry bagel.

"Hell, where did I leave my wallet?"

I paid. From there, it was to his office, a merciful five blocks away.

"I'm on the sixth floor. Sorry, Jackie -- no elevator. Want a piggyback ride?"

I ignored him, tackling the stairs with as much dignity as I could. It wasn't much. By the third flight I was a sweating, shaking mess.

"You don't mind if I go on ahead, do you, Jackie? No offense, but I don't like watching the Special Olympics either."

I nodded, gasping for breath.

"Just three more flights, last office on the left. I'll come check your progress in ten minutes or so."

He trotted off, and I bit back the pain and doubled my efforts. I reached the top sopping wet with perspiration. A circle of blood had seeped up through my pants leg. I had to put my head between my knees so I didn't pass out.

McGlade had left the office door open for me. He was sitting at his desk, leafing through a magazine called Plucky Beaver. It had nothing to do with wildlife.

"Glad you could drop by, Jackie. You want some club soda for those pants? I think I've got some bandages too."

"Don't trouble yourself."

"No trouble, just take a minute."

"Thanks," I managed. Though God knew why I was thanking him. I took a seat opposite his desk and struggled out of my sweater. His office was tidy compared to his apartment. Almost respectable. The blinds matched the carpet, four lamps shared the floor with several healthy ficus trees, and his desk and file cabinet were stained oak. The only Harryesque touch was the painting on the wall, a cubist portrait of a nude woman with large blue triangles for nipples.

I got my breathing under control, and Harry returned with a roll of gauze and a bottle of liquid.

"Out of club soda. I've got Diet Sprite. Does that take stains out?"

"I don't think so."

Harry shrugged and took a pull off the bottle. I took the gauze and was directed to the bathroom. Ten minutes later I was freshly bandaged and the bloodstain had been scrubbed out.

"Did you find her file yet?"

"Huh? I hadn't been looking. Check out this Rack of the Month." Harry showed me the centerfold. "Think those are real?"

"McGlade..."

"Think of her back problems..."

"Harry. The files."

"Yeah. Okay."

He tore himself away from the magazine and went to a file cabinet in the corner of the room.

"What month was it?"

"April."

From the top drawer of the file cabinet he removed an open box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch cereal. He upended it over his desk, and a sheaf of papers spilled out. I picked one up and he snatched it from my hand.

"Don't mess with my organization. This is a complicated filing system."

"It looks like you just stuffed all of your April reports in an empty cereal box."

"To the layman, yes, that's what it looks like. But to my computerlike brain it is infinitely more complex. Aha!"

He held up a slip of paper.

"That's a coupon for baby oil," I told him.

He put it in his jacket pocket and kept searching.

"Let's see. Metcalf. Theresa Metcalf. Here we go."

He scanned through the report, which had been handwritten on notebook paper. I took a glance at it myself and couldn't make out the chicken scratches.

"Okay. She hired me to follow her boyfriend. I can't make out his name. It looks like Tommy. Or Johnny. I think it was Tommy."

"It was Johnny."

"That's what I said. Johnny. She gave me two hundred up front. Wanted to know if he was cheating on her. Gave me another two bills when I finished the job."

"What did you find out?"

"Hey, my client has a right to privacy."

"She's dead."

"Oh, yeah. To hell with her privacy then. Her boyfriend was dipping the wick in another pot. I shot two rolls of film on them. I think I still have some copies. Want me to look?"

"No, thanks."

"They're pretty good. I took an amateur photography class last year. You should see what I can do with a zoom lens."

"Maybe some other time."

"Yeah. Call me. I'll have some slides made up. Is that all you needed?"

"How did she come to you?"

"Walk-in, I think. Saw my ad in the phone book. Pays to advertise."

"What was your impression of the boyfriend?"

"He had the endurance, but came up short in the size department, if you know what I mean. That's why I needed the zoom."

"What kind of person was Johnny?" I rephrased, a temple of infinite patience.

"Besides a cheater? He seemed okay. Worked for some mutual fund company. Good dresser. Ritzy apartment. Up-and-comer yuppie type. Met with the bimbo on his lunch breaks. She worked in his office."

"What did he drive?" I was hoping for a Jeep.

Harry checked his sheet.

"White Lexus. About four years old."

"Do you recognize her?" I showed him the photo of our first Jane Doe.

"I don't think so. Kind of looks like an aunt I had. But she had a mustache. You gonna give me the skinny on these two?"

"They were both kidnapped, tortured, and had their stab wounds raped."

"Yuck. It's a sick world. I had a case once, jealous wife took a needle and thread..."

"Did you get any impression at all from Johnny Tashing that he could be a killer?"

"Naw. He was a typical preppie type, probably piss himself if he saw blood. No connection between the vics?"

"Can't find one. They're both young, pretty. Maybe that's the only criteria the killer needs."

"Look harder. Raping stab wounds seems like a punishment thing. Almost like revenge. Maybe he's going after every girl that ever dumped him. Anyway, this woman's husband was passed out on the couch, drunk. So she took a needle and thread and sewed..."

I tuned him out. In his limitless stupidity, Harry had said something smart. What if these women had offended the killer personally in some way and he was out for revenge? Could he have been a customer that Theresa snubbed, or an old ex-boyfriend?

"...so when the guy tried to take a leak..."

I got up to leave.

"Don't you want to hear what happened?"

I walked out the door, my head swimming with ideas. We'd been dwelling on the who, what, where, when, and how. But maybe the why needed further attention.

"Don't be a stranger, Jackie," he called out after me. "Maybe we can do lunch sometime."

I was convinced now that the killer knew these girls. That he was out for revenge. People like Bundy and Gacy, they killed for pleasure. For sex. Our perp was using sex as a form of punishment. These vics had something in common.

But what?

Before I knew it, I'd reached the bottom of the stairs. I hadn't even broken a sweat.

Mind over matter.

Chapter 26

IN HIS LIFETIME, HE'S KILLED TWENTY-THREE people. He did two stretches in prison, totaling eight years. Neither was for murder. If he hadn't been behind bars, he believes his body count would be double.

He has a knack for it. The fact that he's never been caught is proof. There are several tricks he uses, so suspicion never falls on him. Never leave evidence. Never establish a pattern. Keep a respectable cover and have an alibi ready. And always plan ahead.

Hookers are easy. No one misses hookers. Murder is an occupational hazard.

Or kids. It's simple to grab kids. Tell them their mommy was hurt, they'll always come with you. Or dress up like a cop. Or in a big dinosaur costume. Or as Batman.

But the most fun is grabbing a normal girl. To do that you need to take your time. Find out about her. Stalk her. Abduct her. Bring her someplace private, where no one will hear.

It's tougher than picking up a whore or a little kid. It's also more rewarding.

The best screamers are the twenty-something bimbos who think they're too good for you. Like these bitches he's working on now. Like his ex-wife.

Soon he'll be finished. Then he'll move on. Fade into the background. Do his killing on a more private level. Maybe in a few years he can resurface, terrify an entire city one more time, but this performance is a strictly limited engagement.

The question is, what to do with Jack? After the comments she made on the news, she's proven herself no better than the other whores. What Jack needs is a nice long session in his basement.

She's a little old for him, but it's an intoxicating thought.

Will the lieutenant be a screamer? Will she beg?

Of course she will. Eventually, they all beg.

Since killing the cat as a child, Charles has felt superior to all humans. But here's one he feels a kinship with. Here's one who, by chasing him, is trying to be his equal.

In a way, it makes Jack endearing. Almost lovable.

Love is an emotion still alien to Charles. From years of murdering, he knows excitement, and fun, and pleasure, and disappointment and sadness when a victim dies too quickly. But love has been beyond his grasp. His marriage was for cover, for money, for convenience. But he hates the stuck-up slut more than anything. He hates her voice, he hates her personality, and he hates her goddamn face.

But Jack's face...

Thinking of it makes him smile. He wants to see it again. Wants to somehow get in touch with her. He knows Jack is being watched by the police, but there has to be a way.

There's always a way.

In the meantime, he has a schedule to keep. Girl #3. He wants to have her by tonight. He knows her route, knows he has two possible places to make the grab.

The syringe is in his pocket. He tries focusing on her face.

Instead he sees Jack's.

Chapter 27

IT WAS NICE TO GET AWAY from Harry. Sometimes the past should remain in the past.

I got to the station at a quarter past three, using the elevator so I didn't open up my wound again. Benedict was already in my office when I walked in, back from interviewing the boyfriend. The tired expression on his face probably mirrored my own.

"How'd you make out?" I asked.

"He cried from start to finish. If that wasn't enough, he also had an alibi. Out of town for a week until this morning. Business trip. It checks."

"He have any ideas?"

"Everyone loved Theresa, him included. He wanted to get back with her. Admitted his affair was stupid. He couldn't think of any reason anyone would want to kill her. No reaction to the computer sketch, or the picture of the first Jane Doe. I got a list of some mutual friends, most of them the same ones Elisa gave us. We've got a lot of ground to cover. How about you?"

"Harry was hired by Theresa to confirm Johnny's cheating. He took pictures. But he said something interesting -- maybe the perp is punishing these women for something they did to him. It would help if we had an ID on the first Jane Doe. Somehow, they both managed to piss our man off. That's why he's leaving them out in public, rather than hiding the bodies. He's leaving them on display, as a message to others."

Herb thought it over. "Okay. We delve more deeply into Theresa Metcalf's life. Make a list of all the places she went to -- bars, shops, movies, et cetera. Then flash around pictures of the first Jane Doe, see if we get any hits."

"The two women may not have known each other well, but maybe they've met. Like belonging to the same health club. They both did something, probably the same thing, to our man to set him off. Maybe something minor, like rejecting his advances, or laughing at him. Or maybe they both dated him in the past, and dumped him."

"Lots of maybes."

"Then let's narrow them down."

We spent the next hour with the task force, delegating authority, giving assignments, following leads. Officer Fuller had done an admirable job gathering information on ice cream trucks, and the lists of possibles were divvied up to be checked out. News came that the semen found in the stab wounds had been typed as A positive. A DNA print was forthcoming, and would take several weeks.

"You look like hell, Jack." Benedict eyed me when we'd finished our powwow. "Maybe you should go home and rest."

"Nonsense. I'm at the top of my ability."

"Jack," Herb said, startling me.

"Huh? What?"

"You just fell asleep sitting up. Go home."

"Maybe you've got something there, Herb."

"You need a ride?"

I shook away some cobwebs. "No, thanks. The pain will wake me up."

That it did. Hauling myself out of my chair was akin to getting cold water splashed in my face. By the time I'd made it downstairs to my car, sleep was the last thing on my mind.

On the way to my apartment I stopped at a neighborhood grocer, securing a frozen pizza guaranteed to rise in the oven, two cans of spray-on carpet cleaner, and some aspirin. Another hot night of adventure in the life of the swinging cop.

The pizza did rise, to about the thickness of an apple pie. I devoured half of it, along with two whiskey sours, trying to remember the last time I'd actually had a home-cooked meal. Once in a blue moon I'd fry up some burgers, or make spaghetti, but I couldn't recall when I'd last had a dinner where different food groups were represented by different dishes.

Don liked to cook, but he was a health nut and it always involved sprouts and tofu. Soy somehow lacked the homey feel of a five-course turkey dinner, or even pancakes and sausage.

I put the rest of the pizza in the fridge, then hit the bedroom to clean up my blood.

I needed both cans of cleaner and another drink to get the stains out. It helped that the carpet was brown. When I finished, I had to throw away the rags I'd used, and I made liberal use of some Lysol to kill the gamy smell.

With no more tasks to complete, I sat down at my dinette set, and looked through the Lunch Mates data sheets that Matthew had given me.

The first was a redhead. Forty-two. An accountant. Five feet ten, 170 pounds, green eyes. He was looking for a woman with a sense of humor who liked to take chances. His name was Latham.

The second had brown hair. Forty-six. A managing director for a steel production company. Five eight, 165, glasses, and a very cute face. He was looking for a woman with a lot of money. I filed his data sheet in the garbage.

The third was forty, but he looked too much like my ex-husband, so I filed him as well. This was like catalog shopping.

I scanned through the others, coming up with several possibles, rejecting others mostly based on their jobs and their appearance. Beggars shouldn't be choosers, but I was paying so much, I didn't consider it begging anymore.

After compiling my list of six, I whipped out the cellular and gave my Lunch Mates agent a call.

"Thanks for calling, Jack. I've been trying to reach you, but the line's always busy."

"Hollywood agents, trying to get me to sell the story of my life."

Matthew laughed his musical laugh. "You've had a chance to look through the data sheets?"

"Yes. I had some time off this afternoon after my skydiving lesson got canceled."

"What did you think of Latham Conger?"

He was the redhead who liked to take chances.

"I had him picked out, yes."

"I faxed him your data sheet, and he'd love to meet you. Shall we make a lunch date?"

"Sure. Tomorrow?"

"Let me check his schedule...yes, he is free tomorrow, at one. Do you like Chinese food?"

"That's fine."

"How about Jimmy Wong's then? On Wabash? One o'clock tomorrow."

"Great."

"I'll call Latham, tell him the good news. If for some reason you can't make it, call me here as soon as possible. Have fun tomorrow!"

He hung up. That was the easiest date I'd ever planned. I hadn't even needed to show a little leg.

I read Latham's data sheet again, and then once more. The whiskey was working its magic, and once again I felt the drowsies sneak up on me. While that would normally be a cause for celebration, it was scarcely six o'clock. Falling asleep now meant I'd be up again around midnight.

The drowsies won out. I shed my clothes and crawled into bed, letting exhaustion take over.

I woke up a little past eleven.

Five hours was as long a rest as I'd had in recent memory, but there was no way I'd sleep any longer than that. I peeled myself out of bed, changed my bandage, and spent the rest of the night watching program-length commercials.

I spent some money. Late-night advertisers knew that exhaustion zapped willpower. Five hours later I'd bought a buckwheat husk pillow, guaranteed to provide me with a good night's sleep; an Ab Cruncher, guaranteed to transform my abs into a six-pack in only five minutes a day; and a set of nonstick cookware, guaranteed to turn even the most inept chef into a world-class gourmet. Because I ordered early, I got a free cookbook and a bonus spatula worth $19.95.

I managed, through sheer force of will, not to call any psychic hotlines.

By the time the sun peeked over the horizon, my Visa was maxed and I felt like an idiot. It wouldn't be the first time. Over the years I've amassed enough mail order junk to open up my own business. Those tricky niche marketers. There should be a law against television broadcasts after two in the morning.

I wrapped my leg in plastic and took a shower, deciding my morning workout would have to wait a while until I healed. Or until my Ab Cruncher came in four to six weeks. I dressed in old jeans and a polo shirt because my good clothes were all still at the cleaners, and then headed for work.

During the drive I thought about the case, and the two dead women, and the Gingerbread Man. And then I did something I hadn't ever done on a case. I made myself a promise.

"No one else dies," I said aloud in the car. "I'm going to catch you, and you won't get anyone else."

Even if I go down in the process.

Chapter 28

HE'S FURIOUS.

He paces back and forth in his basement, holding the rag to his bleeding face, stopping to give the body a kick.

Bitch. Lousy bitch.

The grab is perfect. He pulls up next to her, asking her directions, even offering her a free ice cream for her assistance. When she takes the cone he grabs her arm and sticks her with the needle. No witnesses. No struggle. No screaming. A textbook abduction.

Then he quickly ties her up in his basement and waits for her to wake up.

But she wakes up too fast. He's making himself a sandwich and suddenly she's running up the stairs, naked and frantic.

He grabs her, trying to pin her down, but she scratches him across the eyes. He loses his temper and backhands her, sending her tumbling down the stairs.

And she breaks her lousy neck.

Such a waste! All the time and planning, ruined! She dies not even knowing who he is, or why she's being punished.

Charles kicks her again, then goes to take care of his face. His eye burns, an ugly red mark bisecting the cornea. It requires treatment, but a doctor is out of the question. The scratch marks on his face look like scratch marks. There would be questions, and he would be remembered.

He makes do with iodine and gauze pads. Later he'll get some kind of eye ointment at the store. He has some things to do first.

With his anger soaring and his face hurting like hell, Charles has no desire to violate the body. Sex is the furthest thing from his mind. But he has a reputation to uphold, and for the next part of his plan it's necessary.

At first he can't get aroused. But Jack helps him with that. Thinking of Jack's face when she discovers this body. Thinking how Jack will scream when he has her in the basement, doing this to her.

Thinking of being inside Jack.

He finishes, grunting in satisfaction. Then he begins.

They're probably on to his disposal method and undoubtedly watching all convenience stores. But he has something different in mind. Something audacious.

First he removes the hand that scratched him. He knows there's DNA evidence under her fingernails, but he's already left DNA samples with his semen and he doesn't care. He does care, however, about alerting the authorities to the fact that she scratched him. He'll have this bandage on his face for a while, and doesn't need to have that bit of information added to his description.

After the hand, he begins to dissect the rest of the body. He works on a plastic tarp, with a cleaver and some wire cutters.

When he finishes, he loads everything of size into a fifty-gallon thermos cooler. There's plenty of glop left over, which he disposes of outside.

In the vacant lot behind his house there is a manhole. He's been dropping things down there for years, feeding the rats. He uses a butcher's hook with a T-shaped handle to pry up the cover, and dumps all the little parts still on the tarp into the sewer.

He listens to the soft plops in the darkness, followed by squeals of delight from the rodent populace.

"Snack time." He giggles.

He takes a quick but thorough shower, using a toothbrush to get the blood out of his fingernails, carefully avoiding his bandage. Then he spends twenty minutes getting the cooler up the stairs and into his truck. Another ten minutes are used up removing all of the pictures and descriptions of ice cream along the side panels and replacing them with signs that say "Mel's Plumbing," complete with a bogus phone number.

He also has a three-foot-long metal plunger, which he picked up at an auto graveyard, that attaches to the roof. An ice cream truck is conspicuous after dark, but a plumber can come and go at all hours.

Coming up on two in the morning, he finishes polishing his press statement. He has a lot to say, but if it's too long, it wouldn't all be used on the news. He wants it short, succinct, and on the front page. After printing the final copy, he puts it in an envelope along with the parts he's saved from Theresa Metcalf.

It's a cold night, and with his heavy jacket and hat he feels anonymous. First he dumps the cooler under some garbage bags in an alley he's had picked out for some time.

Then he makes a stop at an all-night coffee shop and buys himself a cup. After nursing it long enough to become invisible to the other customers, he hits the bathroom and uses some duct tape to secure his envelope behind the toilet bowl, putting his gloves on to avoid leaving fingerprints.

Gloves still on, he leaves the diner and walks to the nearest pay phone, calling the tip line for the Chicago Tribune.

"This is the Gingerbread Man," he tells the rookie who picks up the phone, "and I'm going to make you famous."

He hangs around for the next forty minutes, until some guy strides into the diner in an apparent rush, walking out two minutes later with the envelope.

The cops will be coming soon. Maybe even Jack. He stays and watches the fireworks, from the window of a corner bar across the street.

There's plenty of excitement; four patrol cars, five news vans, dozens of oglers.

No Jack.

He fidgets, sipping his beer until closing time, wondering why Jack hasn't shown up. Her fat partner hasn't shown either. Maybe a few body parts and a letter don't warrant waking them from their beauty rest. At four in the morning, the bar kicks everyone out, and he decides to check for himself.

He parks three blocks away from Jack's apartment, not sure how close the surveillance on her is. He walks quickly, hands in his pockets, head down, looking as if he has a destination.

On Jack's street he spots the team; they're parked almost a block away, and the windows are tinted to prevent looking in. But their cover is blown. Because it's cold, they have the heat on, and the engine is running. Charles sees the exhaust from a hundred yards away, and turns in his tracks and heads back the way he came.

If Jack's tail is still there, then Jack is still there. So the easiest way to follow Jack is to follow her tail.

They'll be looking for someone stalking Jack.

But they won't be looking for someone stalking them.

The Gingerbread Man gets back into his plumbing truck and finds a parking space a block away from the surveillance team.

Then he turns off the engine, shoves his hands in his pockets, and waits.

Chapter 29

AS USUAL, HERB BEAT ME TO work.

"I didn't know you owned a pair of jeans," he said.

"I'm undercover."

"I don't think they make Bon Jour anymore."

"Are you saying I'm out of style?"

"Is that an Izod shirt? I haven't seen one in fifteen years."

Like Herb could talk. The tie he wore today had a pineapple hand-painted on it.

"You're fired," I told him.

Herb ignored me, turning his attention to a box of grocery Danish. The phone rang.

"Daniels."

"My office. Benedict too."

Bains hung up. His small talk needed work.

"We are to proceed directly to the office of our captain," I informed Benedict.

He nodded, stuffing the rest of the breakfast roll into his mouth, basset hound jowls inflating like balloons. Canine to chipmunk in 2.2 seconds.

We walked down the hall, Herb madly chewing and me trying to keep pace, having judiciously left my cane in my office. No point in looking frail before the almighty Captain Bains. Herb did a big cartoon swallow and we went in.

Bains took off his reading glasses and nodded at us.

"Early this morning our man left a package for the Chicago Tribune. It contained some body parts, in a plastic bag, that have since been confirmed as Theresa Metcalf's. There was also a letter."

Bains glanced at the paper on the table, encased in a big plastic bag. Herb picked it up and we read.

Chicago,

This is the Gingerbread Man. The lies must stop. My plan was to leave this city after the fourth, but now I may stay to take revenge for the things said about me. I let that Judas live, and she betrayed me. Now you will all pay the price.

Let me make it clear. I am no joke. I will kill your daughters, Chicago. Your sisters shall suffer. I will continue to kill until I am shown respect.

Fire Daniels. Let the truth come out.

"Has this been run yet?" I asked.

"It will be, afternoon edition. We were able to hold it back until we confirmed the parts belonged to the second girl."

"Did we get anything?" Benedict asked.

"No prints. He left it in a bathroom at a coffee shop. A team is still taking the place apart, dusting for prints, talking to customers and staff. It was a busy place, even that early in the morning. No one remembers anything. We have a tape of the phone call to the Trib; they automatically record their tip line. Voice print is being done, but it won't help unless we catch him."

"Why weren't we called last night?"

I realized, as it came out of my mouth, that I already knew the answer.

"The mayor has given jurisdiction on this case over to the Feds. Officially, you are on a leave of absence pending charges of official misconduct. The paper will run a statement from the police superintendent alongside the letter."

"That's bullshit, Captain!" Herb had a mad-on, venting for both of us. "The Feebies couldn't catch a cold in a snowstorm."

"Jack is officially on a leave of absence. You, Herb, will still keep our end of things up around here. And whatever Jack decides to do, on her own time as a private citizen, is her business."

I smiled. I never liked the spotlight much anyway.

"Now bring me up to speed," Bains said.

Herb and I took turns, relating what we had so far, and what we were going after.

"So the women are connected," Bains said when we finished.

"We think so. Maybe not to each other, but definitely to our perp. He's not grabbing women of a certain type, he's grabbing women he knows and wants to punish. If we can find the link, perhaps we find him."

"In his note, he refers to the fourth. The Feds think it's the fourth of next month."

"Could be," I said. "Or it could be the fourth victim."

The phone rang. The chief picked it up, listened, and held out the phone for me.

"Daniels."

"This is Briggs, front desk. Don't want to bust your chops in front of the boss, but we've got a guy on hold says something happened to your mom."

Panic exploded within me. "Put him through."

"Jack? Guess who."

I gave a quick nod to Bains and mouthed "It's him." He picked up his cell phone and gave word to trace.

"What's happened to my mother?"

"Just blowing smoke, Jack, so they'd put me through to you. But I did leave you something, in the alley behind your building. A picnic lunch. Enjoy it. See you soon."

The line went dead.

"He's off," I said.

"Pay phone on Michigan," Bains said. The days of long traces were in the past. The modern phone trace was practically instantaneous.

I relayed the conversation word for word, Benedict writing it all down. A minute later the chief's cell phone rang.

"They missed him," he told us. "Blended into the rush hour crowd."

"Let's go check the alley," Benedict said.

Bains came with us. We didn't bother to stop for coats.

The district building was on a street corner, and on the third side was the parking lot. The alley wasn't an official alley; just an enclave where the Dumpsters were kept. We approached it cautiously, eyes scanning everything. Since we both outranked Herb, he did the honors of rooting through the garbage.

"Looks like a cooler," he said, moving some bags. "Big one."

Bains gave the go-ahead to open it. Herb lifted the corner, holding the edge with a handkerchief.

"Christ."

It was bad. Real bad. This had surpassed murder and become butchery.

"Let's rope it off, get a team in here." Bains shook his head. The third body being found right behind his police station wouldn't help his career.

I left the scene, placing a phone call to Mom, just to make sure she was safe. Then I sat on the steps in front of the district building, still without a jacket, letting the cold be my penance.

I'd let another person die.

The team came, and the reporters, and a crowd of gawkers.

I thought about my job, and my mom, and my insomnia, and my date that afternoon, and Don.

I thought about Benedict, and Phineas Troutt, and Harry McGlade, and my past, and my ex-husband, and the dog I had when I was a kid that we had to put to sleep because he broke his leg chasing a rabbit.

I thought about the stars in the sky. I hadn't seen the stars in years. The smog in Chicago was thick enough to blot them out. For all I knew, they weren't there anymore.

I wondered what the point was. No one was happy. Every day brings some new annoyance, some new problem, some new pain. And if you managed to avoid cancer, and AIDS, and drugs, and car accidents, and malevolent acts of God, there was still the chance that some wacko would grab you, or your kid, and torture them to death for no reason.

I tried to remember the last time I laughed so hard it hurt. I tried to recall a day where I went to bed happy.

I couldn't.

Special Agents Dailey and Coursey, in matching black trench coats, materialized from the crowd and walked briskly up to me. They moved in step, left foot, right foot, as if they were doing a Wrigley's Doublemint commercial. I didn't hide my disappointment when they stopped in front of my stoop.

"We hope there's no hard feelings," Dailey said.

I gave him a blank look.

"That you're off the case. We know what it's like, and we'll do our best to keep you in the loop."

How about that? An olive branch.

"In return, we'd like to use some of your men."

The left hand giveth, and the right hand taketh away.

"What for?"

"We believe we've found the horse. We'd like to put it under twenty-four-hour surveillance."

Both waited for my reply. I took a moment, then gave it to them.

"You're out of your minds."

"Excuse me?"

"I've got another girl murdered here, and you want me to pull my people off the case so they can stake out a horse? You're out of your goddamn minds."

"Lieutenant, I'm sure you're aware --"

"I'm aware that you're wasting my time. I don't give a rat's ass what Vicky says, or what your boss says, or what the cross-dressing ghost of J. Edgar Hoover says. Stay out of my way, or I'll arrest you and toss you in general population wearing gang colors."

They looked at each other, then back at me.

"Perhaps it's best that you've been removed from the case," the one on the left said.

I stood, twenty years of pent-up anger swelling in my chest.

"Get the fuck away from me."

It must have been a startling transformation, because they both flinched. Then they got away from me. I sat back down, content to follow the self-pity route a bit longer. Eventually Benedict found me, handing over my coat.

"What did Abbott and Costello have to say?"

"They want to borrow some uniforms to stake out a horse."

"Which house?"

"Not house. Horse. Like with four legs and John Wayne on top."

"They think a horse did it?"

"Their profile. Remember their French Canadian Connection?"

He seemed to think about this.

"Did you tell them to fuck off?"

I nodded, putting on my coat. Then we walked back into the fray.

Herb and I, the crowd, the media, and the world, watched as the contents were removed from the cooler.

It was a scene from a horror film, but the sadness in me outweighed the shock.

Then I stood along the sidelines while Herb took control of the crime scene.

Chapter 30

BENEDICT WAS THE ONE WHO TALKED me into keeping my date.

"All we can do now is wait for the reports to come in. Go have lunch." "There are a million things to do."

"And a million people to do them. This is your job, Jack, not your life. Go eat. Everything will be here when you get back."

"My clothes are still at the cleaners."

"You look fine. Go. That's an order. Bains made me the senior on this investigation, remember?"

Traffic was good. I made it to the restaurant ten minutes early, and parked in front of a hydrant. The place did a moderate lunch, and the lobby was bustling when I entered. Jimmy Wong's was a Chicago landmark of sorts, famous in its day. The decor was pure 1950s, a throwback to the Rat Pack era. It even had the requisite wall of fame. I eyed a signed picture of Klinger from M*A*S*H and checked my hair in the glass. After some brief finger fluffing, I went to the host desk.

A Chinese man wearing a red bow tie informed me that my date had not yet arrived, and directed me to the bar, where I could wait. I ordered a Diet Coke, becoming increasingly uncomfortable as the minutes passed. The last thing I needed was time to sit and dwell.

I watched him come in, seeing his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. He wore a tailored suit, dark blue pinstripe, with a light blue shirt. His smile was pleasant and seemed genuine when his gaze fell on me. He had a good walk, confident, with a slight bounce, toes pointed straight ahead and not out to the sides like a duck. I never found duck walkers attractive.

I stood to meet him, hoping my smile didn't look dopey.

"How do you do, Jack." He offered his hand, his grip firm but gentle.

"Very nice to meet you, Latham. Great suit."

"Do you think so? Thanks."

We let the host seat us at a dimly lit corner booth. Almost immediately a busboy set down a pot of tea. Neither of us touched the pot, or our menus. I tried to look relaxed, but wasn't sure if I was succeeding.

"So, where do you work?" I asked. It seemed like a good way to get the conversational ball rolling.

"I work for Mariel Oldendorff and Associates. Head accountant. It's about as exciting as it sounds. You're a police captain?"

"Lieutenant, actually."

"What kind of police work do you do?"

"Uh, violent crimes."

"Oh. Interesting, I bet. Are you undercover now?"

"Excuse me?"

"You know. Those old clothes. I haven't seen an Izod in years."

Ouch. "Oh, it's laundry day. Everything I own is at the dry cleaners, with the exception of this ensemble. Believe it or not, these jeans are Bon Jour."

"Really?"

I showed him the stitching on the pocket, regretting it immediately. Three minutes into the date and I'm showing the guy my ass.

"This is great." He was grinning.

"That I'm twenty years behind in fashion?"

"That you're confident enough to come as you are. The last woman I went out with wore way too much hair spray and perfume. When she lit a cigarette I ducked for cover because I thought she was going to ignite."

I laughed.

"I knew a guy like that. I swore he used to bathe in Aqua Velva. When we slow danced I got high off the fumes."

He had a pleasant, easy smile, and deep-set wrinkles when he crinkled his eyes. Definitely cute; even better than his picture.

"So why did you become a cop?"

"Because I like..." I searched for the word. "...fairness. My mom was a cop. She always did the right thing. That's what I want to do."

"You find fulfillment in fairness?"

My life had never been so succinctly defined before. "I like justice, and I like doing my part to make sure things turn out the right way. How about you?"

"I'm not that deep. I'm fulfilled by simple pleasures. Music. Food. Good conversation. Right here, right now, I'm happy."

He leaned in closer. Was he actually flirting? I felt the familiar schoolgirl tingle in the pit of my belly, and I realized I was interested in him. I leaned closer too.

"I wish I was like that. More carefree."

"Anyone can be. People aren't carved out of marble. We're all works in progress. The trick is to define ourselves, rather than let outside influences define us."

That's when I noticed my ex-boyfriend Don walking over to us. Dragging him along was a woman so pumped up with muscles, it looked like someone had stuck a tube up her rear and inflated her. Roxy, his personal trainer and new roommate.

"Speaking of outside influences," I said to Latham, "there's about to be a scene."

The couple stood next to our table, Roxy big and blonde and angry, Don embarrassed and maybe a bit scared.

"You're right, Donnie, she is old." She snorted through her large nostrils, giving me a blast of warm air.

Four million people and two thousand restaurants in Chicago...

"Take it somewhere else, Roxy. We're busy."

"Roxy..." Don tugged on her well-defined arm. "Just leave it alone."

But Roxy wasn't having any. Perhaps the steroids had gotten to her brain. She puffed up her chest and struck an impressive pose.

"You got a lot of nerve, tossing his stuff in the hall like that. Maybe you'd like to show me some of that nerve outside."

Latham frowned. "I don't think --"

"It's okay, Latham." I patted his arm. "I can handle this one."

I stood up, giving Roxy cop eyes. I had to look up to do so. She had a few inches on me.

"Showing off for your boyfriend isn't worth getting arrested, Roxy. Take off."

Don tried to pull her away, but she was practically his size.

"You scared, bitch? Scared I'll beat your ass in front of your pimp here?"

I smiled and pointed at her chin. "You missed a spot shaving."

She swung at me, but I was ready. In a single, efficient move I slipped the punch and came up behind her. Using her momentum I got her wrist in a hammerlock and shoved her on top of the table, pinning her down with my weight.

"Assaulting a cop is a felony, Roxy. Three to five, hard. If this big show of testosterone is simply because you need an apology, I'll offer it. I'm sorry. Now take off, or I'll stop being this nice. Got it?"

I gave her wrist a little extra twist to make my point. Roxy grunted and gave me an enthusiastic nod. When I let her up, she was beet red, and Don was studying his shoes. Neither said another word, and they moped off without further incident.

I sat back down and wondered how badly I'd ruined my chances with Latham. Could I be any less demure?

"I'm sorry," I muttered. "I'm really not a violent person."

"Don't be sorry." Latham looked flushed. "This is actually the most exciting date I've ever had in my life. What are you doing tonight?"

"Pardon me?"

"I get off at six. Can I make you dinner?"

"Uh, that would be great."

"Eight o'clock?"

"Fine."

He grinned. The waiter came by and we ordered our entrees.

Maybe all that money I spent on Lunch Mates was a good investment after all.

Chapter 31

HE KEEPS FALLING ASLEEP, WAITING FOR something to happen.

The discovery of the body in the cooler is exciting, but he has to stay too far back for fear of being seen. By the time the excitement dies down, Jack is back inside her office.

And now, the effects of a sleepless night are taking their toll. His eyelids keep closing. His head keeps lolling forward. Even the anger, the fuel that spurs him on, has been replaced by fatigue.

He uses the cigarette lighter to keep himself awake.

Charles knows he's grasping at straws. The surveillance on Jack is tight. Even the weak point, the shift change, proceeds smoothly. No matter where Jack goes, there's a team following her. But there has to be some kind of way.

He almost nods off, and again has to apply the lighter. He concentrates his efforts on his chest, where the burns will be out of the public view. Pain works so much better than caffeine.

Lunchtime comes, and his stomach rumbles. He hadn't expected to go on a stakeout, or he would have packed something. There's ice cream in the truck's freezer, but he hates ice cream. Maybe he can step out and grab a bite at -The sedan he's following takes off. Jack is on the move. He starts the truck and follows, having to keep closer than he had last night because traffic is heavier. Once, he loses them at a red light, but they continue down the same street and he's able to catch up.

The destination is Jimmy Wong's on Wabash. Did Jack and her fat partner come here for a bite? He parks at a bus stop and watches.

An hour passes. He opens the door a crack and pisses on the street. He eats a Popsicle. He burns his chest again. He thinks about having Jack to himself, keeping her alive for days. Jack is the closest anyone has ever come to understanding him. Having her undivided attention would be delicious.

He knows Jack will just die for it.

Jack leaves the restaurant -- not with Herb Benedict, but with another man. They shake hands, and she gives him a peck on the cheek. Friend? Lover? Brother?

There's only one way to be sure.

The man begins to walk away. Charles starts the truck and tails him for a block.

"Hey, buddy." He rolls down the window, pulling up close. The syringe is in his pocket. "I'm lost. Can you tell me how to get to Belmont?"

Chapter 32

I WAS FEELING PRETTY GOOD ABOUT myself. In one fell swoop I'd shaken off the vestiges of Don and had met a man who was attractive, interested, and much better suited for me. Even being grilled by Herb upon my arrival at the station hadn't hurt my mood.

"You're welcome."

"What for?"

"I seem to recall sending you off to Lunch Mates in the first place. The thank-you doesn't have to be formal. You can express your gratitude in a gift."

"Something to eat, perchance?"

"By happy coincidence, I've got a Mario's pizza menu in my pocket."

Benedict handed over the menu with instructions on what he liked on his pie. I wasn't shocked to find out he liked everything.

Formalities aside, we dove into the paperwork pool, gathering and collating information, trying to gain a better perspective on our perp.

We had yet to get any reports back on the third victim. The ME did a cursory inspection on site and drew several conclusions. She was a white female, late twenties to mid-thirties, blond hair, blue eyes, between five four and five six based on the length of the femur. She'd been hacked apart, Maxwell Hughes guessed, by some kind of heavy-bladed knife or sword. All of the dismemberment appeared to be postmortem. Her right hand was missing, as was a good deal of tissue.

Cause of death was unknown. There was a large abrasion on her head consistent with a blow by a heavy object. There was also a stab wound in the left upper thigh, and we all could guess what it contained.

Other than that, there were few similarities to the other victims. She had ligature marks on her wrists and ankles, but the body bore no evidence of torture. The others hadn't been hacked up like this. The method of disposal was different. The killer had completely changed his MO. The million-dollar question was, Why?

My concentration was shattered by a knock at the door. It was a bony little man wearing a brown bow tie and matching sweater vest. He had fair blond hair balanced delicately on an ovalish skull. Tiny eyes were distorted behind thick glasses, and a thin mustache rested on his lip like a string of uneaten spaghetti.

"Detective Daniels?"

"Lieutenant. That's Detective Herb Benedict."

He came in without being asked. "I'm Dr. Francis Mulrooney."

"Congratulations," I said.

He stood there, expecting more. "The handwriting expert?" He flashed a grin. I held my applause and picked up the phone.

"Hello, Bill? Jack. Can you have someone run up the notes from the Jane Does? Thanks."

I motioned for Francis to have a seat, and Herb scooted his bulk to the side to let him near the desk.

"So far on the case we've --"

Mulrooney held out his palm. "Don't tell me. I don't want to know anything until I've seen the samples. It could influence my judgment."

I gave Herb a look. He returned it. The FBI was bad enough. Why not just go medieval and hire a phrenologist?

"It's always exciting to work with the police." Mulrooney grinned. His teeth were uneven. "Is this a forgery case? Never mind, don't tell me. I'd rather see if I can figure it out. Forgery fascinates me. You see, handwriting is like fingerprints, and no two samples are exactly the same. But it's also a window into the part of the brain that understands and comprehends language. Your signature changes, for example, when you're under stress or if you succumb to mental problems. So, is this a forgery case?"

A uniform walked in, carrying the notes. The first two were in cellophane envelopes, each stained murky brown with dried blood. The third was sandwiched in an old encyclopedia.

"We store it in a book in the freezer," I told Mulrooney. "The cold takes away all the moisture without ruining the physical evidence. If we let the blood dry naturally, the paper will begin to rot."

All the color drained from Mulrooney's face, making his thin blond mustache appear translucent.

"Excuse me a second." He stood and bolted for the door. The uniform shrugged and followed him out.

"Think he'll be back?" Herb asked.

"Unfortunately."

The pizza came, and Benedict attacked it with a ferocity often seen on PBS specials involving carnivores.

"Doesn't your tongue hurt?"

"Not so much anymore. I think eating all the time has sped up the healing process. Maybe it will work with your leg."

Benedict offered me a slice so stacked with toppings, it had begun to topple. I declined, consuming several aspirin instead.

Our resident handwriting expert reappeared, his cockiness replaced by a serious expression.

"I apologize." He drew his hand across his mouth. "When I got the call I wasn't told what I'd be analyzing. Is this the Gingerbread Man case?"

"Yes."

He sat back down, averting his gaze from the pizza Herb was devouring.

"I've read about it. Terrible. If I may?"

I offered him the notes, as well as a photocopy of the one left for the Tribune; the original was still at the lab. Mulrooney slipped on a pair of white cotton gloves. From his vest pocket he removed a leather case.

"Can I take them from the cellophane?"

I nodded, making note of it on the evidence seals. First he simply read the notes, frowning. Then he unzipped his case and removed a jeweler's loupe and some long tweezers.

I watched him work, going over the notes line by line, scribbling in a pad constantly, handling them with the utmost care and professionalism.

After about fifteen minutes, during which Herb had finished his pizza and joined in the observation, Dr. Mulrooney let out a deep breath and sat back in his chair.

"You've got one sick puppy here." He met my gaze, intense. "First I'll tell you what I know for sure. The same person wrote all four notes. Block printing is not as easy to analyze as script, and in court it's harder to prove, but there's enough here to be absolutely sure of it."

"Go on."

"He's right-handed. He clubs, which means that the ends of his pen strokes are thicker than the beginnings. That's a characteristic usually found in sadistic personalities. You can see it on the down strokes of his t, l, f, i, and on the bottoms of the y and b."

He showed us examples. I found myself becoming interested.

"The t"s have descending bars, which are also clubbed. This can be a sign of mental imbalance. Many violent schizophrenics have descending t bars. In the second note he also mentions us, which might indicate disassociative identity disorder. But I don't believe in multiple personalities. It's a psychiatric fairy tale. I think the us was deliberate, either a ploy or a nod to an accomplice."

So far, all on the money.

"His pressure and angularity are very extreme. Again, indicators of violent behavior and aggression. The d is the social self-image letter. His d"s are slanted to the right and clubbed. This usually means an inflated ego, along with a desire to control situations."

"Keep going, Doctor."

"He refers to himself in capital letters. I'd call that the mark of a grandiose narcissist. He refers to the police department in lowercase letters, minimizing your importance. That's all I can get from a handwriting analysis, but I'm also a psychiatrist. From what he's written, and from the little I know about the case, I can make some assumptions."

"Please do."

"You're dealing with a sexual sadist. He's a control freak, and mastery over life and death is the ultimate high. He's got severe delusions of grandeur. I would guess that he may also be a sociopath, without remorse for his actions. He will be able to fake emotions, but won't be able to truly feel them. Can you tell me anything about the case?"

I ran it all down for him, from the discovery of the first Jane Doe until he showed up.

"The idea that he's punishing these women is a good one," he said when I'd finished. "The amount of pain he inflicted on them would also indicate that he knew them personally, rather than just grabbed them at random."

"Why did he change his MO for the last one?" Herb pondered aloud.

"Do you know the cause of death yet?" Mulrooney asked.

I shook my head, and then I had it.

"He didn't change intentionally," I realized. "Something went wrong. Maybe he gave her too much Seconal and she went into a coma. Or she tried to escape and he had to kill her. But her body didn't show evidence of torture. I bet he wanted to torture her, but didn't get a chance, so instead took his punishment out on her dead body."

Mulrooney eyed me. "You'd make a good shrink."

"Thanks. Any other insights?"

"He's killed before. Probably many times. This isn't an amateur. He's just decided to go public with it. There's too much planning, preparation, and thought put into these crimes to make them his first. The only evidence he leaves is what he wants you to find. This is a game to him. But there must have been something that set him off on this spree. Some reason he's decided to go public. Maybe he got divorced, or lost his job."

"The triggering event."

"Right. And there's something else too. I'm sort of surprised you haven't caught it yet, Lieutenant."

"Caught what?"

"He's sent you letters, broke into your apartment, called you on the phone, and now demands that you get fired." Mulrooney gave me a pained look. "This man has a crush on you."

"A crush? He wants to kill me."

"Sociopaths can't express emotions normally. In the letter to the Tribune, he even refers to you in capital letters, maximizing your importance. He's a stalker. Now he's fixated on you. Perversely fixated. I think all of this is his way of courting you."

Golly. Other guys just send flowers.

"I have a surveillance team keeping an eye on me."

Mulrooney rubbed his mustache. "Do you know how hyenas find a carcass? They follow the flight patterns of vultures. The vultures lead them to the food."

"Christ," Herb said. He was thinking the same thing I was.

"The perp could be watching the watchers."

Chapter 33

WE GOT A JEEP."

"Does the suspect fit the description?"

"There's some resemblance. No ID on him, but he's mentioned your name."

I nodded at Herb. The dragnet had been his idea. We ordered six teams to sweep a ten-block radius around my surveillance tail. Trucks and vans were stopped. Parked cars were searched. People on foot were questioned.

"We're on our way in, Lieut. Where do you want him?"

"Bring him to room C." I hung up the phone and reached out my hand to Dr. Mulrooney. "Good suggestion. We may have our man. Thanks for all your input."

He shook and gave me his card. "I'm glad to be of help. Feel free to call if I can be of further assistance."

Herb and I took the elevator, conserving my energy. This was all a bit anticlimactic, but that was how most cases ended; with a whimper, rather than a bang. As long as we got the guy, I was happy.

My hopes were dashed once I saw who was brought into the interrogation room.

"Hello, Lieutenant."

Phineas Troutt sat down in the lone wooden chair and smiled patiently at me.

Herb gave me a nudge. "This the guy that broke into your apartment?"

I frowned. "No. His name is Phineas Troutt, two T"s. Pull his record."

I closed the door behind me and shook my head at the legion of cops sitting behind the one-way glass. Then I turned my attention to my pool partner. "What's going on, Phin? Have you been following me?"

"I saw you on the news. You're purposely trying to get the Gingerbread Man to come after you."

"What does this have to do with you?"

Phin shrugged. "I had some free time, thought I'd see what your setup was. You've got three teams of two guys, each pulling eight-hour shifts. They hang back no farther than two hundred feet, and couldn't be more conspicuous if they tried."

The room smelled like smoke and sweat and desperation. Phin, however, seemed relaxed and even amused.

"You still haven't told me why you were following me."

"I figured the killer would make another try for you, but he'd see your surveillance just like I did. So I hung back to see if anyone was doing what I was doing and watching your surveillance team."

I still didn't know his angle, but I felt a tingle of excitement.

"Did you notice anything?"

He nodded.

"Two cars and four trucks, all with solitary male drivers. All acting suspicious. I wrote down the makes, models, and plates."

"Where did you write it down?"

"We're friends, right, Jack?"

I frowned. Why did he suddenly get coy?

"I'd like to think so, Phin."

"And friends do each other favors."

"So this is a favor?"

"Sure. I don't like seeing my friends get hurt. I'm sure you feel the same way."

Now it made perfect sense.

"You're in trouble, aren't you?"

"Possession. Cocaine. Trial is coming up next month. I'll do time." Phin scratched his bald head, an obvious ploy to make me aware of his cancer. "And the time they want me to do, I don't have left."

I didn't answer. The silence dragged. I knew the DA, and the Gingerbread Man case was weighty enough that he'd trade his wife and mother for an arrest. But I disliked bargaining with criminals, even helpful ones who played pool with me.

"I'll be right back."

I left the interrogation room and met up with Herb in the hall. He handed over Phin's rap sheet.

There were several charges for assault, two for attempted murder, one for manslaughter, and two for murder in the second degree. No convictions -- in every case charges were dismissed, dropped, or he was acquitted.

"You busted this guy once?"

"Yeah. He was jumped by some gang-bangers. Killed two of them, put three more in the hospital. Self-defense. Phin wasn't even armed."

The other victims of Phin's crimes had case numbers after their names; they all had criminal records as well.

The single nonviolent crime on his sheet was for the cocaine. This was recent, only five months old. The amount was substantial enough for the DA to charge him with dealing rather than straight possession.

I went back into room C. Phin had his legs crossed and looked completely at ease.

"What do you do for a living, Phin?" I asked.

"I get by."

"By selling drugs?"

He made a face. "I don't sell drugs."

"You were arrested with thirty grams of cocaine in your possession."

"I wasn't selling it."

Herb snorted. "That was for personal use?"

Phin sized up Herb. "Morphine makes you sloppy. The coke helps with the pain and I can still stay alert."

"Where'd you get the coke?" Herb asked.

Phin ignored Herb and focused on me. "Are we helping each other, or are we going to keep pointing fingers?"

I stared into Phin's eyes. His personal life was none of my business, but I really disliked drugs, especially those who used them and sold them. On the other hand, he saved my ass back at Joe's Pool Hall, and he also may have just given us our biggest break.

And, even though I was a professional who never let personal feelings influence me, I kind of liked the guy.

"Deal. I'll get it squared with the DA."

"Can I get that in writing?"

"You have my word."

He nodded, then handed over the notebook. The first entry was "White Jeep, Ice Cream Truck, F912 556."

"Herb, run these plates. This may be our guy."

Benedict disappeared with the notebook. Phin stood up and put his hands in his pockets.

"I can go?"

"Yeah. Thanks."

"Thank you. I heard you got shot. Leg okay?"

"I've got a spare."

He grinned.

"You're a pretty tough chick. Maybe I'll see you around. We never got to finish that last game."

"I'll check my social calendar."

"I'll save a table for you."

He turned and left.

I met up with Herb in his office. His expression told me everything I needed to know.

"Plates belong to a Chrysler Voyager. Reported stolen six months ago."

I let out a deep breath. There wasn't any way to trace stolen plates. At most, we could put out an APB and hope someone picked him up.

"Did you run any of the others?"

"In the process. In the meantime, we should keep going with the dragnet. The perp may still be watching our guys."

It was a long shot, but all we had for the time being.

"Agreed. I'm going to my office to tune in."

The scanner on my desk let me follow the action. Short, staccato bursts of cop talk in between long stretches of static. Several other suspects were questioned, but none were brought in. After two hours of feeling like a spectator on my own case, I switched off the radio.

Depression settled on me like a heavy blanket.

"You hungry?" Herb popped in with a bag of BBQ pork rinds.

"No, thanks." I had no appetite at all. Even the prospect of a home-cooked meal held no appeal for me. I should probably call and cancel my date with Latham.

"We'll catch him, Jack."

"I don't want to spend the rest of my life obsessing about the one that got away."

My friend sat across from me.

"Then don't obsess."

"It's different with you, Herb."

"How so? I want to catch the guy too."

"But you have a life outside the force. This is all I have."

Herb set the bag down. You knew Benedict was serious about something when he pushed away food.

"You're the total of all the choices you've made in your life, Jack. This is what you have because this is what you chose."

I looked at him. "I've spent more than twenty years working hard at being a cop. I don't have a social life. I ruined my marriage. All I can do is this job. But if I'm not good enough for this, then what the hell is the point of my life?"

I bit my lower lip, my eyes welling up. I hated being weak, and I hated self-pity, but Herb's words really hit home.

I was here because this was the life I chose.

But what if I'd made the wrong choice?

My partner put his hand on my shoulder. "Jack, you're the best cop I know. If anyone can catch this guy, it's you."

I took a deep breath and held it, hoping in my heart of hearts that Herb was right.

Chapter 34

AFTER THE MAN LATHAM ANSWERS ALL of his questions, he ties him up with some extension cords and locks him in his own closet.

A dating service. How mundane. But how convenient for him.

Rather than try to circumvent Jack's surveillance team, all he has to do is wait here at Latham's house, and she will come to him.

He closes his eyes and imagines Jack in her bathroom. Putting on lipstick. Picking out a sexy dress. Perhaps she's even hoping to get laid tonight.

He decides that she will, whether she wants it or not.

The clock creeps up on eight o'clock.

The spider sits in his web and waits.

The fly will be here soon.

Chapter 35

BY SEVEN O'CLOCK I'D HAD MY fill of feeling sorry for myself. I stopped at the cleaners on the way home, but they hadn't even begun my order. After yelling for five minutes at a man who probably didn't deserve it, I got them to do a rush job on one of my pantsuits.

In my book, yelling was always more therapeutic than crying.

By the time I got home and showered, rebandaged my leg, and got dressed, I was late for my date. I called Latham on my cell to tell him.

The line was busy. After putting on perfume, grabbing the bottle of wine I bought Don an eternity ago, and strapping on my gun, I tried again. Busy.

Well, if his line was busy, then at least he was home. I informed my surveillance team of my destination and got on my way.

I was kind of excited. A home-cooked meal with an attractive man was the perfect way to get my mind off things.

After some torturous stop-and-go-stop-and-go, I made it to Latham's home half an hour late. He lived in a charming two-story brownstone, not too far from Benedict's house. I found a fire hydrant, parked the heap, and gave myself a final look-over in the rearview.

Not bad. Maybe I could do with a rinse in the near future, but not bad.

I grabbed the wine and hobbled up his porch. The doorbell rang with a Big Ben chime.

"Come in!"

I opened the door, assuming he was still on the phone. The house was dark, quiet. I sniffed the air, but couldn't make out any cooking aromas.

Next to me, on the foyer floor, a chair was overturned.

Warning bells went off in my head. What if the killer had been following me, and saw me with Latham?

What if the killer was here?

I let go of my wine and reached for my gun -- stopping when I noticed the one already being aimed at me.

"Hi, Jack." The Gingerbread Man stood at the foot of the staircase, several feet to my left. "Take out the gun, slowly, and toss it over here."

Fear swam up my spine, like a cold and clammy fish. My feet had frozen to the floor.

"Where's Latham?" I managed.

"He doesn't matter. The gun. Now."

The killer smiled and moved two steps closer. He looked vaguely like our composite picture, but more wolfish and grubby. A bandage covered most of his left profile, and his one black eye bored into me.

"I won't ask again. The gun."

But I wasn't going to play by his rules. In one motion I dropped to my knees and yanked out my .38. My injury screamed at me, but I managed to squeeze off two rounds.

My shots went wide, and the killer ducked into the next room. My leg felt like it had been snapped in half. I watched blood seep through the bandage, but saw no other holes in my body. Had he even fired?

I scooted across the floor and got behind a sofa, my gun trained on the kitchen. The cellular was in my pocket, and I took it out with my left hand.

"Hey, Jack!"

He was behind me. I turned, bringing around the .38, pulling the trigger...

Latham.

He had tape over his mouth, and the maniac was using him as a shield, the gun jammed under his jaw.

I managed to jerk my shot over their heads.

"Drop it. Now, or he dies."

Latham's face was pure panic, eyes unbelievably wide, moans coming from his throat.

I let the gun fall.

"Good girl. Now get up."

I pulled myself to my feet, using the sofa. My bad leg was shaking so hard, it could barely support me.

"The phone. Put it away."

I stuck it in my pocket. Had my surveillance team heard the shots? Doubtful. They were over a block away.

"What happened to your face, Charles? Cut yourself shaving?"

"Such bravado in a hopeless situation. You're a hero to the end, Jack. But how are you going to handle this, hero?"

He shoved Latham in front of him, aiming his weapon. I watched, helpless, as he shot Latham twice in the back.

Latham flopped forward, his head bouncing off the floor. Then he was still.

"Any more smart comments?"

I limped to Latham, but the killer rushed over and kicked me in my bad leg. I howled, dropping to the carpet.

"Do I have your attention now, Jack?"

He kicked again, this time at my head. Motes of light burst in my skull, a fireworks display of pain.

"Looks like the coward is kicking your ass. Maybe you're the one who's going to cry for her mama. Isn't that what you said on the news?"

I tried to focus, looking for where I'd dropped my gun. He followed my gaze and picked it up.

"You know why I said those things." My head was swimming, my leg on fire.

"Naturally. To get me to come after you. You should be happy. It worked."

My cell phone rang. Neither of us moved.

"It's the team checking in."

"Keep it simple. You're making dinner. Everything is fine. One wrong word..."

He put the barrel of his gun to my bloody pants and pressed. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from crying.

"Make it good."

I spoke through my teeth. "You want them to hear me scream?"

He relieved the pressure and I sucked in a breath before answering the phone.

"Yeah?"

"You okay, Lieutenant? We heard what might have been gunshots."

"We're fine. Making dinner right now. Everything is peachy."

"Peachy" was the code word. They'd be here to rescue me within a minute, if I lived that long.

"Just checking."

He hung up. They did know the code word was "peachy," didn't they?

"Good job, Jack. Now we'll go for a little ride. Where's your surveillance?"

"A block away. Down Leavitt."

"Okay. We're going out the alley. My truck is back there. Get up."

I struggled to get to my feet, putting all my weight on my good leg. He wound his hand in my hair and jerked me upward. Then he pulled my head to his face. I felt his breath on my neck, sour milk and rotten meat.

"We're going to get to know each other, Jack. Like only a man and a woman can. We're even going to make a little movie."

He licked my ear. The revulsion I felt was so intense, I had to pull away, ripping out some of my hair in the process.

"Oh, it won't be so bad. I'm going to make you famous, Lieutenant. Our video will be on every news show in America. They'll have to edit out the nasty parts, though."

My cell phone rang. The signal. I dropped to the floor and covered my head just as the door burst inward.

Gunshots. Breaking glass. A moan. One of my guys went down in the doorway, and Charles ran away through the kitchen.

I pulled myself along the floor, over to Latham, checking for a pulse.

Faint, but there.

"Harris!"

He was kneeling next to the fallen body of his partner, a cop named Mark.

"I'll call for backup!" I told him. "He has a truck out back. Go!"

Harris took off after the killer. I found my phone and dialed 911, saying the most dreaded words in police lingo.

"This is Lieutenant Jack Daniels out of the two-six, officer down..."

After giving them my badge number and an address, I crawled over to Mark, who was pitched face-first on the carpet. Shoulder wound, a bad one. I kept pressure on it.

A minute later the place was surrounded with cops. Latham and Mark were carted off in ambulances. They tried to take me too, but I put up such a fight, they gave up.

Harris came back. He'd chased the killer on foot down an alley, but the perp had gotten away in a plumbing truck. He got a plate number, and it matched the one Phin gave us.

Benedict arrived shortly thereafter. "You okay, Jack?"

I was sitting at the kitchen table, an ice pack pressed to my leg. "He got away again, Herb. Even worse -- he got my gun."

The thought of him killing someone with my weapon was almost as sickening as the thought of him torturing me to death.

"On the way over, I got word from the hospital. Your date has a collapsed lung and internal bleeding. He's in surgery. But it looks pretty good."

"How about Mark?"

"Stable." Herb put his hand on my shoulder. His eyes were kind. "This wasn't your fault. We couldn't have known he was waiting here for you."

"Yes we could have. This would all be over now if I'd just used some common sense and thought about it. He'd been following me, Herb, saw me with Latham, and followed him instead. If he dies..."

"You aren't the bad guy here, Jack. You didn't pull the trigger."

"As if that makes a difference."

"It does, and you know it. Why don't you come over? Bernice is keeping the pot roast warm for me. There's more than enough."

I shook my head.

"Jack, there'll be plenty of time to beat yourself up later. Come to my house and eat."

"I'm going to the hospital, check on Latham."

Herb frowned, but knew there wasn't any point in arguing. I stuck around for a bit longer, sulking, and then limped out to my car and went to the hospital.

Latham was in Recovery. The doctor said he was still critical, but the outlook was good. I'd found an address book near his kitchen phone and called his parents. They came about an hour later, crying. We all sat vigil late into the night. None of us slept.

At five in the morning Latham's eyelids fluttered, and he awoke briefly. His gaze met mine.

"I don't want you here," he said.

I went back to my apartment.

There was a bottle of whiskey in the kitchen cabinet.

Since sleeping wasn't an option, I hit the bottle until I passed out.

Chapter 36

I WOKE UP TO PAIN.

Leg pain. Headache pain.

Emotional pain.

One more layer on the shit cake.

It was almost two in the afternoon. My stomach was doing a mambo, protesting all the liquor I'd consumed. I dropped two Alka-Seltzer in a glass of water and drank it before they finished dissolving.

I called the hospital. Latham was stable. His parents didn't let me talk to him. Couldn't blame them, I guess. I considered sending flowers, or at least a card apologizing, but they would only be reminders of me, the person who put him through hell.

My stomach settled down some, so I swallowed three aspirin to help with my other aches. I was due for a day off, but didn't feel that I deserved one. After a shower I scrubbed the bloodstains out of my pants. Then I shelved the guilt for later, and went to work.

Captain Bains wanted to see me. I gave him the blow-by-blow, filled out the requisition form for a new gun, and picked one up at the Armory.

It was homecoming week for the media. The Gingerbread Man's letter was all over the news last night, as was the discovery of the third woman. The incident at Latham's fueled the fire. Internal Affairs began conducting an investigation of the loss of my weapon. Bains told me to keep a very low profile, and the word to the world was I'd been suspended pending an inquiry.

Unofficially, I was still on the case. I just wasn't allowed to be connected with it. We live in a political world.

After working with a police artist to improve our composite photo of the perp, I grabbed a vending-machine ham on rye and went down to the shooting range to try out my new .38.

I spent an hour there, shooting round after round into paper silhouettes, imagining each one was the Gingerbread Man. When I was finished, my gun was hot to the touch and the stench of cordite had penetrated my clothes and hair like cigarette smoke.

When I got back to my office, Benedict was waiting.

"We matched prints off the third Jane Doe. Army record. Reserves. Her name was Nancy Marx. You up for it?"

"Let's go."

We took the elevator because I wasn't anxious to start bleeding again. Benedict drove. Nancy Marx had lived in a townhouse on Troy, off Irving Park Road. Herb already had a search warrant, should there be a need to break in.

There was no need.

"May I help you?"

A woman answered the door. Elderly, gray, wrinkled, someone's grandmother. My heart clenched.

"I'm Lieutenant Daniels. This is Detective Benedict. Does Nancy Marx live here?"

"Did you find her? I called this morning, but I was told I couldn't fill out a missing person report until she'd been missing two days."

"Are you related to Nancy?"

"I'm her grandmother. What's going on? Where's Nancy?"

In less than two sentences I destroyed this woman's life. If there was one part of my job I hated the most, this was it. Herb and I stood there, awkwardly, while she went from shock, to denial, to hysteria, and finally to depressed acceptance, moaning like a ghost haunting an old love.

We took turns trying to comfort her.

After the initial outpouring of emotion, they always wanted to know how and why.

We told her the how. We didn't know the why.

"She didn't suffer," was all we could offer.

The autopsy report had confirmed this. Nancy Marx died from a broken neck. How the ME figured that out from examining an array of body parts amazed me.

"But who did this to her?"

"We don't know yet, Miss..."

"Marx. Sylvia Marx. Nancy's parents, my son and daughter-in-law, died in a car accident seven years ago. She was all I had left."

We lost her to sobbing again. Benedict made some coffee in the kitchen, and I sat with the old woman on the couch, holding her hand.

"Mrs. Marx, did your granddaughter have any enemies?"

"None. Not one. She was a good girl."

"How about a boyfriend?"

"No one steady for a while now. Nancy was popular, she dated a lot, but there hasn't been anyone serious since Talon."

"Talon?"

"Talon Butterfield. Didn't really care for him much. He fooled around on her. They were engaged too. Lived together for a while, and then she moved in with me earlier this year, after she broke up with him. It was nice to have her home."

Her gray eyes began to blur again.

"Did Nancy know anyone named Theresa Metcalf?" I showed her a picture.

"No. Can't recall. Is she dead too?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Pretty thing, like my Nancy."

I had her look at other pictures, of the first Jane Doe, and of the recent composite of our perp.

"I'm sorry, but no. I don't know any of them."

"Do you have an address for Talon Butterfield?"

"No. I don't think Nancy does either. When she left, he moved out of town. They haven't been in touch, as far as I know. Do you think Talon was part of this?"

"That's what we're trying to figure out, Mrs. Marx."

"I never liked the boy, but he wasn't a killer. He loved Nancy. He just couldn't keep his drumstick in his pants."

Benedict brought us coffee, and we asked a few more questions. After they yielded nothing, we got permission to search Nancy's room.

It was small, modest, and neat. Her drawers held no secrets. There were no letters, no appointment books, no bills, no canceled checks, nothing at all.

It occurred to Herb that maybe Nancy's things might be somewhere else. Not too many people did all of their paperwork in the bedroom. We decided to ask Sylvia. She was in the den, petting a white cat, staring at a framed picture of her dead grandchild. The cat jumped off her lap and fled when we approached.

"Mrs. Marx, did Nancy have a checkbook?"

"She kept it in the kitchen, in the utility drawer."

"Canceled checks as well?"

"Nancy had one of those cards. Like a credit card, but it drew from her checking account. The bank keeps the canceled checks."

"How about an address book? Or credit card statements? Or personal letters?"

"She has a box of papers that she never unpacked after moving in. It's in the closet there. Did you find anything from Talon?"

"No."

"I didn't think so. Nancy gathered up everything, pictures, gifts, cards, and threw it away when she left him. But I was thinking. If you want to find out about him, you could ask that private detective."

"Ma'am?"

"Nancy hired a private detective to spy on Talon when she thought he was being unfaithful."

My heart rate went up.

"Do you remember his name?"

"Let me think. Nancy actually went out with him a few times, after Talon. She brought him to the house once, and he pinched my bottom."

Sylvia Marx giggled, tears still in her eyes.

"Henry, was it? Henry McGee. No, McGlade. Henry McGlade?"

"You mean Harry McGlade?" Benedict asked.

"Yes, that was it. Harry McGlade."

Jackpot.

Chapter 37

HE HAS TO GET RID OF the truck.

That isn't part of his plan. His fingerprints are all over the damn thing. Even if he spends an entire day wiping it down, he'll never clean it completely.

And his fingerprints will lead them to him. He's never taken the pains to establish a new identity. He never thought that they'd get close enough for it to be necessary.

He goes over it all again in his head, goes over what they have.

They know his face now. But with some hair dye and a shave, that can be changed. There's nothing connecting him to the truck; he stole it in Detroit and put stolen Illinois plates on it. He has no business license. His driver's license is current, but shows an old address, and he never bothered to update it after getting married and moving.

But there are some links to his present address. The phone company and the electric company. The IRS. Credit cards. The bank. If the cops get his name, they'll be able to find him without much trouble. And once they find him, they'll be able to convict. In his cockiness, he's giving them his DNA. Not the smartest move, in hindsight.

He has to move quickly, establish a new ID. Maybe even go to one of those doctors who can laser away your fingerprints. He'll disappear, resurface someplace else. Maybe even leave the country. There were plenty of women around the world to have fun with.

But first he has to finish the job here.

He takes a bus back to his house after ditching the truck in an all-night parking garage. Jack isn't on his mind for the moment. All of his focus is on the last victim. She'll be the easiest of all. No stalking necessary. No need for the truck. If he plays it right, he won't even need the Seconal.

He picks up the phone, no longer worried about telephone records or paper trails. It will all be over by tomorrow.

"Hello?"

"Diane? This is Charles."

"Charles?"

"I know you're surprised to hear from me. We didn't split on the best of terms. How are you?"

"Good. I'm doing good. I'm seeing someone."

"Good for you. I hope he's treating you well. Look, I'm calling because my therapist..."

"You're in therapy?"

"Yeah. For about six months now. She's helping me deal with my anger."

He tries to keep the smile out of his voice.

"Well, good for you, Charles. I'm happy for you."

"I need a favor, Diane. After you left me, I did a lot of soul-searching. My therapist says I'm a different man now, but I still carry a lot of guilt over how I hurt you. As long as I have this guilt, I won't be much good for anyone, myself included."

He was reading out of a notebook filled with chicken scratches, sentences rewritten over and over until they sounded right.

"I need to see you, Diane, to apologize in person. If I know you've forgiven me, then I can get on with my life."

"I forgive you, Charles."

"Then let me say it in person. Please. You don't owe me anything, but we were in love once. It's the final step in my recovery. Please. Let me see you once more."

He holds his breath, waiting for her answer.

"Fine. When?"

"What are you doing tonight?" the Gingerbread Man asks.

He grins. He'll finally get to use that soldering iron.

Chapter 38

I WANT MY LAWYER," SAID Harry McGlade.

He sat in interrogation room C, in the same chair Phin had yesterday, Benedict and I standing over him. I had a car pick McGlade up and bring him here after we left Mrs. Marx. So far he was the only link between the two identified victims. I wasn't about to set foot in his apartment ever again, so questioning him here was the logical course of action. I suppose the intimidation aspect was also a factor.

But McGlade was not easily intimidated.

"I told you, you don't need a lawyer, McGlade. You're just answering some questions. You aren't being charged with anything."

"So what's with the media circus? What do you think that's doing for my reputation?"

Before Harry arrived, I left anonymous tips with several individuals involved in reporting the news that a suspect was being brought in. They kindly waited in front of the station and took three thousand pictures of Harry as he entered. I figured it would help make McGlade cooperative.

And if I could admit to being small, I also thought it was damn funny.

"Do you recognize this woman?" Benedict held up the photo of the first Jane Doe.

"How many times do I have to say it before it sinks into that Pillsbury Doughboy head? I don't recognize her. I knew Theresa because she hired me. I knew Nancy because Theresa introduced her to me. I dated Nancy a few times."

"How did Theresa and Nancy know each other?"

"I think they went to the same health club."

"Which one?"

"I don't know. Look, Nancy came in one day, said she wanted me to follow her boyfriend, said Theresa referred her to me. I didn't pursue it."

"Are you sure you don't want to check your cereal box?"

Harry made a sour face and picked some crud off his jacket. There were so many wrinkles in his suit that he gave the impression of just crawling out of a washing machine, save for the fact that he was covered with stains.

"I don't know how they were connected, Jackie. But I do know a few big-city lawyers who get their rocks off suing cops for defamation of character and false arrest."

"You're not under arrest, McGlade."

"Then I can leave." McGlade stood up.

I got in his face, glaring. "Don't you care about these women?"

"That's not the point. This treatment is unnecessary, and I'm getting pissed off. All you and Tonto the Wonder Chimp had to do was drop by my office. But instead you drag me here, and I get my name splashed all over the news in connection with your lousy case. Would you hire a private investigator who was a suspect in three serial murders?"

Of course I wouldn't. That was the idea.

"If you cooperate, Harry, I release a statement saying you helped us catch the guy. That without your valuable insight and expertise, we never could have cracked this case."

McGlade batted this around between his ears. After a few seconds, his face split into a big-toothed grin.

"Smooth, Jackie. It's about time you learned how to play hardball. You were so straightlaced back when we were partners."

Benedict jerked his thumb at Harry and gave me the eyebrow. "He was your partner? That's awful."

"Thanks for the sympathy, Chubbs, but it wasn't so bad. I got razzed a lot, getting paired with a broad. But in the end, it all worked out okay. Didn't it, Jackie?"

McGlade winked, then blew me a kiss.

I made a fist, and Herb had to pull me away before I broke the little wiener's nose.

"Don't let him rattle you, Jack."

But Harry did more than just rattle me. Much more.

When we were partners, I actually thought he was an okay guy, hygiene aside. He pulled his weight, watched my back, and we had one of the best arrest records in the district.

This was right after my promotion to detective third class, and I was out to prove to the brass that I could play with the big boys. I worked twice as hard as the men, for only half the respect. To compensate for this, whenever I had any downtime, I worked cold cases. Murder had no statute of limitations, and unsolveds were never officially closed.

A particular case commanded a good deal of my attention; the rape/murder of a fifteen-year-old girl in Grant Park. Witnesses claimed to have seen her talking with a homeless man in a red baseball cap half an hour before her death. This angle had been extensively followed up, and led nowhere.

I chose to look closer at her ex-boyfriend. Straight-A student, no record, plenty of friends. His alibi for the night of the murder was shaky, but no one could believe he was a killer.

He did, however, collect baseball caps. He had samples from every team in the Major League, with two notable exceptions: Boston and Cincinnati. I thought it a little funny, that an avid collector would be missing the only two hats in MLB that were red.

It took a year, and cost me my marriage, but I pieced together a good case against the kid. Before I sought a warrant, I shared my findings with my partner, to get his opinion.

Harry repaid my trust by getting a warrant first, then arresting the suspect himself on my day off.

Not only did Harry get credit for the collar and a subsequent promotion, but when I complained to my lieutenant, McGlade trumpeted that he made the arrest to protect me.

"He was a dangerous murderer. Sending a woman after him would have been really stupid."

The department rallied around him, and the chauvinism in my department plumbed new depths. All of my hard work, all of my fighting to be treated as an equal in a male-dominated profession, gone because my partner was a sexist, backstabbing jerk.

It was years before I earned back the respect of my squad. But I couldn't ever forgive Harry.

I took a deep breath, unclenched my fist, and put on a big smile.

"Remind me again why you were kicked off the force, McGlade."

His smile lost some wattage. "I wasn't kicked off. I quit."

"You mean you quit after you were forced to take a leave of absence. Something to do with taking bribes, wasn't it?"

"I wasn't on the take. Someone set me up."

"And who'd want to do that to a sweet guy like you?"

He frowned. "Was it you, Jackie?"

"No, Harry. But I wasn't too sad to hear about it. Whatever happened to those bribery charges?"

"Dropped when I left."

"Isn't your PI license up for renewal soon?"

McGlade folded his arms and scowled.

"I take one bust from you fifteen years ago and you want to mess with my livelihood?"

"No, McGlade. I want you to help us catch a murderer. Now sit, and tell us about your investigation of Talon Butterfield." I forced a tight smile and added, "Please."

Harry weighed my sincerity, then sat down.

"Not much to tell. Nancy pretended to go out of town for the weekend, had me follow him to see what he did. He went barhopping, picked up some little honey, and took her straight back to their place. Did it right on Nancy's bed. I had to climb the fire escape to take pictures."

"And how many times did you see Nancy after that?"

"I don't know. Three or four. I think she used me to help get over Talon. I was happy to be of service."

"Did you have sexual relations with Nancy Marx?" Herb asked.

"I don't kiss and tell."

"Yes you do."

"Oh yeah, right. I shagged her a few times. In fact, we shared a room the night of the Trainter show."

"The Trainter show?"

"Yeah. That was the first time."

"What about the Trainter show?" I asked. What did any of this have to do with the local talk show?

"When you're on the show, they give you a free hotel room the night before. Nancy shared her room with me."

"Nancy was on The Max Trainter Show?"

"Sure. She and Theresa both. A show about cheating fiances. You guys didn't know this? Some detectives you are."

"Think carefully, McGlade. Who else was on that show?"

"I don't remember, Jackie. It was five, six months ago. The show was about women who were dumping their men because they cheated on them. There were one or two other girls, I think. It was a wild show, even for Trainter. They had to bleep most of it. Max and I are old beer buddies. I'm the one who persuaded them to go on, dump their guys on TV."

"Look at the picture again, McGlade. Was this woman on the show?"

I showed him the first Jane Doe photo.

"Are you deaf? I don't know. You're showing me a computer enhanced photograph of a dead chick, who I might have seen on a show months ago. I'm not good with faces." He grinned at me. "So, have you finally forgiven me, Jackie? Maybe we could have a few drinks later."

"You're free to go, McGlade."

Harry stood up and brushed his pants. The wrinkles didn't come out.

"Just make sure I'm mentioned in your press statement, or I'll have to bring a lawsuit against this fine police establishment."

He shot me with his thumb and index finger, flipped the mirror the bird, and walked out of the door. A second later he walked back in.

"You got a couple bucks for a cab?"

I fished in my pocket and came up with some change.

"Here." I handed it to him. "Take the bus."

"Cold, Jackie. That's cold."

But he took the money and once again left. I'm sure the press was waiting for him outside, and I could only hope he'd make himself look like an idiot in front of them.

I probably didn't have to hope too hard.

"It can't be this simple," Benedict stated.

"Only one way to find out."

We went into a conference room down the hall and grabbed a phone. A minute later I was on the horn with the network where The Max Trainter Show was taped. After being bounced around a few times I was put in touch with the technical director, a guy named Ira Herskovitz. Once I'd informed him of the situation, he agreed to send over a dub of the show in question. I told him to send the unedited master. He refused, stating that the master tapes never left the building.

I was the cop, so I won. A squad car with sirens blaring went to pick it up, and when it arrived twenty minutes later I already had a 3/4" videotape recorder set up in my office.

"Cross your fingers," I said to Herb.

I pressed the play button.

Color bars and tone. A graphic with the show name, date, number, and director. Opening titles. Cue Max.

Trainter introduced the first guest, Ella. Ella was actually Theresa Metcalf.

Theresa dumped her fiance, Johnny Tashing, in front of the studio audience. Tashing had been unaware of the reason he was on the show, and when Theresa confronted him about his affair and tossed her engagement ring in his face, the crowd cheered. Tashing looked destroyed.

Next was Norma. Norma was our first Jane Doe, no doubt about it. She also dumped her cheating fiance. He called her several naughty slang terms, and stormed off the stage.

Third was Laura, aka Nancy Marx. Her fiance, a guy we guessed was Talon Butterfield, was similarly dumped with much audience applause. Talon grinned a lot and shrugged his shoulders.

Then Nancy's new boyfriend was introduced. He came out, gave her roses and a peck on the cheek, and was abruptly attacked by Talon. Talon got in a good smack to the face, but the new man knocked him down with an uppercut before the bouncers separated them.

The guy with the quick fists was our favorite private detective, Harry McGlade.

The last guest came on. The fourth woman. The one we hadn't seen yet. Her name was Brandy, and she was breaking up with her husband because he didn't come home some nights during the week. She suspected an affair, and couldn't take it anymore.

When her husband came out, I paused the tape.

There, frozen on the screen in midstride, was the Gingerbread Man.

"That's our guy."

Herb got on the phone with the studio, demanding the real names and addresses of the guests on this show. I let the tape run, watching as Brandy confronted the guy, watching as she dumped him, watching as the other girls on the panel called him names and teased him badly, watching as he picked up his chair, threw it at her, went into a screaming, swearing animal rage and attacked everybody on the set. Four bouncers and three security guards were needed to restrain him, and when he was hauled off the stage, the audience was on its feet cheering.

"Charles and Diane Kork," Benedict said. "Address in Evanston. Don't know if it's current."

I stood up and turned to face the eighteen other people in the room who were huddled around the TV.

"I need anything we can find on Charles Kork. Criminal record, DMV, phone, credit cards, aliases, everything. I want to know his life story and I want it now."

The next twenty minutes were a stampede of activity, phone calls, and computer checks. My team would call out info as it came.

"Got a record. Two stretches for assault and attempted."

"Divorce papers, finalized three months ago."

"I have a Diane Kork at an apartment on Goethe."

"DMV has a Charles Kork owning a 1992 Jeep."

"Evanston address checks out. Kork still seems to be living there."

Herb got on the phone again, dialing Diane Kork's number.

"Answering machine."

"Warrants," I told him. I played authority figure and divvied up assignments, including picking teams to send to Diane's place and to the killer's.

Sometimes this was how it worked. Tracking countless leads into dead ends, and suddenly it all came together. The end of the road.

Dr. Mulrooney had talked about something setting our man off. I guess getting dumped on national television qualified as a good triggering event.

"Kork is on Ashland and Fifty-third," Herb said. "You want to go there, or Diane's?"

"There. Let's move. I want eight men, full armor, now."

The adrenaline was pumping so hard, I didn't even feel the pain in my leg. Herb and I helped each other into our Kevlar vests, snugging Velcro and adjusting the shoulders. Then we strapped on lapel radios and earpieces and headed for the patrol cars.

I had four teams coming with me, plus me and Herb. Evanston PD was meeting us there with more men. Herb placed an obligatory call to the Feds, but called the local branch to stall for time -- it would take a while to get the message to Agents Dailey and Coursey, and by then it would all be over.

In the black and white, siren screaming, Dispatch filled us in on Chuck's record.

"He's thirty-seven years old. Eight arrests in the past nineteen years. Convictions for aggravated sexual assault and attempted murder. Last stretch ended in 1998. Since then he's been clean."

"Not clean. Just careful."

The team heading to Diane Kork's arrived first. She wasn't home, and her place showed no signs of disturbance.

I hoped we weren't too late.

Three miles from the target we killed lights and sirens. The houses here were one-story one-family dwellings, middle-class income. I was hyper-tuned to my environment, noticing many things at once; the streets were pitted with potholes, the dusk air smelled like leaves, my chest felt confined in the tight vest, Herb had sweat on his forehead.

This was it.

Benedict parked behind a row of squad cars, all waiting for his signal.

"Ready?" he asked me.

"It's your show."

We got out of the car.

Suddenly, tearing down the street with much squealing of tires, a black Mustang convertible bypassed the police barricade and bounced over the curb and onto the sidewalk. It screeched to a stop on Charles Kork's front lawn, digging up four rolls of sod.

A man in a trench coat, holding what looked like a gallon jug of milk, leaped from the car and ran up to the porch.

I cleared leather with my .38 and limped in pursuit. Someone with a megaphone yelled, "Freeze! Police!" At ten yards away I dropped into a Weaver stance and kept a bead on the figure.

"Freeze! Hands in the air!"

The man put his hands up, still clutching the jug.

"Turn around! Slowly!"

I felt my backup fill in behind me. There was a tense pause. Then the man slowly craned his neck around and stared at me.

"Kinda funny how history repeats itself, huh?"

Harry McGlade.

Chapter 39

WAKE UP, MY LOVE."

He slaps his ex-wife across the face, watching the blood rush to her cheek. She whimpers, eyelids fluttering.

"It's Charles, honey. Wake up."

Diane Kork opens her eyes and stares at the man standing above her. She tries to move but can't.

"Charles, what are you --"

He cuts her off with another cuff to the mouth.

"You talk too much, Diane. Always talking. Always criticizing. I don't want to hear it anymore. All I want to hear are your screams."

He walks away. Diane lifts her head, looking at what restrains her. Twine. Her ankles and wrists are bound with twine. She's in her bra and panties, stretched out on a cement floor. Her hands and feet are tied to posts that have been driven through the concrete.

"I've got four tapes." Her ex-husband is standing off to her right, next to a video camera mounted on a tripod. "That's four hours. Most women can't scream anymore after the third hour, but I've got high hopes for you. You've got such a big mouth."

Charles Kork walks to a table and picks up a hunting knife.

"Charles, please, untie me. This isn't funny."

"You don't think so? I think it's high comedy. This is the American Dream, Diane. Killing the woman you married. For four years, I listened to you bitch and nag. And I took it. Why? First of all, because you were a perfect cover. Cops look for loners, not married guys. A single guy gets attention. A married guy is invisible."

"Charles --"

"I'm not finished!" He hits her again. "Do you want to know what I was doing on those nights I never came home? You thought I was cheating on you, right? That's why you left me."

Charles leans over her, gets in her face.

"I was really out killing people, Diane. Stalking and killing people. Not cheating. Not really, anyway. I may have fucked them before I killed them, but I wouldn't say I was having any affairs."

Diane squeezes her eyes shut. "This isn't happening."

"Was I a bad husband, Diane? I spent time with you. I took you places. We even baked cookies together. Remember?"

He grabs a lacquered gingerbread man from the table, the last one, and thrusts it before her eyes.

"Look familiar? I was your perfect little suburban husband. I mowed the lawn. I paid the bills. I went out with your stupid friends and took you to movies and bought you flowers. I kept up my end of the bargain."

He bends down and smashes the cookie in her face.

"And then, out of the blue, you decide to leave me. Leave me! On television, in front of millions of people! Who do you think you are? Nobody leaves me!"

She's crying now. "Charles, please --"

"You don't get it, Diane. I've killed almost thirty people. Your younger sister, who ran off? She didn't run off. I buried her in a shallow grave in a forest preserve in the suburbs. Sneakers the cat? I broke his goddamn little neck. Haven't you been watching the news? I'm the Gingerbread Man."

Diane's eyes get wide as Charles kneels beside her. She begins to hyperventilate.

"We've got four hours of tape to fill." He brushes the tip of the knife over her quivering lips. "Four hours of quality time."

"Please, Charles. I'm your wife."

The Gingerbread Man cackles. "Till death do us part."

His knife enters her flesh.

Chapter 40

DAMMIT!" I UNCOCKED MY PISTOL."Hold your fire!"

I stormed over to Harry, who was smiling ear to ear.

"I hope you didn't scare away the bad guy with all that screaming, Jackie."

"Drop the milk and put your hands on your head, McGlade. You're under arrest."

"It's not milk. It's filled with concrete."

"This isn't a game, Harry. Now put --"

Before I had a chance to finish the sentence, McGlade rushed the front door, swinging the milk jug at the knob like he was bowling. The door burst inward, momentum taking McGlade into the house.

I saw the entire bust fall apart before my eyes, and without even thinking I hobbled in after him.

"Around the back!" I yelled to whoever was listening. "Cover the perimeter!"

The house was dark and silent. All the curtains had been drawn. There was a sickly-sweet smell in the air, disinfectant masking something else. Something rotten. I tried a light switch, but it didn't work.

"He's cut the power." McGlade was halfway down the hall, moving in a crouch. He'd dropped his plastic jug in favor of a .44 Magnum. It was the kind of gun I'd expected Harry to have -- big and loud.

"McGlade, you asshole!" I whispered viciously at his back. "You're blowing this arrest!"

"Just say you deputized me."

"I'm not Wyatt Earp, McGlade. Now put down --"

"Hey, Charlie!" he yelled. "You've got company!"

Somebody screamed. A woman.

"Basement." Harry rushed through the house opening doors. Closet. Bathroom. Stairway.

We peered down. The stairs were dark and old, curving slightly so we couldn't see the bottom.

Behind us, cops flooded in.

"Cover me." McGlade headed down the stairs.

"We've confirmed a woman in the basement," I said into my lapel mike. "We're going down." I followed him, keeping one hand on the railing, trying to keep the weight off my bad leg.

"Don't shoot me in the back of the head, Jackie."

We made our way down several more steps, the soupy darkness engulfing us. I heard a jingle of keys and tensed, and then a little light went on in Harry's hand.

"Key light. Best buck-fifty I ever spent."

The basement floor came into view, and the smell wafted over us like a fog.

"Christ." Harry wrinkled his nose. "Something dead down here."

A noise at the top of the stairs made us turn. Two uniforms.

"Flashlight!" I whispered.

They shook their heads. They'd taken off their flashlights when they put on the Kevlar.

"There's the circuit breaker." Harry played the light over a wall near the bottom of the stairs. "Go turn on the electricity. I'll cover you."

I cleared my throat and passed McGlade on the stairs. There was a sound to our left.

"Help me."

A growl followed, and then a heart-wrenching scream.

I ran for the circuit breaker.

Chapter 41

THEY'VE FOUND HIM.

He has barely started on her, barely even drawn blood, and now it's all going to end.

He curses, controlling the urge to cut her head off, forcing himself into action.

The Gingerbread Man can handle this. It isn't expected, but he's planned ahead far enough to foresee this possibility. He puts the knife in his belt, checks his pocket for the lighter, and grabs his gun.

He hears the front door burst in and he hits the circuit breaker, plunging the house into darkness. Someone yells his name.

Diane screams. He walks to her in the dark, guided by the flame on his Zippo.

"Scream again and I shoot you."

The gun goes into her mouth to drive his point home. Then he uses the knife to cut her free.

"Kneel, bitch."

She kneels on the concrete floor, whimpering. He flicks his lighter again and finds the master fuse on the floor, running along the back wall.

Voices.

Charles listens.

One is Jack's.

Light the fuse and get out of here, he tells himself.

But Jack is so close.

Charles wants to see her one more time.

He goes to his wife and crouches behind her as Jack and someone else descend the stairs.

One last time, Charles thinks. One last dance.

Before everything goes boom.

Chapter 42

I RUSHED THE CIRCUIT BREAKER, OPENING the panel door and flipping on the main.

The basement exploded in light. Spotlights. Set up on stands and hanging from the ceiling like a TV studio.

And in the center of the lights...our killer.

"Hi, Jack." He was squinting against the glare, hiding behind a kneeling half-naked woman. She had blood running freely down her torso from several dozen cuts. A gun was being pressed under her chin.

My gun.

"Take it easy, Charles."

"I've got him, Jack." McGlade assumed a shooting stance. "I can blow his head off from here."

Charles brought his free hand around to the woman's front and flicked a Zippo lighter. He held it next to her hand. In her trembling fist was a length of rope. I followed the rope to where it divided into six segments, each leading to the base of a large barrel. They were spaced far apart along the walls of the basement.

It wasn't a rope at all. It was a fuse.

"Hold it, Harry! Everyone fall back! I don't want anyone within fifty yards!" In my earpiece, I heard the commotion of my men complying.

"Such a good cop, Jack. Such concern for her people."

"What's in the barrels, Charles?"

"Gasoline. Enough to take out the whole block."

"Stand down!" I yelled into my mike. "Clear out the houses on both sides and call the FDP! It's all wired to burn!"

The word spread quickly. Panic. Evacuation. Herb came over the air, begging me to pull out. I ignored him.

Only McGlade and I remained.

"You can't get away, Charles. There's nowhere to go."

"You're wrong there. You're the one who can't get away. Once I light this, the whole place goes up. You won't have time to piss your pants."

"I'm shooting him," Harry said.

"Both of you drop your guns. Now, or I light it."

I took a step closer. "It's over, Charles. Give up. Maybe you can do a Trainter show from your cell, let him interview you live."

Charles Kork grinned, pure malice, pure evil.

"Good-bye, Jack. I'm sorry we never got to know each other. I guess I'll just have to look up your mother after you're dead."

He lit the fuse, and then dragged Diane backward, retreating to the other side of the basement. Next to the furnace was a back door. Charles yanked his wife through it and disappeared into the night.

But Harry and I had our own problems.

"Uh-oh," McGlade said.

I dove for the fuse, which was burning at about three inches a second. I grabbed and just missed, watching the fuse separate into six different flames, each one heading for its own full barrel.

Enough gas to burn the whole neighborhood.

I yanked at the nearest fuse, searing my hand but pulling it free of its gasoline tank. It harmlessly burned itself out.

Scrambling on all fours, I hunted down a second flame and pulled that out as well.

"It won't go out! It won't go out!" Harry stomped up and down on a lit fuse with both feet. He looked a lot like Daffy Duck throwing a fit.

"Yank it!"

I turned my attention to a barrel several feet away, the lethal flame streaking toward it. I took two quick steps, pain searing through my leg, and I launched myself into the air, ramming into the barrel, pulling out the fuse and watching the last six inches burn away in my hands.

I looked at Harry, who was standing on the far end of the room, tossing two burning fuses aside. His eyes tracked the floor, following the last flame as it snaked its way to the final barrel.

It was less than two feet from its target, and too far away for either of us to get to in time.

I drew my gun and aimed.

"Jesus, Jackie, ricochet!" Harry crouched down and covered his face.

I fired three times at the flickering spark, my .38 slugs bouncing off concrete and turning the basement into a deadly pachinko game. Cement chips peppered my feet. Harry howled with fright. I exhaled slowly and fired once more, my fourth bullet neatly severing the advancing flame from the rest of the fuse.

Stillness. I took a deep breath.

McGlade peeked through his fingers. "Are we dead?"

Herb's voice in my ear. "Jack, are you okay? Suspect on foot, in the backyard. Has a woman with him."

"Move in!"

McGlade walked over to the last barrel, examining it. He pulled out the remaining fuse, about the length of a cigarette.

"Nice shooting, Wyatt."

I limped past him, pushing through the back door. The backyard was cool and dark, and I couldn't spot any movement. Red and blue lights swirled from a few houses away, washing over the lawn in waves.

"The bomb is defused, Herb, close the perimeter. Perp ran out the back door. He has a hostage. Do you have a visual? Over."

"Negative, Jack. We were falling back. We're coming in now."

A hand on my shoulder. I spun, bringing around my gun.

McGlade.

"Don't tell me you lost him."

I walked away before I did something I'd regret, like shoot him. The important thing was finding Charles.

I couldn't allow him to kill his wife.

In my ear, Benedict and his men swept the block, while I took a walk across the backyard lawn. I gripped the .38 in both hands, holding it at an angle away from my body, ready to point and shoot at anything that grabbed my attention.

"Jackie! I found something!"

McGlade was holding up some kind of hook.

"Nice work, Harry. Now sit on it and spin."

"It was right on the ground, next to this manhole."

It took a few seconds to register, and then I hobbled over. McGlade used the hook to pry up the cover, dragging it off to the side. He flashed his key light down into the hole.

"Stinky. Think he's down there?"

"Jack!" My earpiece buzzed. "We have a man and a woman, four doors down. Team is moving in!"

"Roger that, Herb. McGlade and I...Harry!"

Harry disappeared down the hole.

"Dammit! Herb, we found a manhole in the yard, Harry just went down. I'll contact you again in a minute."

I got on my knees and peered down into the sewer.

"Harry! Get up here!"

"Sorry, Jack," he called up. "You did this to me. I have to catch the guy to clear my good name."

"Goddammit, McGlade, you don't have a good name! Harry! Harry?"

He yelped once, then didn't answer.

I reloaded, told Herb my intention, and then went down after him.

Chapter 43

THERE IS NO BOOM.

Charles stops, hunching down in the sewer line, filthy water up to his ankles. He holds his breath and listens.

No explosion. No screaming. Nothing.

What's going on?

He wraps his hand in Diane's hair and pulls her along. If the cops aren't burning, they'll be coming after him. He has to hurry.

It's dark as ink, foul, claustrophobic. The narrow pipe forces him to run in a crouch. His wife whimpers, dragging her feet, slowing him down. He jabs her with the knife to get her to move.

"I told you to run!"

After the fourth or fifth jab, she falls down. Continued poking doesn't make her get back up.

Damn her. Charles hates to end it here, in a sewer where he can't even see her face. This isn't how it's supposed to be. He wants to take his time, make it last, feast on a banquet of her agony.

A clang, in the distance. Someone opening the manhole cover.

Jack.

Charles reaches down, slashes at his wife in the darkness. Such a disappointing ending. She deserves so much more.

Then he scurries away from her. He moves by feel, counting his steps. Sight is minimal, but he's walked the route several times. Before he became a media darling, Charles always kept his kills hidden. The sewer is the perfect hiding place for corpses -- he can bring them here without witnesses, no one notices the smell, and the rats take care of any evidence. Throughout these pipes are the remains of a half-dozen people he's killed.

After twenty-four paces he stops, feeling for the grating. It's two feet before him. Taped to it is a flashlight.

He crouches in the concrete tube and flicks on the light, briefly. Finding the clasp, he opens the rusty gate and slips down four feet into the main line.

Now he can walk upright rather than bent over. The sewer main is wide as an alley. Filthy water runs down the center in a putrid, brown stream. Charles doesn't know how deep it is, and has no desire to find out. On either side of the flow is a ledge, a catwalk that can be treaded upon when the water level is low enough.

His smartest escape route is to follow along the right wall, down to the end of the block, and then turn left and go eight blocks over. He'll pop up in an alley, right across the street from the public garage where he keeps his second car, and far from the searching pigs overhead.

But he isn't ready yet. He still has to deal with Jack.

The lieutenant can't be allowed to live. She found him. She'll find him again. Charles doesn't want to be looking over his shoulder for the rest of his life, waiting for her to pounce.

It will end here.

The Gingerbread Man checks his bullets and switches off his light.

Noises are coming from the sub main he'd exited moments before.

He hunches down and giggles, ready for the fun to start.

Chapter 44

THE LADDER WAS MADE OF STEEL bars, rusty and slimy. Descending was a complicated ordeal where I had to hop down each step, since my bad leg refused to bend. When I finally reached the bottom, I stepped on something.

"Jesus, Jackie!"

I was on Harry's leg. He shoved me off and flicked on his key light, pointing it in my face. McGlade was on his ass, in the middle of a large slick of gunk.

No -- not gunk.

Blood.

"My God, Harry --"

"I slipped. It's not my blood."

My stomach churned. The wife.

I tried to radio Herb to say we were on the right trail, but the radio only gave me static. I played with it for a few seconds, but being underground probably put us out of signal range.

Harry stood up and banged his head on the top of the tube we were in.

"Christ! That's gonna leave a lump."

The smell was nauseating, human waste and rotting animal matter. Several rats scurried past, disappearing into the darkness.

I took the key light from Harry. The little beam barely penetrated the darkness, only allowing for a few feet of sight.

"So which way, Lieutenant? This tube goes both ways."

I focused the light at our feet. The trickle of sludge was moving to our left. "This way."

"Lead on, Jackie. You've got the body armor."

I killed the light and we shuffled forward. The muck became ankle-deep after a few yards, and the smell was so foul, I could taste it in my mouth.

I stopped twice to listen. The only sound I heard was my labored breathing, which was amplified in the fetid air and made me sound asthmatic. Walking in a crouch with a bad leg was slow going and painful. I felt down in the darkness and discovered that my pants were soaked with blood yet again. This damn wound would never heal.

But that was the least of my problems.

"I think we went the wrong way," Harry whispered.

"Shhh."

"I'm going back. Be a dear and let me borrow your vest."

"Kiss my ass."

"You want to get romantic now?"

I strained my ears. There was noise ahead, like a water cascade. We were coming to the end of the tunnel.

How far ahead of us could he be? Assuming he knew these sewers, Charles could be hundreds of yards away by now.

Or he could be just around the corner, waiting in ambush.

"Help..."

A woman's voice, weak and pleading, coming from ahead of us. Diane Kork was still alive.

I moved faster, urgency prodding me on, overriding the pain. The radio was still all static. I also tried my cell phone, but couldn't get a signal surrounded by all this concrete. We came to her twenty yards later, lying half-naked in the filth, covered with blood and muck.

"Diane. Can you hear me?" I knelt down next to her, my wounded leg stretched out behind me. Her pulse was strong, steady. I eyed her wounds; several ugly slashes across the chest, and a deep cut in her collarbone that missed her throat by a fraction. Her eyelids fluttered, and she focused on me.

"He heard you coming, and ran off."

"Diane, we're going to get you out of here."

She shook her head. "You have to get him."

"We will. First we're going to..."

"No!" The power in her voice startled me. "Don't let him get away. You have to go get him. Please."

I looked at Harry.

"Give her your jacket."

He shrugged off the blazer, draping it over Diane.

I tucked the sport coat under her arms and chin.

"He won't get away, Diane. I promise. We need to get you to the hospital. Can you stand?"

She shook her head.

"We'll have to carry her, Harry."

"You can't even walk. How are you supposed to carry someone?"

"I'll manage."

No one else dies. Even if we had to drag her to safety an inch at a time.

Harry complied, gently lifting Diane under her armpits. She groaned painfully. I positioned myself on the other side and lifted her knees, my legs trembling under her weight.

It would be tough, but we'd get her out of here.

"Jack!"

The voice came from behind us, loud and unmistakable.

Benedict.

"Herb! We're over here!"

Thirty seconds later my partner came waddling down the tube, followed by a uniformed officer. His labored breathing and the coat of sweat on his face told me he wasn't any more comfortable in the sewers than I was.

"Kork is ahead of us," I called out. "Get Diane out of here, alert the troops. We need to cover all manhole exits for ten square blocks."

"You're going after him?"

I nodded.

"With him?" Benedict jerked a thumb at Harry.

McGlade sneered back. "Good to see you too, Tubby."

"Harry's going back with you. Place him under arrest for obstruction of --"

"My ass," McGlade said. Then he took off down the pipe.

Nothing's ever easy.

"Gotta go, Herb."

"Be careful, Jack. Backup is coming."

We exchanged a tense look, and then I went after Harry. A few feet into the blackness, I stopped and listened. The falling water sound was louder, and I could hear the echo of footsteps.

"Dammit, Harry! Wait up!"

My voice sounded small, hollow, as it echoed down the tube.

"I'm a few yards ahead of you."

When I finally caught up to him, I was sweating as much as Herb had been.

"Welcome back, Jackie. You gonna read me my rights?"

"When this is over, Harry, I swear --"

I felt the bullet at the same time I heard it. It hit me in the stomach, knocking me backward. I sprawled in the filthy water, my head bouncing on cement.

The feeling was unreal, like I'd been gut-punched by a speeding car. I sucked in the foul sewer air, my breath having left me. The pain was so bad, it made me forget my leg.

The tube exploded in a muzzle flash, and thunder erupted in my ears. McGlade was returning fire. Enclosed in the concrete tube, the gun deafened us both.

A long minute passed. McGlade knelt next to me and felt along my body. He pressed on my diaphragm and I yelped. Then he reached under my vest and felt the skin. I couldn't sense if there was a wound or not.

Harry released the pressure and a moment later the little flashlight was pointing in my face.

"The vest stopped the bullet." Or that's what it sounded like. My ears were still ringing. "Can you move?"

I tried to speak. "Yeah."

He offered his hand and helped me up. The darkness fractured into pinpoints of light, stars dancing in my vision. I blinked twice and swallowed.

"Kevlar worked pretty good." McGlade handed me the light and crouched behind me. "You go first."

I looked down at my gun hand and saw that I still held the .38. Then I moved, one foot in front of the other.

The water sound increased. I sensed the tube ending, opening up into a much bigger area. The sewer main. I listened, peering into the dark.

"You waiting for Christmas?" Harry nudged me. "Move it."

I flicked on the flashlight, looking for a foothold so I could climb out.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Three shots went into the wall next to me, chips of concrete biting into my face and neck. I jumped, landing on a ledge several feet below, falling partially into the sewage water. My gun skittered off out of sight.

A bright flashlight beam trained on the tube where I'd been seconds ago. It made its way down the wall and hit me in the face. I squinted at the figure behind the light.

The Gingerbread Man grinned, his gun pointing at my head.

"Hello and good-bye, Jack. Looks like the best man won."

Then a shot rang out from the tube above us.

Harry.

The flashlight fell away from my face, and Charles Kork howled in pain. I felt around for my gun, instead finding the keys. I flicked on the key light and Harry dropped to the ledge next to me.

Charles moaned. I put the light on him. He was bleeding from the shoulder, clutching the wound with his good hand. His gun was gone.

I let out the breath I'd been holding.

The Gingerbread Man offered a lopsided grin. He looked small, petty, like the sewer rats that scampered behind him.

"Well, looks like you got me, Jack."

"Stand up, put your hands on your head."

"I can't get up."

I took a step closer. My reserves were almost gone, and my entire body ached and smelled like sewage. But I could honestly say I never felt better.

"Turn over on your stomach. Hands behind your back."

"How'd you find me?"

"You'll find out at the trial. Now turn over."

Charles Kork shook his head. "I'm not going back to prison."

And then he rolled off the ledge and into the river of muck.

The current began to take him away at a surprisingly brisk pace. He floated chest-deep in the sewage, his good arm flopping ahead of him in an effort to paddle.

"I'll see you again, Jack!" he called out to me. "Soon!"

Before I had a chance to consider my next move, there was a terrific boom! and Kork's head exploded in a plume of red.

I looked at McGlade. He holstered his .44 and shrugged.

"He was trying to escape. Were you gonna jump in that shit and go after him?"

The headless corpse of the Gingerbread Man floated off into the blackness on a river of filth. It bobbed in the gentle current once, twice, and then began to sink.

Following him were a swimming legion of rats.

Harry came over to me, eyes serious.

"Hey, Jackie -- you're not pissed, are you?"

I didn't say anything.

"I mean, he was a scumbag. Think of all the money I just saved the taxpayers. Do you know how expensive those high-profile trials are?"

I found Charles's gun. It was a .38. My .38. I took a plastic bag out of my jacket pocket and put the gun inside, lifting it by the barrel with two fingers.

"Jack, you're not really thinking of arresting me, are you?"

"He died in the shoot-out, Harry. That's what's going into my report."

"You had me worried. I thought you were still pissed about me stealing your bust."

"You saved my life, Harry."

"Yeah. I guess I did. So we're even now, right?"

I made a fist and clipped him across the jaw. It was hard enough to stagger him back.

I shook my hand, the knuckles aching wonderfully.

"Now we're even."

Harry wiped at his mouth and grinned.

"It took you fifteen years to finally do that. Feel better?"

I thought about it. "Yeah, I do."

"Then let's get the hell out of this sewer. It offends my delicate sensibilities."

First we spent a few minutes finding my dropped gun. When it was safe in its holster, we took the nearest ladder up to the surface.

A few moments after we emerged through the manhole, a swarm of cops came running toward us. Several cops went down into the sewer after the body. My radio was finally working again, and I contacted Herb.

"The woman is okay," he reported. "Did you get him?"

The words felt so good coming out of my mouth. "We got him."

"Are you okay?"

"I'm perfect," I said, taking a big gulp of cold city air. "Perfect."

"Can I talk to him?" Harry reached for my headset. I let him have it, walking away from the commotion, away from the flashing blue and red lights, into the urban night.

The sky was a huge, black blanket, spreading out in all directions. I looked up, trying to see the stars through the smog. I couldn't make them out.

But I knew they were there.

Chapter 45

I KNOCKED THE EIGHT BALL INTO the corner pocket and Phin grunted.

"That's two more bucks." I let a smile creep onto my face. "What is that, five games?"

"How am I supposed to eat this week?"

"Don't play if you can't pay."

He frowned and rooted around in his front pocket, extracting a bill.

"Can you break a fifty?"

To his chagrin, I could. Then I sent him off to buy me another beer.

It had been three days since the death of the Gingerbread Man, Charles Kork. The papers were still running headlines. Most of them centered on Harry McGlade. He'd become a media darling, though I don't think "darling" is the right word.

How Harry found out about Charles was simple enough. He had a copy of the show at his apartment. After he left the station, he watched the tape and drew the obvious conclusion. Then he called up his buddy Max Trainter, and soon had Kork's name and address.

McGlade had attempted to beat us to the scene and take all the glory for himself. Which, essentially, is what he did.

"That guy was the top layer on the shit cake," McGlade told five networks, plus CNN.

Diane Kork had lost a lot of blood and needed a few dozen stitches, but she was expected to make a full recovery. Physically at least. Mentally she was a mess.

I'd gotten to see her twice since that day, trying to fill in the remaining pieces of the puzzle.

She'd filed for divorce from Charles in May, right after The Max Trainter Show. He'd been neglectful and verbally abusive, but never physically. This may have sounded odd, but Dr. Francis Mulrooney told me later that many married serial killers aren't aggressive within the family unit. They saved it up for their excursions.

Diane had never known about his two stretches in prison, never met his family, and certainly had no idea that every time he sneaked out at night, he was stalking and killing people.

Charles's mother, Lisa Kork, died of cancer shortly after Charles was born. Attempts were made to locate his father, Buddy Kork, but to no avail.

A delve into Buddy Kork's past revealed he'd been arrested twice for child abuse, and acquitted both times. Apparently, his position as a reverend at a local church was enough to justify the beatings he gave his children.

He was fired from the church ten years ago, but a phone call confirmed that Dr. Reginald Booster was a regular parishioner -- the same Booster whom Charles had killed for the Seconal prescription. Booster had known Charles was Buddy's son. Hence the note he left on the pad at the murder scene.

Just to tie up loose ends, Dr. Mulrooney matched the Gingerbread Man's letters to samples found in Charles's home, and to the release form Charles had filled out to appear on The Max Trainter Show.

The search of Kork's rented house unveiled a cache of six hundred pictures and twelve home videotapes. They showed, in detail, Charles torturing and killing animals, children, and women. A task force was assigned to begin matching the victims with missing persons. I was offered the job to head the task force, but after watching one of the videos, I knew I wouldn't be able to sit through the rest of them. I declined.

Charles Kork's body, sans head, was fished out of the sewer four blocks from where Harry had shot him. In the ME's report, Phil Blasky commented that it was the best lobotomy he'd ever seen.

Diane Kork was able to shed light on the significance of the gingerbread man cookies. She and Charles had baked them during their first Christmas together. They'd lacquered them and hung them on the tree every year after that. She hadn't seen them since they split up.

Herb was invited over to the mayor's house for dinner, since he'd been the chief investigator on the case after the captain had kicked me off. I hadn't been asked to attend, but Herb related that he'd eaten enough for both of us. Though I missed out on hobnobbing with the powerful, I was allowed to return to work, the Internal Affairs investigation was dropped since I recovered my lost gun, and I even got a call from a very important news journalist with her own prime-time show. But she only wanted to ask me questions about Harry, and I hung up on her.

I pumped more quarters into the table, and Phin came back with two bottles of beer.

"Loser racks," I reminded him.

He racked the balls. I sipped my beer and chalked my stick. Then I engaged in a truly magnificent break, pocketing two stripes. Phin swore.

By eleven o'clock I was up about thirty bucks. Phin called me several choice names when I was leaving and made me promise I'd meet him tomorrow for a rematch. I agreed, telling him I could use the money.

It began to snow as I walked back to my apartment. The first snow of the season. It looked pretty, glowing in the street lights, contrasted against huge skyscrapers. Covering up all the dirt. I felt myself smile, and then the smile disappeared at the thought of digging out my car in the morning.

There were messages on my machine when I got back to the apartment. The first was from Latham, my ill-fated Lunch Mates date. He was doing well, and begged me to bring him a pizza when I visited him tomorrow.

"The food here is wretched. It tastes like they steam everything."

He held no resentment toward me at all, only expressing some joking disappointment that our third date couldn't possibly be as exciting as the first two were.

Great guy. I was going to enjoy getting to know him.

The second call was a reporter from Time magazine, who wanted to know if I wouldn't mind talking to him about Harry.

The last was from my worried mother, who hadn't heard from me in over twenty minutes and wondered if I was still doing okay. I called her back.

"I'm fine, Mom. Are you happy to be back home?"

"Yes, thank goodness it's over. I'm so sore, I can barely move."

A tinge of panic. "Is your hip getting worse? You told me --"

"My hip is fine, Jacqueline. I'm not nursing-home material yet. I'm sore because of that rascal Mr. Griffin. He's like the Energizer Bunny. He keeps going and going -- I swear, I didn't sleep for three days."

Perhaps I was a bit hasty in worrying that Mom couldn't take care of herself.

After the call, I made myself a sandwich and sat down in my rocking chair with a recent Ed McBain paperback.

The next thing I knew, without any effort whatsoever on my part, I was asleep.

Chapter 46

I WOKE UP THE NEXT MORNING, refreshed, invigorated, and feeling good enough to exercise.

I took it easy, favoring my bad leg, but still managed to make it through my morning routine. I had to skip sit-ups because of the huge bruise on my stomach, the ugly aftermath of getting shot. But I did a few extra push-ups to compensate.

The snow from the night before didn't stick, so unearthing my car wasn't necessary. However, it took eight tries before the engine finally caught, and I stalled twice driving to the station.

I didn't let it hurt my good mood.

When I arrived, I found out Benedict was at the morgue with the relatives of JoAnn Fourthy, the first victim. She'd been identified through The Max Trainter Show, and her parents had been located in New Jersey. The Gingerbread Man case was officially closed.

Now I had to take on the backlog I had accumulated. A knifing. A hit-and-run. A gang murder. A fatal shooting at a high school.

A Violent Crimes lieutenant's job was never done.

An undetermined time later, my concentration was broken when two men stepped into my office. Without knocking. It was Special Agents Dailey and Coursey, complete with matching suits, haircuts, and demeanors. I wondered if they called each other every morning to decide on what to wear that day.

"We never got to congratulate you on catching the unsub, Lieutenant," Dailey said.

Or maybe it was Coursey.

The other one added, "I know we didn't always see eye to eye on things, but we're glad everything worked out for the best."

Standard FBI procedure. Don't burn your bridges.

"Was Kork listed in your computer under known poisoners?"

They looked at each other, and then back at me.

"He was on a suspect list for the candy tamperings in Michigan, but Vicky didn't have him in her database. We did a follow-up with the investigating officers of that case and read through their reports. Kork was brought in for questioning and released on two different occasions, but there was never sufficient evidence for an arrest."

"I see." I tried to look appropriately smug. "And how did things go with the horse?"

One of them cleared his throat. The other looked at an imaginary spot on his sleeve.

"Profiling isn't a hard science, Lieutenant. Sometimes we're a little off-center."

"Ah."

"So -- have you had a chance to look at the Hansen case yet?"

"Pardon me?"

"The high school shooting? It's almost identical to a similar homicide in Plainfield, Wisconsin, last year."

"And?" I feared where this was headed.

"And your captain wanted us to work together on it. A state line has been crossed."

Oh, no. "Look, guys..."

They headed for the door.

"We'll be by at two o'clock to discuss the case further. We need to have Vicky help us with a suspect profile before we can proceed."

And then they were gone.

So much for my good mood.

I resumed scaling Mount Paperwork, filing things, throwing out things, typing things. I always saved the typing for last because I'm so bad at it.

"Hi, Jackie."

I looked up from the keyboard and saw that Harry McGlade had walked into my office. Apparently no one believed in knocking anymore. Harry was wearing the typical Harry outfit: stained brown pants, beige jacket, fat tie, and more wrinkles than a retirement home.

I'd have to get a lock for that damn door.

"What do you want, Harry?"

I continued typing, trying to show that I was busy.

"You still haven't thanked me."

"For what?" I asked, and then looked at my 97-723 report and saw I'd typed "for what" on it. I swore and reached for the correction fluid.

"For leading you to the killer. Without me, you never would have connected Kork to the Trainter show. You'll probably get a big fat promotion out of this. "Captain Daniels." It has a nice ring to it. You owe me."

"I do, huh?"

I couldn't find the Wite-Out, so I went back and crossed out the mistake in pen.

"Sure. That's why I stopped by, so you can thank me and buy me breakfast."

"Maybe you should buy me breakfast. You're the one getting the movie offers."

"Funny you should mention that, Jackie. A Hollywood agent called this morning, interested in turning my story into a film. Guess who's going to play me?"

"Danny DeVito."

"Funny. Ha ha. Actually, Brad Pitt is interested. But before they can start shoveling money at me, there's a tiny little question about story rights."

McGlade pulled some folded paper out of his pants pocket.

"If you'll just sign here..."

"No way, Harry."

"Come on, Jackie. There'll be some money in it for you. I mean, not much, but you'd be doing me a huge favor."

"I don't think so."

"Let's at least discuss it over breakfast."

"I've got a lot of paperwork to finish."

Harry put his hands on my desk and leaned toward me.

"Screw the paperwork. It'll be here when you get back. Come out for breakfast with an old friend. You work too hard anyway. Enjoy life, Jackie. Stop being married to the job."

I wasn't sure eating breakfast with Harry would qualify as enjoying life, but what he said was very similar to what Herb had said. Did I want, at the end of my life, for my epitaph to be, "She was a good cop"?

I guess that I did.

But even a good cop has to eat.

"Fine. A quick breakfast. But I have no desire to see myself on the silver screen, Harry."

"Some big names are interested in your part, Jackie. I've heard the name Roseanne being bandied around. It's a Hollywood rule. All tough-guy heroes need a humorous sidekick."

"Now I'm definitely not going to sign that paper."

"Sure you're not."

He grinned again, and I got up and grabbed my coat.

"I know this terrific new pancake place, just opened." Harry held the door for me, the first gentlemanly act I'd ever seen him perform. "If you don't like it, it's my treat."

"I hate it already."

We walked out the door.