Date: 2016-02-26 08:00:00+00:00
Description: New York. A serial killer is releasing snuff films to the media, drawing Detective Ron Stanford into a game of cat and mouse while he grapples with Tess Gideon's return from Europe, and the unfinished emotional business between them. As the investigation intensifies they're drawn into a twisted world of sex parties and forbidden depravity so lurid even a seasoned cop like Stanford is shocked. Gritty and unflinching, the saga's breakneck pace accelerates relentlessly to a climax so surprising it is guaranteed to leave even the most jaded aficionado of crime mysteries gasping.
Publisher: Createspace

Fatal Deception

Russell Blake

Copyright © 2016 by Russell Blake. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law, or in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, contact:

Books@RussellBlake.com

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Contents

Books by Russell Blake

About the Author

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Excerpt from  Ramsey’s Gold

Books by Russell Blake

Co-authored with Clive Cussler

THE EYE OF HEAVEN

THE SOLOMON CURSE

Thrillers

FATAL EXCHANGE

FATAL DECEPTION

THE GERONIMO BREACH

ZERO SUM

THE DELPHI CHRONICLE TRILOGY

THE VOYNICH CYPHER

SILVER JUSTICE

UPON A PALE HORSE

DEADLY CALM

RAMSEY’S GOLD

EMERALD BUDDHA

The Assassin Series

KING OF SWORDS

NIGHT OF THE ASSASSIN

RETURN OF THE ASSASSIN

REVENGE OF THE ASSASSIN

BLOOD OF THE ASSASSIN

REQUIEM FOR THE ASSASSIN

RAGE OF THE ASSASSIN

The JET Series

JET

JET II – BETRAYAL

JET III – VENGEANCE

JET IV – RECKONING

JET V – LEGACY

JET VI – JUSTICE

JET VII – SANCTUARY

JET VIII – SURVIVAL

JET IX – ESCAPE

JET X – INCARCERATION

JET – OPS FILES (prequel)

JET – OPS FILES; TERROR ALERT

The BLACK Series

BLACK

BLACK IS BACK

BLACK IS THE NEW BLACK

BLACK TO REALITY

BLACK IN THE BOX

Non Fiction

AN ANGEL WITH FUR

HOW TO SELL A GAZILLION EBOOKS

(while drunk, high or incarcerated)

About the Author

Featured in The Wall Street Journal, The Times, and The Chicago Tribune, Russell Blake is The NY Times and USA Today bestselling author of over forty novels, including Fatal Exchange, Fatal Deception, The Geronimo Breach, Zero Sum, King of Swords, Night of the Assassin, Revenge of the Assassin, Return of the Assassin, Blood of the Assassin, Requiem for the Assassin, Rage of the Assassin
The Delphi Chronicle trilogy, The Voynich Cypher, Silver Justice, JET, JET – Ops Files, JET – Ops Files: Terror Alert, JET II – Betrayal, JET III – Vengeance, JET IV – Reckoning, JET V – Legacy, JET VI – Justice, JET VII – Sanctuary, JET VIII – Survival, JET IX – Escape, JET X – Incarceration, Upon a Pale Horse, BLACK, BLACK is Back, BLACK is The New Black, BLACK to Reality, BLACK in the Box, Deadly Calm, Ramsey’s Gold, and Emerald Buddha.

Non-fiction includes the international bestseller An Angel With Fur (animal biography) and How To Sell A Gazillion eBooks In No Time (even if drunk, high or incarcerated), a parody of all things writing-related.

Blake is co-author of The Eye of Heaven and The Solomon Curse, with legendary author Clive Cussler. Blake’s novel King of Swords has been translated into German, The Voynich Cypher into Bulgarian, and his JET novels into Spanish, German, and Czech.

Blake writes under the moniker R.E. Blake in the NA/YA/Contemporary Romance genres. Novels include Less Than Nothing, More Than Anything, and Best Of Everything.

Having resided in Mexico for a dozen years, Blake enjoys his dogs, fishing, boating, tequila and writing, while battling world domination by clowns. His thoughts, such as they are, can be found at his blog:

RussellBlake.com

To get your free copy,
just join my readers’ group here:

http://bit.ly/rb-jet

Chapter 1

Two days ago, Manhattan, New York

The high-resolution image jiggled slightly as a young woman, hands and feet bound, a strip of duct tape over her mouth, stared wide-eyed at something off-camera. Inky veins of mascara streaked down her hollow cheeks, standing out in high relief against her alabaster skin. The relentless glare of the harsh lighting lent her face a washed-out quality, as though her features were molded from wax.

Beneath the metal chair to which she was tied, the floor was lined with green plastic garbage bags taped together, and her pale naked form glowed against the backdrop. She squirmed, trembling, her head shaking as a pair of bright yellow dishwashing gloves appeared in the frame, one of them holding a lit cigarette. Serpentine coils of smoke drifted lazily toward an unseen ceiling as a casual finger flicked away ash, and the woman shook her head again in silent horror.

The scene zoomed until the frame was filled with her upper body and face. Her eyes welled with tears, glistening as they pled in silent desperation.

The gloved hand pressed the cigarette’s glowing tip against the skin of her breast and she bucked against the chair, eyelids clamped shut, nostrils flared in agony, her muted scream echoing off the walls as it forced its way through her nose. Several seconds later the cigarette pulled away, leaving an ugly red welt.

The camera twisted to the side, where a television was broadcasting a news report. Ruins of buildings smoldered as the ticker across the bottom of the screen announced further action against insurgents by a coalition of international forces. The woman’s tortured emanation faded into a long whimper as blossoms of orange lit the television image: detonating bombs, dropped from invisible planes filming the destruction.

The focus returned to the victim’s quivering torso, her face now covered with a sheen of perspiration. A gloved hand came back into the frame, this time holding the long wooden handle of an artist’s paint brush, the bristles slathered with neon green. The woman winced as the brush touched her breast and then traced a circle, slowly, as though caressing her skin with the paint.

The hand drew away, and for several long beats it was just the woman’s chest rising and falling rapidly, her pulse visible in her carotid artery as she drew shallow, terrified breaths.

The paintbrush reappeared. A single drop of green hung from the tip, as though fighting the pull of gravity before yielding and falling downward, out of the image. The brush neared the crude circle and settled on her sternum, and slid from the top to the base in a single swipe, neatly bisecting the ring.

Another pause and the brush returned, slathered with more paint, and sketched an inverted V, creating a peace symbol on the woman’s brutalized form.

The silence of the room was shattered by the strains of the “Star-Spangled Banner” from off to the side as the camera zoomed out. The image swung to the right again and fixed on the television, which was now displaying a slideshow of photographs of infants mutilated or killed during coalition attacks in the Middle East. After a half-minute montage, it reverted to the naked woman, who was struggling against her bindings as the screen filled with her seated form.

A figure stepped into view, clad in a black plastic raincoat, its slick surface shining in the glare. In its right hand the figure clutched a meat cleaver, its blade gleaming. The woman’s eyes bugged out of her head at the sight. The figure stood, back to the camera, watching as she fought to free herself, and then slowly turned toward the camera. A Halloween mask, the beaming features of a popular cartoon ghost twisted in a permanent smile, its cherubic cheeks painted with small peace symbols in the same green paint as the woman’s, smiled ghoulishly at the camera. A gloved hand entered the frame and waved, like a child on a school outing, and threw a peace sign in the best tradition of Japanese teens in selfies before giving the camera the finger.

The figure turned back to the woman and ripped the duct tape from her mouth in a single motion as the national anthem ended, and flipped the silver strip at the television. The room fell silent but for the woman’s ragged, harsh breathing. When she spoke, her voice was a hoarse whisper.

“Please. Don’t do this.”

The figure backhanded her, and the woman’s head jerked to the side from the force of the blow, her hair askew. She blinked rapidly, obviously dazed, and then the background filled with the sound of keening – the ululating of mourning women drifting from off-camera speakers.

A gloved hand reached for something out of the frame and returned with an electrolarynx vocal synthesizer. The figure held it against its throat, and a monotone robotic voice filled the screen.

“You are a child of privilege. You live in a nation of spoiled children. You destroy other societies without a second thought, claiming to bring them freedom or to protect yourself. Now you know the fear of real danger. Today is your day of reckoning.”

The woman shook her head. “No. Please. I beg you. I haven’t done anything.”

The figure held up the cleaver and studied the blade. “That is correct. You have done nothing. Just as the innocents everywhere who are butchered have done nothing. That is the world you have created. That is the world you live in – fragmented, each individual an island, apathetic and uninterested in the destruction your lifestyle inflicts upon others.”

The woman closed her eyes and her lips moved in silent prayer. The figure moved out of the frame. A moment later the background ambiance changed to a wailing clarinet over a bouncing Dixieland jazz melody, and the figure stepped into the scene again, a single red rose in one hand and the cleaver in the other. The woman’s eyes opened and stared down at the flower, which the figure had tossed into her nude lap. She appeared confused, and then her face froze in fear as the figure raised the cleaver above her left arm, pausing dramatically before swiping down in a brutal blow.

A spray of bloody mist dusted the camera lens as the woman’s hand and half her forearm dropped with a thump onto the garbage bags. The bouncing music played on, drowned out by the woman’s agonized shrieks, an otherworldly sound as she howled like a wounded animal.

Five minutes later the screen went black. Three men seated at a battered wooden conference table stared in horrified disbelief at the monitor upon which they’d watched the abomination of the woman’s torture and dismemberment.

The oldest of the trio, his creased face red and puffy from years of hard drinking, sat back and exchanged a glance with the others.

“Jesus God…” he began, and choked on the last syllable.

“Yeah,” the man next to him whispered.

“Well, we know how the body at the school got that way,” the third man, NYPD homicide detective Ron Stanford, said in a hushed voice. A headless, appendage-less torso had been discovered in the schoolyard of an uptown Catholic school the prior day, scarring at least a dozen children for life. The video answered any questions about where it might have come from.

Ben Rollins, the young homicide inspector who’d caught the case, shook his head. “I’ve seen some disturbing crap in my life, but this takes the cake.” He looked to his silver-haired superior. “What do you think, Captain?”

“I think I’m not going to be able to eat dinner,” Captain Elton Larraby muttered. “What kind of sick bastard would kill someone on video? To what end?”

Ron considered the overhead ventilation grill before returning his attention to the blank screen. “Someone who wants his deeds commemorated. Who wants the world to see what he’s done – to call attention to himself. Obviously, there’s some kind of symbolism at work, both with disposing of the body at a school and with the video. He’s trying to send a message.”

“A political message, judging by the footage,” Ben agreed. “We need to get Homeland involved.”

“Why?” Larraby demanded.

Ben looked less sure. “This could be terrorism. All the anti-war rhetoric…”

Ron shook his head. “No, this is the equivalent of a selfie taken by a monster, using the pretense of being anti-war to butcher a young woman. Since when did being anti-war equate to terrorism, anyway?”

“I just thought…”

“This is murder, plain and simple,” Ron said. He sighed. “What do we know?”

“The news broadcast was day before yesterday’s local late news, at eleven p.m. The rest of it, we’re working on,” Ben said. “The video was received by all the major stations this afternoon, sent via the Internet in compressed format.” He paused. “They’re already calling the bastard ‘the Rose Killer.’ Leave it to our press to glorify a monster at every turn.”

“Any progress on the school?” Larraby asked.

“Not yet,” Ben admitted. “No traffic cams around it, and nobody living in the area saw anything. We’re running all the usual tests, but forensics isn’t optimistic.” He shrugged. “There was evidence of recent sexual activity, but no semen.”

“How recent?” Ron demanded.

“Within four to six hours of the victim’s death, at the latest. There are abrasions consistent with rough play.”

Ron swiveled to face Larraby. “At least we have some promising threads we can follow from the footage. First, we can trace the IP of the sending computer. And there’s the electrolarynx – those aren’t exactly common. And then the paint. The brush. The raincoat. The music. The flower. All of it – it’s a goldmine if we can catch a break on even one element.”

The captain frowned. “The networks are going out with this tonight. I argued against it, tried to convince them, but they refused to put a lid on it. Best I could get was an agreement to only show a brief snippet of the beginning, so we can see if someone can identify the woman.”

“Can’t you quash it?” Ron asked.

“Negative. Believe me, I tried. But apparently this is a ratings week, and nobody wants to suck hind tit by censoring themselves. Just be glad they aren’t going to show the whole thing.”

“Which means we’re going to have every nutcase in the city calling in phony confessions by midnight,” Ben spat in disgust. “We’ve already had a dozen from the news on the torso discovery. This will up it to hundreds.”

“Goes with the job,” Larraby said. He rubbed a calloused hand across his face. “Ron, tell me this isn’t the beginning of a serial spree.”

Ron shook his head. “I can’t. My bet is that he’s been thinking about filming this little masterpiece for a long time. The odds that it’s a one-off are slim to none. Sorry.” He eyed Ben. “Obviously, we need to run a search for similar MOs. I’d go nationwide.”

“You think he’s done this before?”

“He came prepared. My hunch is yes.”

Ron Stanford looked suddenly older than his mid-thirties. A career as the NYPD’s floating serial killer and sensational homicide specialist weighed heavily on evenings like this. Even as hardened as the men in the conference room were, the video had clearly unsettled them. They were accustomed to discovering the aftereffects of murder, not viewing a particularly brutal one real-time, and none would sleep that night even though they habitually swam in the noxious waters of death.

“And Homeland? FBI?” Ben asked.

“I’ll run it past them,” Larraby said. “But my guess is Homeland won’t want any part of it. The feds? Right now there’s no reason for them to care.”

“There will be when the next one appears,” Ron stated flatly. “And there will be a next one.”

“The mayor is already freaking out,” Larraby said. “He’s going to call a press conference to get in front of it.”

Ron rolled his eyes. “Oh, good. A press conference. Because those have proven so useful in solving crime.”

Larraby shrugged apologetically. “I know, I know. I’ll do the talking-head routine and keep you out of the spotlight as long as possible. But you know the drill. That won’t last long – he’s already demanded a briefing within the hour.”

“What are you supposed to tell him?” Ben asked.

Larraby frowned. “That we’re pursuing all leads and can’t discuss the case at this early juncture.”

Ron nodded. “I don’t envy you.”

The captain grimaced. “Yeah, well, you’ll be up to bat soon enough.”

The meeting broke up, and Larraby left Ben and Ron to coordinate their response. They agreed on a distribution of tasks, with Ben taking the lead – Ron was still embroiled in the trial of a group of thrill-kill teens who’d been murdering homeless men for kicks, so his time was limited until the verdict came in. The attorney general had demanded he be present for the closing arguments so the jury could see his face, which he believed was a colossal waste of time, but he’d been forced to play along. Ron was a minor celebrity in the city after solving several high-profile murders, including the recent Red Cap serial killings that had panicked Manhattan over the summer.

Ben made his way to his cubicle and Ron to his. The day shift was long gone, and the floor largely empty now except for a few detectives finishing up their projects. Ron glanced at the vacant cubicles as he passed and felt a pang of envy at the nine-to-five life most of his peers enjoyed. That had never seemed appealing to him before, but now, after a tough year of emotional roller coaster rides and some of the most challenging cases of his career, there was something to be said for being able to clock out and go home, leaving the job on the desktop until the following day.

He flopped down in his worn chair and reached for his phone, the message indicator blinking a notification with the regularity of a metronome. Ron punched in his password and listened to the voice mails – a call from forensics that his results were in and had been emailed to him; another from one of his colleagues with whom he was putting to bed a grisly stabbing death of a teenage runaway skater chick who’d been killed by her stoned boyfriend; one from Sarah Lieberman, a reporter with the New York Times who’d been hounding him for an interview for an article she was working on that would feature Ron as the new face of the NYPD.

The final call was a voice he hadn’t heard for three months, and he sat up, instantly alert, his heart rate increasing by twenty beats per minute.

A female voice.

“Ron? It’s Tess. Tess Gideon. I…I’m back in town. Got a new cell number. Call me when you have a little time to catch up.”

He jotted down the number and replayed the message, savoring the musical lilt of Tess’s cadence, every word to his ear a promise. He’d all but abandoned hope of ever hearing Tess’s voice again when she left New York to spend time in Europe after her father’s savage murder.

But she was back in the city and wanted to catch up.

To pursue that which they’d agreed to leave unexplored until she was on firmer emotional footing.

Ron smiled to himself and tossed the pen aside. His otherwise bleak evening had just brightened.

Chapter 2

Present day, Manhattan, New York

Tess Gideon ambled along the sidewalk, adjusting her sweater against the crisp autumn breeze off Central Park. This was her favorite time of year in the city, with the swelter of the summer months over and winter’s snow still a month or more away. She ran a hand through her raven locks and checked the time – she still had five minutes to make it to the restaurant where she was meeting her cousin, Dakota Reed, who’d arrived in New York for her debut year with the American Ballet Company while Tess had been in Europe.

Three months in France, Spain, Italy, and England had been the break Tess needed. She’d found the vastly different cultures refreshing after growing up on the Upper West Side, but deep down she was still a New Yorker, and there was only one Big Apple. Paris had been wonderful, Madrid a blast, Rome and Florence so-so, and London unlike what she’d been expecting. The combined experiences had afforded her the emotional and geographic distance to come to grips with the murder of her father and boyfriend, and now she felt strangely at peace to be back home, even if staying in a hotel.

She’d moved out of her SoHo loft as her final step in disconnecting from her past before leaving the country, and upon her return had checked into a midtown hotel in anticipation of dealing with her father’s apartment, which he’d owned for thirty years. Her sister, Chrissy, had been badgering her to clean out the place and sell it so she could pocket half the proceeds, but in typical fashion hadn’t been willing to do the work herself, preferring to remain in California, complaining that Tess was stalling by inconsiderately being halfway across the globe.

There was some truth to her sister’s stalling charge, though, and Tess wasn’t looking forward to a foray into her father’s digs. But it was a necessary step in the healing process she would endure with gritted teeth. She’d toyed with the idea of buying her sister out and keeping the apartment – she needed a place to live, after all, and you couldn’t beat the location. Ultimately, Tess had decided to reserve judgment until she got back from Europe and began packing his things. There was no hurry other than her sister’s to get her hands on more cash, which Tess couldn’t have cared less about.

She rounded the corner and spotted Dakota standing outside the restaurant, her dance bag containing her ballet clothes hanging from her shoulder. Wisps of stray hair the color of wet straw had blown loose from her tight bun. It had been nearly a decade since Tess had last seen Dakota, when she’d come to visit Tess’s parents for two days. Dakota had grown into a beautiful young woman, glowing with vitality at eighteen in the big city, her life and career one of endless possibility after being selected from thousands of aspirants to join the company.

Dakota had won a bronze medal at an international dance competition in Florida, which had attracted the attention of the company scouts, who’d invited her to join the corps de ballet and move to New York – the ballet equivalent of winning the lottery. She’d jumped at the chance, and Tess felt a twinge of regret that she hadn’t been around to help Dakota get settled.

“Dakota!” Tess called as she neared. The two women were nearly polar opposites in appearance, Tess’s ebony locks, five-five frame, and tanned skin adorned with numerous tattoos a marked contrast to her cousin’s diminutive stature and pale complexion.

“Tess,” Dakota squealed in excitement, and ran to her cousin with open arms. They hugged for a long moment, and then Tess held Dakota at arm’s length, inspecting her with earnest green eyes.

“Look at you! You’re gorgeous!” Tess exclaimed. “Last time I saw you, you were missing teeth and playing with a doll.”

“Don’t remind me. That was a long time ago,” Dakota said with a smile.

“And here you are. How do you like New York?”

“It’s amazing. I still can’t believe this isn’t a dream.”

Tess glanced at the restaurant entrance. “Well, if it is, it’s one where I’m hungry. How about you?”

“I could eat a salad or something.”

“Then it’s decided.” Tess led her toward the hostess and held up two fingers. The woman nodded and escorted them to a table by one of the picture windows so they could people watch as they dined, and set menus in front of them. They sat, and Tess leaned back in her chair. “You have to tell me all about the ballet. I’m sorry I was out of town when you got here.”

“No problem. I found a place with two of the other girls that’s not too far from the studios, so that’s all taken care of.”

“How do you like dancing with a big company?”

“It’s incredible. Nothing I’ve done prepared me for this. I mean, not the technical challenges – those are easy. Just the level of competition, and dancing alongside names I’ve followed my entire life. It’s hard not to go completely fangirl over them, to be honest.”

Tess nodded. “Are they paying you enough?”

“Sort of. I mean, I’d pay to dance here, so anything I get is gravy.”

“And your schedule?”

“Class every morning at ten, and then rehearsals until five.”

“Wow. That’s a ton of exercise.”

“A lot of it’s just hanging around, waiting for your part.” Dakota shrugged. “I’m happy, and I’m learning a lot.”

The waitress arrived and they ordered. When she left with the menus, Dakota sat forward.

“How about you? How are you holding up?” Dakota asked.

Tess considered the question. “Better now. It was kind of a shock when it all went down. That’s why I had to get away. I couldn’t deal with it – every time I turned a corner there was something to remind me of what had happened.”

“I totally understand. I mean, I can’t imagine what it must be like, but I could see wanting to leave.” Dakota paused. “Are you okay being back?”

“Sure. I mean, part of it seems almost like it was all a dream, you know? The horror of it’s diminished some, and what’s left…” Tess’s voice trailed off, and her expression grew serious. She watched a homeless man beg for a handout on the sidewalk and then returned her attention to Dakota with a forced smile. “It’ll probably take a while to get used to being back, but it is what it is. And now that you’re here, I can pester you when I want company – assuming you don’t mind having your old cousin hanging out with you.”

“Are you kidding? That would be awesome.”

Their meals arrived, and Dakota picked at her salad while Tess made short work of her lemon chicken. They discussed nothing and everything, easy in each other’s company, and when they were finished, Tess eyed Dakota while the server cleared their plates.

“So, what about boys? You have your eye on any of the guys in the company?” Tess asked.

“Oh, well, not really,” Dakota said as color flooded her cheeks.

“What? Come on, give,” Tess insisted.

Dakota looked away. “I already met a guy.”

“That’s how it starts,” Tess said knowingly.

“He’s totally different. Not in the ballet.”

“Really? What does he do? How did you meet him?”

“He works on Wall Street. I was out with some of the other dancers, and he was meeting someone at the same place. It was like instant…you know.”

Tess nodded. “I seem to remember something like that.”

“So he asked me out, and we totally hit it off. Which is kind of weird, because you’d think we wouldn’t have much in common with our backgrounds and all, but it’s all good.”

“What’s his name?”

“Jeremy.”

“And he’s a banker?”

“Something like that. He manages money.”

“So he’s loaded?”

“I haven’t asked. But he doesn’t seem worried about it or anything.”

“How old is he?”

Dakota looked away. “A little older than me.”

“How much older?” Tess pressed.

“Late twenties.”

Tess tried not to frown. Her thoughts flitted to Ron Stanford, who was a decade older than Tess, and she bit her tongue, having no room to talk – after all, wasn’t she having dinner with him that same evening, to see whether the chemistry they’d felt before she’d left town was still strong? Besides, late twenties and eighteen, while it seemed culturally a little weird, wasn’t really that vast an age difference. She’d met plenty of women in Europe whose husbands or boyfriends were older, and they seemed to work out just fine. Then again, maybe she’d been looking for confirmation of her situation – attracted to an older man who lived in a different universe.

“You spend much time together?” Tess asked.

“Well, between his schedule and mine, not as much as I’d like… But you know, we make time.” Dakota brightened. “Hey, you busy tomorrow?”

“Not really. What did you have in mind?”

“I’ve got rehearsal during the day, and then we’re dancing Swan Lake at the Met in the evening. You want to come watch? And then we can see about getting you on the list or something for the show?”

“I can buy a ticket, I don’t mind. And yes, I’d love to see you dance. Try keeping me away.” Tess hesitated. “But the Met, huh? Not sure I have any outfits that would work for that…”

“Oh, anything you wear will look stunning. Don’t sweat it. Just come, and we can grab a cocktail after. It’ll be chill.”

Chill?

“You talked me into it, Dakota. Just name a place and time and I’ll be there.”

“Cool. Just show up a little before one for dress rehearsal at the theater. I’ll put your name down, and maybe you can get a ticket while you’re there.”

Tess looked down at her jeans. “Sounds like I have to go shopping. Want to come?”

Dakota offered a pout. “I wish. I’ve got rehearsal all afternoon.”

“Your loss.”

“I’m sure. But rain check?”

“Absolutely.”

Chapter 3

The booming bass of a techno beat thumped in the great room of the sprawling mansion in Greenwich, Connecticut. A cloud of marijuana smoke drifted toward the open French doors in the dim light as the host, Charles Stibling, strode through the tangle of naked bodies on the floor. His outfit for the night, head-to-toe black leather, was a departure from his normal suit and tie – the uniform of a retired billionaire hedge-fund mogul infamous for his ruthless attacks against companies he’d earmarked for destruction. His silver hair was gelled into a tousled tumble, and he was almost unrecognizable from his customary staid look, his getup having more in common with Keith Richards on a rough night out than a pillar of the New York financial community.

A nude redheaded woman was riding an African-American man cowboy style off to his right, and he paused to watch her buck and grind, taking in with a glance her cuffed hands on his chest, the wax remnants drizzled across the tattoo on her back, and her buttocks bright crimson from an earlier spanking. Stibling smiled at the woman and then slapped her across the face, which she barely registered; the effects of a cocktail of cocaine, meth, and heroin she’d injected earlier had rendered her numb to her surroundings or any abuse she was subjected to.

The man flipped the woman off and she obligingly assumed a familiar position on her hands and knees as he moved to her face with his engorged member. Another man, also naked and clearly highly aroused, moved behind her. As the pair went to work, Stibling’s attention wandered to a new arrival – a gaunt man in his late thirties, his Caesar-cut hair bleached white, clad in a gold lamé suit.

“Gunter, you made it!” Stibling called out, his interest in the copulating threesome gone. “Welcome, my friend, welcome. The party’s just heating up.”

Gunter paused where a man covered in tattoos, naked except for a studded black leather codpiece, was suspended from the ceiling by hooks driven through his skin. His face was glazed over from drugs and his eyes were closed. Gunter smiled at Stibling as he approached, the effect of the effort more a grimace than greeting, and held out his hand. “Charles, thanks for the invitation.”

“How could I not include you? You’ve done so much…”

“Everything is to your satisfaction?”

“Couldn’t be better. The performers are…spectacular. Truly a notch above anything I expected.”

“Excellent. Paulo is taking care of you?”

“The man’s a miracle worker. Can I get you anything? A drink? A line? Whatever you want, just say the word.”

“I took some ecstasy on the way over. It’s hitting, so I’m good.”

Stibling motioned for Gunter to follow him onto the veranda, where a thin, naked Hispanic man sat, methodically slicing his skin with an antique straight-edge razor. Blood welled from several dozen lacerations on his legs and trunk, and when he was done with the latest one, he stood and screamed obscenities at the gathered guests, who seemed unfazed by his outburst.

A hirsute midget ran toward the man with a whip and began flogging his back, which was scarred from prior beatings, the lash marks a crisscross of white stripes. The bleeding man continued hurling invective, yelling with each blow like a madman.

“Oh, there’s Paulo,” Stibling said, pointing toward a lanky man wearing black jeans and a Metallica concert T-shirt. “He told me that we have a special treat this evening.”

Gunter nodded. “That’s right. A onetime event. I’m quite sure you’ve never seen anything quite like it.” He paused. “It’s Hitoshi Sato. Whom you’ve no doubt heard of?”

“Sato? I thought he’d retired after…”

Gunter shrugged. “Everyone’s got to pay the bills.”

“Ah. Of course. Well, that is unexpected. Hitoshi Sato, in the flesh.”

“In what will be a unique performance, he has assured me.”

“His reputation precedes him.” Stibling’s eyes narrowed as he leaned into Gunter and lowered his voice. “I can’t videotape it? For an additional fee?”

Gunter shook his head. “No. You may keep the props and join in any of the sex you wish, but it’s forbidden to film any of it. As discussed. That isn’t negotiable. Nothing personal.”

“Pity. But I understand.”

“Good.” Gunter glanced at Paulo. “Will you excuse me for a moment?”

“Certainly,” Stibling said, and turned to where a pair of nude Thai ladyboys were taking turns sodomizing a young man who couldn’t have been more than a teen, dressed in only a sailor hat and an expression of pain from his rough treatment.

Gunter pushed past a well-dressed couple, the man in an immaculate tuxedo, the woman in an evening gown shimmering with sequins, who were watching the screaming man being beaten by the midget with bored expressions. Gunter nodded to the pair, whose black masks covering their eyes were slim disguise but a requisite formality for admission to the parties, and continued to where Paulo was downing a cocktail with a wince.

“Firewater good?” Gunter asked.

Paulo nodded. “Top shelf. Añejo tequila.”

“Can’t imagine our host having anything less.”

“You want some?” Paulo asked.

“No. I’m good. Where’s Sato?”

“In one of the bedrooms, shooting up. He’s not scheduled to be on for another twenty minutes.”

“This has to go off without a hitch.”

Paulo nodded and leered at a nude woman carrying an ice bucket, whose body was covered with tattoos as well as dozens of elaborate piercings in every conceivable area. She caught the gesture and grinned. “Ice blowjob?” she asked, as businesslike as a bank teller asking for ID.

“Not right now, honey. Maybe later,” Paulo said. “You interested?” he asked Gunter, who pursed his lips and shook his head.

“I’ll be around,” the woman said indifferently, and continued through the group as though she was passing out canapés.

Paulo lowered his voice to a whisper. “You got anything new for me?”

“Not yet. I’m working on it.”

“That’s not going to get the monkey off my back, and we both know it.”

“Buy me more time. I have some prospects coming in tomorrow who are furnishing their Irish chateau.”

“What happened to the couple who were going to commission a mural for their Hampton getaway?”

“They’re still thinking about it. The art world is very particular, as you know. These sorts of things can’t be rushed.”

A whistle pierced the room, and Gunter and Paulo spun in its direction. An obese man with an American flag painted on his back, clad in only a diaper, stood facing an emaciated vagrant wearing panties and a bra over his thin frame. A white sheet lay spread on the lawn beneath them. The obese man stepped toward his counterpart and punched him in the stomach, and then in the face. The thin man’s skin split like parchment at the second blow, and blood streamed from his cheekbone. The obese man continued to beat him until he collapsed in a tumble, at which point he kicked him several times for good measure before cutting a victory jig.

When the performance was finished, Paulo moved out to the lawn area, clapped his hands, and then faced the audience of several dozen well-heeled men and women, all with their masks in place, most festooned with elaborate feathers like those from at a Venetian fête.

Paulo cleared his throat and paused theatrically. “Honored guests. In a few moments, the star attraction will be taking place in the performance area. Everyone knows the rules: no photographs, no phones, no recordings of any sort, no exceptions. Thank you for your cooperation.”

Two muscular young men carried the bloody vagrant out wrapped in the sheet, and then returned with a silver tarp, which they spread on the lawn before leaving the area. A shiver of anticipation swept through the gathering at the sight. Rumor had it that an iconic performance artist notorious for his edgy tableaus was going to perform a onetime piece for their unique enjoyment, and the covering augured that it would be particularly memorable.

Gunter and Paulo moved to the half circle of spectators and stood beside Stibling, whose leather outfit reeked of opiated hashish and expensive Scotch. As the music faded, a short Japanese man in a white kimono cinched at the waist with a red sash emerged from the back of the house, carrying a blue aluminum suitcase. A pair of Asian women in their twenties, dressed as geishas, took seats on silk cushions by the edge of the tarp.

The women began beating drums, occasionally punctuating their pounding with monosyllabic war cries from some forgotten Samurai past, as the man reached the tarp and bowed. A hushed murmur sounded from the audience, and the man opened the suitcase and extracted a glass jar filled with nails, tacks, and broken glass. He wordlessly dumped the contents onto the tarp and then tossed the jar aside, stripped naked, and urinated on the scattering before turning to face the gathering and defecating on the pile.

The drumming increased in tempo as he stepped toward the broken glass. He threw himself onto the shards and proceeded to roll around, the glass and spikes slicing him ragged. Soon he was covered in blood and his own filth, panting, his eyes wild.

One of the drummers rose and moved to the suitcase, from which she removed a bottle of rubbing alcohol and tossed it to him. He poured the bottle over his head, screaming at the sting, and then the other geisha threw him a lighter. He dropped it, groped for it, and then raised it to his chest, his expression now calm. Gunter realized that he was holding his breath and exhaled noisily, transfixed by the display, as was the crowd. The first woman handed the Asian man a black strip of cloth, which he tied around his head as a blindfold.

A collective gasp came from the audience as the man screamed something indecipherable in Japanese, flicked the lighter to life, and held it against his chest. The alcohol ignited, and he threw himself onto the burning pool at his feet, thrashing around until the assistant removed a small fire extinguisher and doused him with the contents, extinguishing the blaze in a cloud of white foam.

Stibling applauded, his eyes feverish, and cried, “Bravo!” The others joined him as the bloody, singed Japanese man gasped for breath on the tarp. One of the women approached him with his kimono, and the other stopped drumming with a final exuberant war cry. The lights flickered off, and Paulo spoke in a loud voice.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the one, the only, Hitoshi Sato! And now, if you’d give the artist room, the show is over.”

Stibling drew near and whispered to Paulo and Gunter as the crowd moved back inside. “Is he going to live?”

Paulo shrugged. “I presume so.”

“It was…I’ve never seen anything like it. I’ll remember it forever.”

Paulo laughed harshly. “In my nightmares, maybe.”

“Good art stays with you,” Stibling said. “It was a masterful piece, blending the futility of rising above one’s essential self and one’s waste, symbolizing the digestion of everything we’re exposed to, even as the world damages us. And the spiritual cleansing of fire…the metaphor is breathtakingly profound in its simplicity.”

Gunter tilted his head, the drug now roaring through his system with a familiar rush of euphoria as he watched the two geishas attend to Sato, who was quivering in a coating of foam.

“You have a discerning eye.”

Chapter 4

The Toro restaurant near Lincoln Center was packed, with a line at the door and an hour wait. Tess fidgeted with her cell phone to kill time while she waited for Ron. She’d ordered a vodka and tonic when she was shown to the table, and after half an hour, it was nearly gone. She debated ordering another, but was saved from making the decision by Ron, who pushed through the front doors and made straight for her table.

Tess stood and Ron kissed her cheek in the European fashion before taking a seat across from her, his eyes locked on her face. She was relieved to see that he was handsome as ever in his quirky, nondescript way, his shock of unruly brown hair hanging over his forehead exactly as she remembered.

“You look incredible,” he said in a low voice. “Sorry I’m running late. It was a long one.”

“No problem. You did warn me, after all.”

A server approached with another menu and took Ron’s drink order, a Seven and Seven, and when she departed, he sat back and smiled. “Kind of a crummy week. I’ve been on this damned trial for almost a month, and the verdict came back yesterday evening. It wasn’t a great one for the white hats.” He paused. “You might have seen it in the paper today.”

She shook her head. “I didn’t look. What happened?”

“This is the trio of kids from the right side of Park Avenue who we placed killing homeless people for kicks. I thought we had a solid case, and so did the DA, but the jury didn’t.” He shrugged. “What can I say? It happens. Juries can be unpredictable, which is why we generally try to plea bargain to avoid trial. But these punks’ parents were having none of it – they hired the best lawyers money can buy, and it paid off. Just enough doubt so they got an acquittal.”

“That’s…that’s terrible. And you’re positive they were guilty?”

“Absolutely. But we didn’t have DNA, and it was circumstantial after the only witness changed her testimony at the last minute – enough to torpedo our case.”

Tess frowned. “You think they got to her?”

Ron nodded with a look of disgust. “I’m sure of it. She’d been coached. They were subtle changes – not enough to charge her with perjury, but enough to make her sound uncertain, when before she’d been convincing.” The server returned with his drink and a refresher for Tess, and Ron toasted her before swallowing half the glass in a gulp. “I wonder what it costs to buy a witness in a serial-killing trial. Had to be expensive.”

“I can’t believe that happens in this day and age.”

“When the money’s big, all bets are off. I tried telling the DA that, but he wanted to press forward with it in spite of my reservations. Which I understand. I mean, they killed four people, although the jury didn’t buy it.” He shrugged. “It didn’t help that they’re seniors at the best school in Manhattan, on the honor roll, and the victims were bums.”

“Bums have rights, too.”

“I know,” he said morosely, and then shrugged. “But enough about that. Tell me all about Europe. How was it? What was your favorite place?”

“Paris, no question. It’s an incredible city – so much history, such a presence. And the people weren’t mean, like everyone warned me about. Most were nice.”

“After New York, anything’s an improvement. Besides, beautiful women generally have an easy time no matter where they are.”

It was Tess’s turn to smile. “That’s very kind.”

“It’s true, which makes it easy. So what did you do all day?”

“Mostly went sightseeing, taking tours and walking the city. There are so many museums you could spend a year there and not see everything. Have you ever been?”

“No. But it’s on my bucket list.”

The server came over to take their order, and Ron downed another swallow of his cocktail. When she left with the menus, he set his drink down. “You see the news about the snuff film?”

“I did. I was thinking about you. Did you get that one?”

He nodded. “Of course. Any time some twisted bastard gets up to no good, I’m on it. And this one sort of takes the cake.”

Tess’s expression turned serious. “How bad is it?”

“Imagine the worst and then triple it, and you’re still low.”

She made a face. “Yikes.”

“You have no idea. I can’t talk about it, but it’s ugly.” He sighed. “So you’re back. You seem relaxed. Rested.”

“Overfed, too, and looking forward to getting on my bike again.”

He looked surprised. “You’re not going back to work at the messenger place, are you?”

She laughed. “No. I meant riding for pleasure. I miss it.”

“That’s a relief. Wouldn’t do to have a wealthy young lady schlepping around for table scraps.”

Tess regaled him with stories from her travels, and by the time dinner arrived, they were laughing easily, their mutual attraction clearly as strong as ever. His fingers occasionally lingered on her hand as he made a point, and her eyes flashed interest in an unmistakably flirtatious way. She told him about her father’s apartment and her dread of going there, and he offered to accompany her for moral support, as well as to her storage unit, where she’d parked her bicycle and her few possessions.

“That’s kind of you, Ron, but I can do it on my own. Besides, I’m not completely alone these days in New York.”

His face froze. “Oh?”

Tess touched his arm and shook her head. “It’s my cousin. Dakota. She’s with one of the ballet companies. Just started with them.”

Ron appeared visibly relieved. “Dakota, huh? That’s got to be fun for you.”

“It is. We had lunch today. She’s an angel. I’m supposed to see her dance tomorrow.” Tess hesitated. “Do you have anything going on tomorrow night?”

“Me? No, other than catching bad guys. The usual. But I’ll warn you that I’m not much of a dance guy.”

“How about you skip the performance, then, and meet me after for a late drink? That gets you out of having to sit through it, and there’s booze involved.” She winked.

“You make a compelling argument,” he said, and toasted her again. “What else do you have planned for your week?”

“I need to find a place to live. Decide what I want to do with the rest of my life. Maybe get another tattoo. You know. The usual.” She beamed at him, warmed by the alcohol, along with the company.

“If you need moral support for the tattoo, I’m always available.”

“You should totally get one!”

He gave her a sheepish grin. “I’m not really a tats kind of guy. Although if anyone could convince me…” Ron paused, thoughtful. “You going to look up any of your buds from the messenger company?”

“I know this sounds terrible, but I don’t want to see anyone from my past. Does that make any sense?”

“Of course. You’ve outgrown that bunch. Frankly, I never saw the attraction. You could do anything you want. That was a waste of your talents.”

She gave him a puzzled look. “How do you know what talents I have?”

Ron blushed and looked away. “You’re smart, funny, charming, beautiful…that’s a powerful combination,” he stammered. His phone trilled from his jacket, saving him any further awkwardness, and he fished for it in his pocket. “Damn. Hang on. I’ve got a call.” He answered, and his shoulders sagged after listening for several moments. When he hung up, he was already rising. “Sorry about this, Tess, but I have to go.”

Her face fell. “You do?”

“That was the job. Duty calls.” He placed a few bills on the table. She waved him off and slid the money back.

“My treat. I invited you, remember?”

Ron took the cash and tried a small smile. “It was great to see you again, Tess. I mean it. And I’d love to meet up tomorrow. Let’s plan on it. Just text me the details, and I’ll be there with bells on,” he said, but sounded detached.

She eyed him with concern. “What is it, Ron?”

He looked around at the other diners and then leaned toward her and whispered into her ear.

“The videos. Another body just surfaced.”

Chapter 5

Four squad cars blocked the street near the East River as an arriving taxi’s headlights swept the area. The cab pulled to a stop and Ron stepped from the car, flashed his badge at the uniforms loitering around the forensics van, and made his way to the front of an old red brick church. A stiff breeze cut through his jacket as he strode to the entrance, which was cordoned off with yellow crime scene tape. He glanced inside at the scaffolding that rose toward the vaulted ceiling, and eyed the three high-wattage work lamps illuminating the altar, where a pair of forensics technicians worked in silence.

Ron turned to where Amy Silva, the director of the forensics department and lead pathologist, stood beside the van, speaking in hushed tones on her cell phone. She held up a finger to Ron as he approached. He took the hint and kept his distance as he waited for her to finish the call. When the conversation was over, she slid the phone into her smock and scowled.

“Nice night for it, huh?” she said.

“Could be raining or snowing,” Ron countered.

“Ever the optimist.” Her expression softened. “Sorry about the trial. A shame. We had them dead to rights.”

“Only thing certain is death and taxes,” Ron said. “Speaking of which…”

She motioned to Ron to follow, and led him toward the entrance. “Got a naked female torso missing all appendages and the head,” she explained as she stepped over the threshold. Ron tailed her down the wide aisle to the altar, where the corpse lay on the beige marble.

He sniffed the air. “Been here awhile, huh?”

Amy nodded. “Since this morning, at least. That’s just a preliminary assessment, though.”

“Why wasn’t it discovered until tonight?”

“The church is closed for renovation. The night security guard found it when he was doing his rounds.”

“No daytime guard or construction workers?”

“Yesterday was a holiday, and there’s no day guard in the budget.”

“Ah. So when do you think the unsub got in?”

“Place is unguarded from six a.m., so probably shortly thereafter.”

Ron looked around the dark interior. “How?”

“Pried a board off one of the back windows. There’s nothing inside to steal, so it’s not particularly well secured.”

“Which means he must have known the guard’s schedule.”

Amy nodded. “That’s likely.”

“Where is he?”

“Ben took him in for questioning.” Amy paused. “You see the little paint job the killer did?”

Ron squinted at the floor. “Is that blood?”

“Yes. It’s a pentagram.”

Ron groaned. “This just keeps getting better, doesn’t it?”

“First the school, then a church. Someone’s acting out, huh?”

“Safe to say he wants to be noticed.” Ron eyed the russet smears on the dusty floor. “Anything we can use?”

“He bagged his shoes. Nothing stands out but smudges. Probably wore gloves, too, but we’re going through the motions. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find a hair or something.”

Ron nodded. “Might as well get this over with.” He moved to the body and inspected it. “Don’t suppose he left the hands or the head anywhere nearby?”

“Not that we’ve found. But hope springs eternal.”

“So they say. What did Ben think?”

“He gave the scene a quick once-over, but as you can see, there’s not a lot here.”

Ron stepped away from the corpse and let the techs continue working. He slowly walked the interior, trying to put himself into the mind of the killer. What had he been thinking? Why a school and then a church? Amy stood by wordlessly, knowing better than to interrupt Ron when he was deep in concentration. They’d worked together long enough for her to know his routine.

Eventually he moved to the rear of the building, where a window was open, letting in a cool draft. He glanced at the fingerprint dust along the ledge and then down at the floor, and spotted the footprints.

“You got photos of all this?” he asked quietly.

“Of course.”

“I see what you mean about them being indistinct. Although it looks like he has big feet.”

Amy frowned. “How many serials are savvy enough to bag their shoes before entering a dumping area? That’s more than a little scary.”

“There’s nothing about this that isn’t,” Ron agreed. “Our boy is definitely a thinker. He’s obviously scouted out his locales. No security cams, no nearby traffic cams, an area of the city that’s deserted on weekend mornings. Doesn’t bode well for us, does it?”

“No.”

Ron looked back at the altar. “Any evidence of sexual activity?”

“Nothing jumps out on first blush, but I’ll know more once we get her to the lab.”

Ron tilted his head and peered into the rafters. “Has anyone been up there yet?”

“No reason to.”

“Might want to get a tech to check it.”

Amy moved closer to Ron and followed his gaze into the gloom. “What do you see?”

“Let’s get a light. But first, have your people go over the scaffolding and dust for prints. I don’t want to disturb anything.”

Amy called out to her techs and they came at a trot. She gave them instructions and they went to work, leaving Amy and Ron to get flashlights from the van. Upon their return, he directed his beam toward the high ceiling. The light played along the carved figures that looked down upon the pews, and stopped at an object that was conspicuously out of place.

A human head, positioned so it was staring at the altar.

Amy gasped. “Okay, tell me this isn’t freaking you out, just a little.”

Ron didn’t say anything.

His phone rang and he reached for it, his eyes never leaving the grisly memento above. A muscle in Ron’s jaw pulsed as he ground his teeth. “Stanford,” he answered.

“Another video just hit,” Ben said.

“At least he’s consistent. You watch it yet?”

“No. One of the networks sent it over only a few minutes ago.”

“I’ll need some more time here before I can join you.”

“I’ll make popcorn.”

Ron didn’t chuckle at the grim humor. “He left the head.”

Ben sounded surprised. “Really? Where?”

Ron described the scene. When he was finished, both men were quiet.

Ben finally broke the silence. “The captain wants you here ASAP, Ron. He’s coming into the office to meet.”

Ron sighed and looked to where Amy was standing. “Another marathon, huh?”

Ben grunted agreement. “See you when you get here.”

Chapter 6

Hitoshi Sato sat on an emergency room exam table as a nurse leaned over him, picking shards of glass from the numerous wounds that covered his body. Sato’s head was swathed in a bandage, his hair singed off by the flames; only his eyebrows and eyelashes remained, protected by the fireproof strip he’d tied over them before his self-immolation. The nurse, a Filipino woman in her forties, worked in silence, the only sound in the area the clink of another glass fragment landing in the metal pan by her side.

Sato endured the process, one that he knew would be a long one from his prior forays into extreme performance art. His body was covered with small scars from the other time he’d tried a similar act, with equally painful results. But he’d been considerably younger then, in his hometown of Tokyo, and had healed relatively quickly compared to what he was sure he’d endure this time.

Still, it had been worth it. He’d been paid two hundred thousand dollars for five minutes of his life – well worth the misery he was currently enduring.

A young doctor entered the room and eyed him like something stuck to the bottom of his shoe before making a note on his clipboard and fixing Sato with a hard stare.

“You’re lucky you’re alive.”

“The Lord works in mysterious ways,” Sato agreed.

“Do you think this is funny? You’ve got burns on over forty percent of your body, and we’ve flushed enough crap from your wounds to pollute half New York Harbor. What the hell were you thinking?”

“I’m an artist. Things got carried away. It wasn’t intentional.”

“You could die of sepsis. You could go into shock from the burns. And those are the tame possibilities.”

“I understand.” Sato indeed did. He’d used alcohol in the belief that it would act as an antiseptic, killing the worst of the bacteria when he’d poured it over himself, with the flames destroying the rest. “Do you have some sort of antibiotic you can give me so I don’t get infected?”

The doctor shook his head. “You think a shot is all you need? I’ve recommended you for a psych evaluation. In cases like these, it’s policy.”

“I’m quite sane, I assure you.”

“I’m not going to be the judge of that. I will, however, point out that it’s hardly sane to roll around in broken glass and human waste, and then set yourself on fire.”

“I told you, the fire was an accident. I was using the alcohol to–”

“Yes, Mr. Sato, I know what you said. You can explain it to my colleague when she arrives shortly.” The doctor eyed the nurse. “How’s it going?”

“Another hour, at least. Maybe more.”

The physician looked at Sato. “You want something for the pain?”

“I’m fine.”

“It’s a miracle that you didn’t fry your genitals off.”

“As I said, I’m a lucky man.” The truth was that Sato had used an ointment that retarded the flames just long enough for the extinguisher to come into play, as he had with his face. The results were less than stellar, admittedly, but better than nothing. He’d also done most of the damage with the glass and tacks to his back and chest, avoiding all but a few painful cuts on his private parts.

“The police will also be having a word with you shortly.”

“Yes, I’m sure they will. But I’ve committed no crime.”

“You almost killed yourself.”

Sato raised an eyebrow. “Is it illegal to be stupid now? Half the city must be behind bars.” He glanced down at his lacerations. “I would appreciate antibiotics.”

The doctor shook his head. “I honestly don’t get it. You’ve obviously done this before. What could possibly drive you to repeat the experience?”

Sato looked away, his face an unreadable mask. “It is my art.”

“Rolling around in feces and glass.”

“Art must disturb to make us think.”

“Well, Mr. Sato, we agree on one thing: this is beyond disturbing.” The physician regarded Sato’s arms and legs. “I see you have a number of collapsed veins and recent track marks.”

“It is a constant struggle to beat my demons.”

“There are treatment programs.”

“I prefer to deal with my issues in my own way.”

The doctor held up his clipboard. “Suit yourself. I’ll be back shortly with your shot and a prescription. You’ll need to be on the meds for at least two weeks, and will have to stay out of the sun and avoid drinking alcohol.”

“After this recent experience, I can assure you I’ll do both. Thank you for your patience, Doctor. I don’t expect you to understand my art, but I appreciate your staff’s tending to me.”

“It’s our job.”

“Yes, well, this is mine.”

Sato watched the man leave and felt a small kinship with him. He was working graveyard – a thankless shift dealing with gunshot wounds, car accident victims, end-stage alcoholism, and sexual adventures gone awry. He did hard duty for too little pay, working in a system that chewed his kind up and spit them out without a second thought.

He grimaced in pain as the nurse burrowed into a particularly deep laceration with her forceps and sucked in a sharp breath as she flushed the wound with saline. Sato forced his heart rate back to its usual slow rhythm and composed himself. The woman was thorough; the lower part of his body had taken two hours to clean. The worst of the damage was superficial – the glass was small enough so that it had mostly resulted in flesh wounds, which looked horrific but weren’t terminal. The nails were largely harmless, more for show, and the tacks left easily healed puncture wounds.

“Sorry. This is a bad one,” the nurse apologized.

“No problem. Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”

“You sure you don’t want some local anesthetic?” she asked. “It will help.

He shook his head. “My body is a temple.”

The woman choked back a snicker and continued working with the mechanical regularity of a robot. “Suit yourself,” she said.

Sato closed his eyes and willed himself to a remote reach of his consciousness, where pain couldn’t find him and he could recharge his badly depleted resources in peace.

Fifteen minutes later, the young doctor returned with a syringe and administered the antibiotic. He eyed Sato’s back and shook his head and then left without a word. Sato waited a few moments before telling the nurse that he needed to use the restroom. She offered him a paper gown, which he pulled on with a wince, and then donned his shoes and made for the bathroom at the end of the ER hall, leaving the bloody tracksuit he’d arrived in on a chair beside the nurse for company.

Once at the bathroom door, he looked around to confirm nobody was watching him. Satisfied he hadn’t attracted any attention, he continued past the restroom and ducked into a stairwell on his right.

Sato took the steps two at a time, anxious to get as far from the hospital as possible now that he’d had his shot. His assistant would be able to remove the rest of the glass and was waiting for him with a bag of clothes in the chapel on the second floor of the hospital. With any luck he’d be gone by the time the nurse sounded the alarm, and the police would be left scratching their heads at his disappearance. It was unlikely that they’d do much else, given that nobody besides him had been hurt. The fools would fill out a report, laugh about it over donuts, and go on with their business while Sato recovered at his skid row hotel.

Two hundred grand richer.

He shook his head at the thought.

What a country.

Chapter 7

The morning sun warmed Tess’s skin as she looked up at her father’s pre-war building, shielding her eyes with her hand. In the street before her, taxis roared past her at suicidal speed, horns blaring as rush hour drew to a close. She watched the approaching traffic and timed her sprint across, calculating with the skill acquired from two years of the daily grind as a bicycle messenger, before her father’s death had changed everything in her world.

She made it with seconds to spare as a delivery truck rumbled by, and approached the building entrance, carrying her half-drunk cup of coffee in one hand and a file in the other. The doorman watched her near with a smile and nodded to her as he held the door open.

“Morning, Miss Gideon. Awful shame about your father,” he said.

Tess nodded, her lips a thin line. “Thanks, Steven. He’s definitely missed.”

“My condolences.”

She knew the man from her regular visits, but didn’t want to spend any more time in conversation than she could help. Tess checked her watch and glanced at the front door. “I’m going up to my dad’s apartment. I’m expecting someone in about half an hour. Claire Simons. Could you buzz me when she gets here?”

“Of course, Miss Gideon. Claire Simons. Got it.”

The elevator lurched to the eighth floor, and Tess exhaled softly as the door slid open. The sight of the long hall was familiar and yet strangely foreign, as though she were seeing it in a dream. The sense of surrealism continued as she approached the apartment and felt in her pocket for the keys.

This was the first time she had been there since his murder three months earlier. Tess’s hand trembled as she slid the key into the deadbolt and twisted it open with a snick. She took a deep breath and steeled herself for what was to come, and then pushed the heavy wooden slab wide, unsure what she would find but determined to go through with her foray no matter what.

She wrinkled her nose at the odor of decay and made her way to the nearest window. Motes of dust danced in a sunbeam streaming through the curtains, and she coughed. Holding her breath, she slid the drapes apart and hoisted the window open, the wooden frame groaning in protest. She moved to the next and repeated her maneuver until fresh air poured into the apartment, accompanied by a din from the street below.

The apartment was impeccably clean, as she remembered; but when she moved into the kitchen, her worst fears were confirmed by a look in the refrigerator, which had transformed into a science experiment in the months since it had last been opened. She rooted around beneath the sink for gloves and went to work, filling three oversized green plastic bags, which she toted to the garbage chute and dropped into the abyss.

When she returned, she did a slow inspection, room by room, and stopped at the threshold of her old bedroom – she and her sister had grown up in that small space, and she wondered how she’d react to being back after so long. She opened the door, but instead of seeing their beds and the familiar chest of drawers by the window, found herself facing a dozen cardboard file boxes, labeled in her father’s neat script, his spare wheelchair beside them.

Next was her parents’ bedroom – since her mother had passed away, her father’s exclusive domain. The door was ajar, which made sense given her father’s infirmity, and she approached it hesitantly, as though walking on eggshells.

Once inside, she made for the windows and opened them, and then turned to where her father’s bed occupied much of the room. The sheets were still rumpled from his last night at home. Tess hesitated at the headboard before brushing past to the bathroom, swallowing a golf-ball-sized knot in her throat as she did so.

The sight of her father’s razor and toothbrush laid out, awaiting a return that would never happen, was like a punch to the gut, and against all her resolve, tears streamed down her cheeks at the simple reminder that he was gone for good. She stood in the smallish bathroom, looking at his towel draped on a hook and the specially installed bars and seat for handicapped access to the shower, and suddenly the walls seemed to be closing in. She slid down the wall and sat on the tile floor, sobbing uncontrollably, her shoulders heaving as she gasped for air.

Minutes passed and the wave of anguish slowly faded, replaced by a cold numbness that started in the center of her churning guts and spread outward. She forced herself to her feet and blotted her face with her shirtsleeve, and after flushing the toilet and opening the small window for ventilation, went back to the living room.

A row of photographs in silver frames on the shelves of a tall bookcase at the far end of the room caught her attention and she moved toward them, her steps wooden. There were her mother and father in better days, beaming at the camera from a vacation aboard a cruise on the Danube, before she’d succumbed to complications arising from multiple sclerosis and he’d been struck by a drunk driver crossing the street. Another even older, with the happy family together at the holidays, Tess a gangly twelve years old, her sister two years older, looking nothing like either Tess or her mother. More Tess at her sixth or seventh birthday, the photo slightly yellowed from time, and at eighteen, frowning at the camera with the incredible seriousness of budding adulthood, about to go for her first day of college, caught unawares first thing in the morning.

The shelves were a shrine to a past that had ceased to mean anything other than a reminder of the transitory and fragile nature of life. These had been treasured memories that her father had surrounded himself with, yet now they were hollow ghosts inhabiting empty rooms.

That her sister had never bothered to come to New York to help Tess said more than any words she could have uttered. She’d been in a huge rush to collect her half of the inheritance, but found endless excuses not to make it out, leaving it to Tess to clean up the mess and deal with the phantoms of the past.

Tess felt a swell of resentment in her chest and shook if off. The sale of the apartment was the last item on her list, and after that, she’d limit her contact with Chrissy to an annual phone call. For now, she needed to concentrate on the job at hand – arranging for the cleaning and sale of the apartment. She’d been assured it would be a fast and easy affair, with the market at its all-time high and demand stronger than at any time in recent memory.

Tess made notes in the file as she walked through the rooms, identifying items she wanted to keep, most of it destined for charity. It wasn’t that she didn’t value her father’s possessions so much as each made the pain of his absence immediate and undeniable, and she knew that it would likely be that way forever. She’d been able to trick herself for a while into being too occupied by circumstance to dwell on her father’s death; but now, back in New York, in his most private of places, she couldn’t pretend any longer, and she felt like a white-hot blade was twisting in her stomach.

She finished with the living room and sat in her favorite oversized leather easy chair, staring at the notes she’d made as though they were hieroglyphics. The intercom buzzed like an angry insect, startling her to her feet, and she remembered her appointment with the realtor who’d been highly recommended by her attorney.

Tess moved to the hallway speaker and pressed a button. “Yes?”

“Claire Simons is on her way up, as you instructed,” Steven said.

“Perfect. Thanks, Steven.”

“Welcome.”

Moments later a sharp rap at the front door sounded through the room, and Tess hurried to the entry and opened it. A short woman with steel gray hair and the efficient look of a hard-nosed Manhattan realtor nodded to her with a slight smile. “Tess Gideon? Claire Simons. Pleased to meet you.”

“Yes, Claire. Please, come in. I was just going through things…”

“Thanks. How many bedrooms?”

“Three.”

“Square footage?”

“Oh, I think it’s about sixteen hundred or so. Not huge.”

“Let’s look around, shall we?” Claire said, and without waiting for an answer, walked to the kitchen and surveyed it with a practiced eye while Tess waited. Five minutes later Claire was finished and took a seat across from Tess, an earnest expression in place.

“We should ask two seven. You’ll get two five. It’ll take maybe a month, maybe less. Be better if it was unfurnished when I showed it, and probably could use a handyman to fix a few details. But overall, the location, time of year, and demand are in your favor,” she said.

“Oh. Wow. That’s great. But…I have to figure out what to do with all this stuff…”

“Here’s my card. I can help. If we do a listing agreement, I have people who can clean the place, box everything up and move it out, whatever. How soon do you want it on the market?”

“What’s your feeling?”

“Anything can change, and there’ll be less demand once the weather turns, so I’d get it out as soon as possible. Next week, if you can.”

“We can do it that quickly?”

“Sweetheart, let me worry about that. You own it outright?”

“That’s correct. There’s no mortgage.”

“Then say the word and I’ll set up movers.”

Tess looked around the room, feeling like she was sleepwalking, and blinked away the daze that was threatening to settle over her. It was time to make the big leap and either sell the place or keep it.

Tess met the realtor’s eyes and nodded. It was time.

“What’s the next step?”

Chapter 8

Gunter entered the coffee shop and looked around. His gaze settled on Paulo, who was sitting at a small round wooden table to the side of the café, and he nodded a greeting before approaching the barista and ordering his usual nonfat latte. He paid and then, coffee in hand, moved to where his associate was sipping from an oversized mug, with a sour expression.

“Morning,” Gunter said, taking a seat across from him.

Paulo wasted no time with niceties. “Be a better one if you had my money,” he groused.

“Small hitch. Nothing major. I just need a few more days.”

Paulo sat forward, angry. “That wasn’t the deal.”

“I know, but it can’t be helped. The clients couldn’t make their appointment.” Gunter shrugged. “What can one do?”

“Not get in over your head and string out your creditors, for starters. I’m going to have to add another week’s vig to it. Sorry. Out of my hands.”

Gunter scowled. “That’s an awful lot for being late a couple of days.”

“I don’t make the rules.”

“But I just made a payment from the party…”

“Which was only half what it was supposed to be.”

Gunter stopped trying to reason with Paulo. “Fine. What do you have set up for next weekend?”

“Everything the client asked for. As always.” Paulo had been working with Gunter for over a year on the special parties for his select clientele: high-net-worth individuals of a certain age whose jaded pallets required more…exotic stimulation than could be had in the mainstream. Gunter had met Paulo at a fetish club, one of many that catered to deviants of all stripes in the city, and had been intrigued when Paulo told him that he could supply virtually anything Gunter could imagine – for a price.

That Paulo was mobbed up was apparent within the first few minutes of their discussion, but he’d always been professional in his dealings, delivering prostitutes, financing, and drugs, along with performance artists who specialized in the unusual. There was a thriving underground of Wall Street billionaires whose tastes ran to the extreme; and who, like Stibling in Connecticut, would pay top dollar for a one-of-a-kind performance designed exclusively for them. The client got to keep the props, and nothing more, but it wasn’t about possession – it was about obtaining a unique showing of a custom-tailored piece for the client and his like-minded friends to savor like fine wine – only the sort that bled.

The costs could get crazy in a world where money was no object, and it wasn’t unusual for a show to run seven figures. The more unmentionable the request, the higher the price, and they’d carved out a specialized niche among a circle that was word-of-mouth only, whose membership shunned recognition and whose tastes could be as bizarre as anything from the Marquis de Sade’s most esoteric musings.

The only thing Gunter drew the line at was outright killing – nobody would touch a snuff performance, for any price, at least not in the United States. He knew of those in Eastern Europe who were rumored to be able to arrange them, but had avoided any involvement even when Paulo had hinted at being able to make introductions. The heat was too great, and the last thing he needed was to invite Interpol or the feds into his life. Gunter had a good thing going with his New York clientele and didn’t want to put it in jeopardy.

Paulo, on the other hand, was completely amoral and uninterested in anything but money, which he dealt in along with the rest of his offerings. Gunter had availed himself recently at ten percent weekly interest, his art gallery having experienced a rough patch, and the vig had quickly outstripped his ability to pay – to the point where he was now struggling to keep up with the interest payments.

Gunter rubbed his face, his eyes bloodshot from another sleepless night. “You found someone willing to…?”

“Yes. Someone who couldn’t service his debt in any other fashion.”

Gunter nodded. This next performance involved a hedge-fund manager whose boyish good looks and stellar performance had made him a regularly spotlighted fixture in the financial press, and who wanted to celebrate his thirtieth birthday with something memorable – something he’d heard about from an associate who’d spent several years in northern Africa and had returned with a taste for fare that couldn’t be easily accommodated in polite society. The featured performance was to be an artist who was willing to have his arms and legs broken for the manager’s birthday amusement, at a cost of a quarter million. Gunter had put the word out, but there had been no takers – too much could go wrong, and nobody was willing to risk being crippled for life. That Paulo had found someone spoke to his tenacity as well as his connections. For a man who could secure anything from a million dollars in unmarked bills to a liver or kidney, complete with black market surgery at a topflight private South American or Indian clinic, the request had proved just another in a long line, and Gunter was again reminded that Paulo was not to be crossed.

Paulo drained his cup and stood. “You have forty-eight hours for the next payment, or there will be consequences, Gunter. Even I won’t be able to call the dogs off at that point. Which would be a shame. We make a good team.”

Gunter was struggling to frame a response when a couple of laughing jocks in rugby shirts and jeans bumped into Paulo, and one of them spilled coffee down the front of Paulo’s shirt. The kid barely noticed and muttered a halfhearted apology as he continued his loud conversation, leaving Paulo to stare holes through their backs as they shouldered their way through the line of customers and out the door.

Paulo’s face was a mask of fury as he followed them to the exit and down the sidewalk, keeping his distance until they turned the corner. He picked up his pace and spotted the youths descending the stairs to the subway, and hurried down the steps after them.

He paid his way onto the platform, which was quiet, only a few late-morning travelers headed uptown, and shadowed the jocks, which was painfully easy to do given their loud and boisterous behavior. There were no transit cops in evidence, and he pulled a knit cap from his peacoat and pulled it low over his brow, sunglasses firmly in place. The clatter of an approaching train sounded from down the track, accompanied by a rush of wind pungent with the smell of oil and dank concrete. Paulo waited until the train was rolling to a stop, and then flipped out a collapsible truncheon and moved quickly to where the pair was standing.

The first blow caught the big lummox who’d spilled the coffee across the back of the head, and he dropped like a sack of wet cement. His buddy turned just in time to get slammed across the face. The boy’s nose exploded in a gush of red, and Paulo swatted him in the jaw with the club before kicking the larger youth in the side. He smiled when he heard the crack of bone from his steel-toe combat boots and then collapsed the truncheon and spun toward the stairs.

Disembarking passengers gasped in shock at the sight of the youths twitching on the platform. Paulo was gone as quickly as he’d appeared, leaving the downed youths to find their way to a hospital on their own. If it had been dark, he’d have extracted further vengeance, but he couldn’t take the chance, satisfying as it might be. He passed a security camera and gave it the middle finger before climbing the stairs with surprising speed, and was back on the street in under a minute – far faster than any police would be able to make it, he was sure.

Once two blocks away, he removed the cap and glasses and shrugged off his coat, revealing wiry arms covered in full-sleeve tattoos, now just another anonymous pedestrian in a city of nearly two million going about his innocuous business, the episode all but forgotten save for the sticky warmth of the coffee on his chest and the tingle in the palm of his hand from the truncheon’s grip.

Chapter 9

Tess tilted her head back so the hot needles of water from the showerhead could rinse away the shampoo. She’d pulled her bicycle out of storage and ridden like she was being chased around the island, and after a four-hour run felt spent, but she was glowing from the flood of endorphins released during the grueling trek.

She held her black mop of hair up as the stream of water washed the last of the suds from her neck and shoulders, and her fingers brushed the smiling sun tattoo at the base of her hairline, hidden by her ebony mane unless it was pulled into a ponytail or worn up. That and the kanji script on her bicep and the yin/yang at the small of her back were remnants of a past so distant as to be unrecognizable to her now, just as her bicycle messenger days seemed a lifetime ago and not a mere hundred days.

Tess shut off the shower and toweled dry, the heavy rough terrycloth hotel towel stimulating against her skin. She closed her eyes and a vision of Ron Stanford sprang to mind, merriment dancing in his eyes as he approached her. She shook off the image, still wondering why she was so attracted to a man ten years her senior, who came from a background the polar opposite of her own – a conservative father figure, if anything.

Only none of the feelings she had for him were in the least bit familial. One of the main reasons she’d come back to the city was to see where things with Ron could lead; their parting had created more questions than answers.

But she wouldn’t rush things. Tess had learned to trust her instincts, and they were telling her that there was no need to force the situation, that whatever happened would be for the best. Tonight they’d meet for a late cocktail, but she didn’t expect anything more. He’d been preoccupied with his work when she spoke to him on the phone that morning, and for good reason – the Rose Killer was the lead story again during a slow news cycle, the lurid details too savory for the media to let die. But he’d again promised to free himself up and see her, which she considered a win, given the number of hours he was putting in.

She ran a comb through her damp hair and then slipped on a fresh pair of panties before moving to the hotel strip closet and donning a sparkly crème blouse and black jeans that could have been painted on. Tess inspected the ensemble in the full-length mirror, twisting to see it from all angles, and opted for a pair of four-inch heels that made her already long legs seem endless. One of the benefits of years of rigorous exercise as a messenger was the near complete absence of body fat except in desirable spots, and she’d ensured that she remained trim while in Europe by running for an hour every morning, regardless of the locale. But for Tess, nothing beat the bike, and as she glanced at it leaning against the wall, she resolved to repeat the day’s performance as often as possible, even while living out of a suitcase.

She glanced at her watch and felt a twinge of sorrow. The white gold Rolex President, with its vibrant blue lapis lazuli dial, always reminded her of her father and Nick, her boyfriend, who’d also been murdered by the hit team that had upended her existence. One of the last things Nick had done was to give her the watch as a keepsake from her father’s shop, and she couldn’t look at it without a wave of guilt washing over her. Why had she been spared? She knew the answer – dumb luck, and later, because she’d taken steps to defend herself – but it still felt inadequate, given the number who’d lost their lives in the crime spree.

Tess gathered her purse and jacket, checking her cell phone and patting her back pocket to confirm she had the room key card, and then made her way to the door and flipped the do not disturb card over to alert the maid that she could enter. The hotel was nice, but she wanted her own place, and one of the things on her list was to look at apartments for rent.

Only not today. She’d reserved the afternoon for Dakota, who’d confirmed that morning that Tess was on the list for the dress rehearsal at the Metropolitan Opera House, wherein the company would do a walk-through of the night’s performance – an unusual step usually reserved for several days prior to an opening, but because of the scheduling, in this case slotted for the same day.

Tess opted to walk the twenty blocks to the Lincoln Center complex, enjoying the snap of the crisp fall breeze that blew down Eighth Avenue. She paused at the park to watch a pair of street musicians in Columbus Circle busking for spare change, and tossed a few dollars into their open guitar case before continuing north to the theater.

At the stage door, a stern elderly man checked her name on the list and then demanded to see her identification before directing her into the bowels of the theater. The strains of recorded music echoed from above as she made her way along the passageway that skirted the backstage area and terminated at an exit leading to the front of the house. Another man who could have been the first’s twin held the door open for her and advised her that she could take whatever seat on the lower level she liked, but was forbidden to film or take photographs.

She agreed and walked into the massive marble-floored lobby of the famous theater, and then to the double doors in the center of the long space. Once inside, she settled into a seat at the edge of the hundred or so other people watching the rehearsal. In the center of the group, a desktop with a glowing lamp occupied six of the center seats, and three figures made notes as the dancers went through their paces, most avoiding any exertion, saving their energy for the evening’s performance.

Dakota had explained to Tess that she’d be featured in the pas de quatre as one of four swans, and was a villager in the first act. All the corps de ballet did double or triple duty in walk-on roles that consisted of standing around and appearing interested; the chore was a time-honored tradition, a rite of passage many never advanced beyond. Such was the nature of the ballet, where even those promising enough to make it to the big time weren’t assured of anything but an opportunity to continue practicing their craft as they waited for their elusive break.

An hour and a half after Tess arrived, following numerous starts and stops, Dakota and her companions made it to the stage in their swan tutus, their legs swathed in knit wool legwarmers and sweaters over the glittering white costumes. The ballet mistress clapped her hands, the music started, and for several magical minutes her cousin was transformed from a slight girl barely on the threshold of adulthood to an ethereal creature that inhabited a world of evil sorcerers and love-struck princes, her movements achingly precise and, to Tess’s untrained eye, vastly superior to those of her peers.

And then the little routine was over. The rehearsal continued, and the stage filled with ersatz swans as those around her in the audience murmured observations. Most of the spectators appeared to be other dancers or people associated with the ballet or the theater, and Tess felt self-conscious, as though she were violating the sanctity of a rarified space to which she had no claim.

When the rehearsal concluded, Tess waited for Dakota to materialize from backstage as ushers arrived to tidy up the theater. After about twenty minutes, she poked her head from the stage door and smiled at Tess.

“So? What did you think?”

“That was incredible. And you’re going to do it all over again this evening?”

“For real this time, though. Everyone was just phoning it in.”

“So what’s on the agenda?”

“Oh, I promised some of the girls I’d grab a snack, and then we have company class at the theater before the show,” she said. “You want to come eat something?”

Tess glanced around. “I don’t want to get in the way of you and your friends…”

“You won’t. It’s just a light meal – you don’t want to dance on a full stomach. Can you wait a few minutes?”

“Sure. I need to buy a ticket anyway. The box office wasn’t open.”

“Do that, and meet me outside in ten.” Dakota’s eyes glittered. “Thanks for coming, Tess. It means a lot to me.”

“I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”

Tess returned to the lobby and pushed past a guard to exit the building before swinging around to the box office. She purchased a nosebleed-priced orchestra seat and slipped it into her purse, and then ambled to the rear of the theater to wait for her cousin.

Dakota appeared with three other ballerinas who could have been cloned in the same factory: all thin, with hair pulled back in severe buns, carrying oversized dance bags, and walking with the particular waddle caused by turned-out feet. None could have been over twenty, and Tess felt ancient as her cousin introduced her, the girls chattering, Dakota almost manic. Tess supposed it must be wildly exciting for her to be fulfilling her dream, dancing on the Met stage. She sat quietly, not having much to contribute, as the girls picked their way through salads at a moderately priced hole in the wall four blocks from the theater.

When they were finished, Tess said her goodbyes and promised Dakota that she’d meet her after the show for a drink at Z, a trendy restaurant popular with the theater crowd.

“Jeremy’s supposed to be there, too. I can’t wait for you to meet him,” she gushed. “Performance is over by eleven, so we should be at the bar about half an hour after that. I’ll be out of makeup pretty quickly.”

“Okay. We’re on. But again, I don’t want to intrude…”

Dakota’s laugh was a little too loud and giddy, but Tess attributed it to preshow adrenaline.

“Oh, no, I totally want your take on him,” the younger woman insisted. “Just don’t try to steal him. He’s all mine.”

Another laugh, this time with a faint edge to it, and then Dakota was marching away, hips swaying, her friends giggling like schoolgirls at some unheard joke Tess wasn’t privy to.

Tess watched Dakota depart, keenly aware that her cousin was embarking on a journey that had been years in the making, while she was wallowing in directionless ambivalence, with no real sense of purpose or desire beyond getting through the day. A part of her envied the younger woman, with her focus and her animated excitement, and when she turned the corner and disappeared, Tess felt, for the first time since returning to the city, like there was nothing there for her other than phantoms of the past – a past that had vanished like smoke, leaving her a puzzled survivor without a home.

She shook off the melancholy, texted Ron the name of the restaurant, and after a few moments received a confirmation that he’d do his best to meet her after the performance. She sighed and stared at the screen, and wondered not for the first time what the hell she was doing back in New York, and where she thought a tryst with a shopworn homicide detective would eventually lead. Tess stood rooted to the spot as a tide of humanity surged past her, feeling as alone as she’d ever been, an insignificant speck in a world that had moved on without her.

Chapter 10

Ron arrived at the ground floor of the midtown precinct and made his way to the interrogation room, where Ben was waiting for him with a dossier in his hand. Ben briefed him on the woman seated inside.

“Name’s Monique Delgado. Twenty-seven going on fifty. Got a jacket for possession and hooking a mile long,” Ben concluded.

“You make it sound so ugly.”

The corner of Ben’s mouth twitched and he nodded solemnly. “Everyone’s just trying to get by.”

“What’s she charged with this time?”

“Prostitution. The usual. Working one of the Times Square hotel bars, pitched one of our vice guys. Not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but hey.”

“But you believe she’s telling the truth?”

“As much as any of ’em.”

“Well, that pumps me full of hope,” Ron said with a sigh. “Fine. You play bad guy, but only if I give you the thumbs-up.”

“You got it.”

Ben pulled the steel door wide, and Ron entered and took a seat across from a small Puerto Rican woman whose makeup and demeanor announced her profession as clearly as a business card. Ron offered a smile and was heartened when she returned it.

Ron cleared his throat and looked to Ben before settling his attention on her. “So, Monique, my associate here tells me that you claim to have some information on one of the women in the videos that appeared on television?” he asked, his tone friendly and inquisitive.

Monique nodded. “Mmm-hmm, that’s right. The second one.”

“You’re sure about that?”

“Sure as my birthday,” she said, and then her eyes narrowed. “But I can’t seem to remember all that good with these charges hanging over my head.”

“That’s a shame. Seems like you could use a few friends on the force right about now,” Ron countered.

“Always got a sweet spot for our boys in blue. So how ’bout you help me out, and I do the same?”

“Depends on what you’ve got to trade, Monique.” Ron sat back. “You know how this works.”

“What I know is I got two baby girls need to eat, and they ain’t seen they mama since yesterday. What I got to tell you is gold. Who she is, for starters.” She looked at Ben. “You even know her name?”

Ron held up a hand. “We’ll ask the questions, Monique.”

She nodded in triumph. “That’s what I thought. Come on, man, we losing time, you know? Got to play Let’s Make a Deal. Right now, I’m doors one, two, and three, way I sees it.”

“You’ve got a long jacket, Monique. And this is a solid bust.”

“Maybe so. Or maybe nobody cares what a girl’s got to do to get by in the big city, and it’s time served and nothing else.”

“Could be. Also could be that I put in a word with the DA and he shoots for sixty days based on priors. Be a shame not to see your babies for that long, wouldn’t it?”

“Make it go away, and I talk. Otherwise I takes my chances,” she said obstinately.

Ben was sitting forward like a pit bull straining at the leash. Ron gave the younger man a curt shake of the head and locked eyes with Monique.

“Fine, Monique. You have something solid, you skate.”

“I want it in writing.”

“Tell me what you have, first, and I’ll make a phone call for permission to get it drafted.”

“I know her name. What she was into. All that kind of shit.”

Ron and Ben exchanged a glance, and Ben rose and moved to the door. “I’ll be right back,” he said, leaving Ron and Monique alone. Monique adjusted her pink Day-Glo tube top and smoothed her hair with a wink.

“Boy new on the job?”

Ron offered a conciliatory smile. “I think he’s just overwhelmed by your charms.”

They both laughed and any tension evaporated, Monique secure that she’d talked her way clear of the bust. “Maybe he qualify for a professional discount.”

“That’s generous.”

She gave him an impish grin and shrugged. “Comin’ up on the holidays.”

Ben returned with two sheets of paper and a pen. He read one aloud and signed it, and signed the second and handed it to her. “I tear that up if you’re full of it.” He extracted a voice recorder and set it on the table. “You’re on tape,” he said, and announced the date and time.

“Chill out, Youngblood. Girl’s name was Cindy Kerrick. Street name Dusty. Did a little film work back a few years ago to make ends meet. Low-end shit, amateur threesomes, that kind of thing.” Monique paused. “She high end now, you know? Couple grand a pop.”

“Yeah? Why so pricey?” Ron asked.

“She appointment only, and the girl do shit most won’t, you know? Serious kink.”

“Like what?”

Monique made a face. “Like anything you want, she don’t care. All a matter of price.”

“You know her well?” Ron asked.

“I seen her around.”

“It’s a big town. She work hotels too?”

“No, not like that. I seen her at parties, you know?”

“I don’t. What kind of parties?”

“Sex.”

“Sex parties?” Ron asked.

Monique looked away. “That and more.”

“Like for swingers?”

“More like a kink show. We do it, they watch. More extreme, the better for them.”

Ron absorbed that. “Where?”

“All over. Clubs. Houses. Whatever.”

“Come on, Monique, you’ll have to do better than that. How often do they have them, and who hosts them?”

She shrugged. “Only did a couple. Too weird for me.”

“Weird in what way?”

“Every way you can think of.”

“Give me an example.”

“Gang bangs for rich folks. Animals. Seriously dangerous shit, some of it. Not my thing.”

“What rich folks? Specifically, where?”

“Did two off the island. They brought us in a van. Don’t know exactly what the address was or nothing, but I had to take a week off after the last one. Too rough for me.”

“You think Dusty’s murder might have had something to do with the parties?” Ron asked.

“Don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not. How I know that?”

“I’m asking your opinion, Monique. Help me out here.”

“I think when you the girl don’t mind getting beat up and three-on-one while some ol’ dude jerk it, you headed for a bad end, you know?”

“Did she have a pimp? Who got her the gigs?”

“That ain’t none of my business.”

Ron’s expression hardened. “Monique, you want to walk out of here with no questions asked, or you want to play hardball?”

“I already told you plenty. For real.”

“Who did she work for, Monique?” Ron pressed.

“I heard she tight with a dude name of DJ Endo, you know?”

Ron frowned. “DJ Endo? You jerking my chain, Monique?”

“Nuh-huh. That’s his handle. He works at a bunch of clubs, gets around, does some real hardcore places.”

“Hardcore, like the kink parties?”

She looked away. “Man hear tell I rolled on him, you going to find me cut up.”

“He violent?”

“Man got to do what he got to do to keep his girls in line, just like the rest.”

“He’ll never hear anything from us, Monique. Where does he hang out?”

She gave him a list of clubs, none of which Ron had ever heard of. When she was finished, he read them back to her. “Where are these places?”

“Most of them are, like, invite only, you know? Back rooms, warehouses, that kind of thing.”

“How do we find them?”

She shrugged. “Talk to vice. They should know if they isn’t asleep at the wheel.”

Ten more minutes of questioning went by, but it was obvious Monique had shared all she was going to. When a knock sounded from the door, Ron stayed seated while Ben answered it, and was surprised when he approached and whispered in his ear.

“Captain wants to see you.”

Ron’s eyebrows rose. “In the middle of an interrogation? Tell him to wait.”

“I’ll finish up. We’re done anyway.”

Ron frowned but stood. “Fine. Page me once you’re through.” He addressed Monique sternly. “Stay out of trouble. Your baby girls deserve a decent life.”

“Yeah, I just waiting to hear back from Golman ’bout that trading job,” she said with a dry laugh.

Ron waved, left the room, and followed a uniformed officer to the elevators.

When Ron arrived at the captain’s office, Larraby looked like he was suffering from terminal indigestion, his face beet red, furrows etched into his face from scowling. The captain motioned at a chair and spoke into his squawk box.

“Mayor, Ron Stanford just joined us.”

“Hello, Stanford,” a bombastic voice called out.

“Hello, Mayor,” Ron replied.

“I was just telling the captain that I’m getting a lot of heat to do something about the case. So I’ve called a press conference for this evening to announce a joint task force – NYPD and FBI. Are you making any progress?”

Ron glared at Larraby. “Haven’t had the case very long.”

“People are edgy, Stanford. They want action. So far we’ve come up empty, and that’s not sitting well.”

“We can only follow the threads we have. These things take time.”

The mayor cleared his throat and cranked his intensity down several notches. “Tell me you have something other than the bodies, Stanford.”

“We’re looking at a few promising angles.”

“Such as?”

“I can’t discuss them at this juncture. Too sensitive,” Ron said.

“You have my word I won’t tell a soul. Now spill the beans.”

“We just identified the second victim. She was a working girl.”

“That’s it?” the mayor demanded.

“I’m afraid so, sir. I’m still waiting for forensics to get back to me with a few loose ends.”

“Like what?”

“Nothing definitive. Standard fare,” Ron hedged.

The mayor was silent for a moment. “So this twisted bastard’s chopping up hookers? That’s all we know?”

“I told you, sir, we don’t have a lot. Although it appears she was involved in some sort of pornography ring.”

“Porno? Big deal.”

“Sex parties, too.”

The mayor’s voice changed. “Yeah? Like what?”

“We’re still investigating.”

“Save it for the suits, Stanford. Is that really everything you’ve got?”

“You’ll be the first to know when I learn more.”

The mayor hung up after another minute of drilling Stanford, and Larraby studied him over his reading glasses. “I kept you out of it as long as I could.”

“We both know a task force is going to do nothing but slow me down.”

“Not exactly racing toward a solution now, are you?”

“I just discovered the kink-party thing. I was questioning a witness when you pulled me away.”

Larraby nodded. “Sorry, but you know how this works. From now on, you’re the NYPD face on the case. Told you it was just a matter of time.”

“I’m going to stonewall at the press conference.”

Larraby pursed his lips. “Nobody does it better. It’s at seven. City hall. Wear a tie.”

Ron stood. “If he breathes a word of any of this, it could set us back any ground we’ve gained, and we’ll know where it came from.”

“He’s the mayor, Ron. What are we going to do? Arrest him?” Larraby sighed again. “He won’t talk. He’s just worried, is all. I know him well enough by now. He just wants to understand how long his ass will be hanging out over this.”

Ron grunted and made for the door. “That makes two of us.”

Back at his desk, Ron called his contact in the vice squad and explained his interest in locating the pimp DJ Endo. The detective, Shelly Romero, a petite woman Ron had known for years who had her finger on the pulse of every questionable venue in Manhattan, agreed to put out feelers, but promised nothing.

“We don’t have much on him, Ron. His real name’s Juan Aguilar, twenty-nine, last known address four years old in Queens. There were a couple of charges that never went anywhere – lack of evidence. He’s low profile, according to his jacket,” she said. “What’s a nice guy like you doing looking for an ass-wipe like Endo?”

“He could be material in a case I’m working. What are the odds he’s still in Queens?”

“Send a car by to check, but my guess is slim to none. These guys don’t stay put very long.”

“My witness says he works the city. Does kink parties.”

Romero was silent for a beat. “That means he’s going to be even harder to find. Those are seriously underground, all word-of-mouth.”

“You busted any lately?”

“It’s a fine line. What consenting adults do behind closed doors is none of our business unless we can prove prostitution or drug dealing. The courts haven’t been our friend on these. The DA shies away from prosecuting because the names involved are usually high profile.”

“Anything you can do to help, I’d owe you one, Shelly.”

“Sounds like you want him bad.”

Ron studied a still photo captured from the second tape. “In the worst way.”

Chapter 11

The Met audience applauded as the conductor moved to his podium and bowed to the crowd, and the orchestra began playing the overture. A hush fell over the theater, and soon after, the curtain went up and the ballet began. Tess sat back in her seat and watched the same dancers who that afternoon had shuffled through their steps in every manner of warming apparel transform into ethereal beings unbound by gravity.

When Dakota came onstage, she seemed to glow, and Tess had to stifle the gasp that rose in her chest at her cousin’s appearance as one of the swans. As the ballet progressed, the famous pas de quatre of the four cygnets drew an ovation, and Tess flushed with pride. She wanted to stand and yell at the top of her lungs that the most talented dancer on the stage was her cousin, but restrained herself, instead marveling at the effortless grace with which Dakota displayed every movement.

When the curtain came down on the fourth act, Tess was drained from the experience, like she had been on an emotional roller coaster. Her hands stung from applauding. After the final curtain call, she rose and filed out with the rest of the crowd, most of whom were far older than she.

She switched her phone from silent and checked for messages and, after using the restroom, exited the theater. Ron hadn’t responded to the text she’d sent just before the ballet had started, so she assumed he was otherwise occupied. She hoped that he was having an easier night of it than his last few, because based on what he’d told her, he’d been burning the candle to a nub. He’d complained about working well into the night by way of apologizing for being unavailable, which she completely understood, based on the seemingly endless sensationalistic press coverage of the horrific Rose Killer murders.

The restaurant was six blocks away, tucked between a closed market and a dry cleaner. Its interior was chic and contemporary, and the clientele urban and good-looking. A severe hostess in a short navy blue dress asked Tess when she entered whether she had a reservation. Tess explained that she was headed for the bar, which was three-quarters full with hip young things sipping martinis, engaged in a smug mating ritual that celebrated their elite sophistication. Tess hated that crowd, her disdain a throwback to her messenger days, preferring the grungy dives on the Lower East Side, where the beer was an honest pour and the watering holes unpretentious. She had to remind herself that those days were gone – that this was her new reality. Besides, she was there for Dakota, and she could see the appeal of this scene to a young woman fresh to the city. It personified everything many believed New York should be: the music was edgy, in a formulaic way, and everyone looked prosperous and civilized, their haircuts expensive, their cocktails only slightly less so.

She ordered a cosmopolitan and settled onto an empty stool that a man about her age sporting a raw silk jacket and a three-hundred-dollar shirt vacated for her when he saw her waiting. Tess endured the expected overture, thanked him for the seat, and resumed watching the door for her cousin and, hopefully, Ron.

Tess was halfway through her drink when Dakota burst into the room with a tall man in tow. She took him in with a glance – exactly as expected, she thought. Five o’clock shadow, fashionably cut suit evidencing he’d come straight from work, a boyish smile on a tanned face that would have been at home on a tennis pro, and a worldly, playful sparkle in his cobalt eyes.

“Tess! You made it!” Dakota called over the hum of the crowd and the thumping music.

“Of course. You were awesome,” Tess cried back, narrowly avoiding a shoulder to the face as a man spun from the bar with a drink in hand.

“I think I did okay,” Dakota said, and then gestured to her companion. “Tess, this is Jeremy. Jeremy, my cousin Tess.”

Jeremy held out his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Tess smiled. “Likewise. What are you drinking?”

He seemed unsure and looked to Dakota. “Mineral water, with a lime,” she said.

“Vodka Collins,” he said, and Tess twisted around to relay the order to the bartender, who nodded and went to work.

“So, you’re in the financial industry?” Tess asked. Jeremy cupped his hand to his ear, and she repeated herself louder.

He nodded. “Yes, that’s right.”

“What do you do?”

“Oh, I focus mainly on client acquisitions, that kind of thing,” he said.

“Really? For what company?”

“A broker on the street.”

“Which one?”

Jeremy pointed at his ear and shook his head. She was going to try again, but the bartender flagged her with the drinks.

An upbeat song blared over the speakers, making it even harder to talk, and after several aborted attempts to continue their discussion, they settled for smiling at each other as Dakota chirped in Tess’s ear. “Isn’t he amazing?” she asked, eyeing Jeremy the way a cat does a mouse.

“Sure,” Tess said, reluctant to discuss someone standing three feet away as though he wasn’t there, even if he couldn’t overhear. “You going to have dinner?”

Dakota pouted. “I wanted to, but Jeremy said it’s too crowded. He’s taking me to a place downtown he knows. It’s supposed to be way cool.” She paused. “Kind of a bummer. I was hoping you guys could have more time to get to know each other – and isn’t your date supposed to be here? I told Jeremy I thought you were meeting someone…”

“He works odd hours. He’ll be here when he gets here,” Tess said, trying not to sound disappointed. “Go have fun. Don’t wait on my account.”

Jeremy made short work of his drink and, five minutes after they arrived, laid a fifty on the bar next to Tess and leaned toward her. “We’re going to hit it. It was a real pleasure,” he said as Dakota rushed to finish her water. “Have a nice night.”

“Yeah. Thanks. You too. Take care, Dakota. It was a beautiful performance.”

Dakota flashed a bright smile and sidled up to Tess. “He’s really private,” she said, and Tess nodded as though she understood. The truth was that Jeremy looked like every other Wall Street barracuda. His pedigree was no doubt impressive, but he hadn’t said or done anything Tess hadn’t seen a million times before. But this wasn’t about her peccadillos, it was about Dakota, and Tess kept a smile frozen in place as Jeremy led her cousin out of the bar with confident strides, her hand in his, as the crowd parted like the Red Sea before him in a way Tess had to struggle to keep from finding annoying.

Ron appeared a few moments later, looking slightly frazzled and out of place. He spotted Tess at the bar and made for her, squeezing past a group of women who were sizing up their male counterparts with the professional detachment of breeders eyeing stallions.

“Hey,” he said, his mouth close to her ear. “Sorry I’m late. Another crazy one.”

“No problem.”

“How was the ballet?”

“Gorgeous. Dakota can really dance. It wouldn’t surprise me if she became a big star.” Tess glanced toward the entrance. “You just missed her. She was here with her boyfriend – they were probably leaving when you came in.”

Ron nodded. “Was she wearing a red top? Blondish hair?”

“That’s the one. You met her?”

“No. But they almost ran me down on the way out. She’s cute. I mean, I’ve got shoes older than her, but…”

“Yeah. She’s so young, and she’s already dancing in front of thousands of people.”

Ron eyed her cocktail. “What are you drinking?”

“Cosmo. Can I buy you one?”

He sighed and gave her a sad smile. “Ten would be better.”

Tess appraised him. “That bad?”

“Let’s not ruin the night with my problems. I’m probably lousy company already without talking shop.”

“Oh, I don’t know. You have a certain crusty charisma.”

“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all day,” he said.

She turned to the bartender, pointed at her drink, held up two fingers, and then smiled at Ron by her side. “I’ll ply you with alcohol and bide my time,” she said.

“I could get used to that.”

Tess winked at him and gave him a glimpse of her tongue piercing. “All part of my evil plan.”

Ron grinned and then felt for his phone, his face falling as he pulled it from his jacket. He checked the message that had come in and grimaced. “I have to make this a short one, Tess. Things are heating up. Did you see me on TV tonight?”

She shook her head, her eyes clearly disappointed. “No. What happened?”

“Task force. I’m heading it. But there’s too much to do and not enough time. This guy’s on a short tether – the videos have been five days apart. That means the next one will show up in…”

Tess handed him his drink and did her best not to frown. “Four days.”

He took a long sip of the cocktail and toasted her. “Next time I’ll turn my phone off, Tess. I’m sorry. If there was any other way, I would have.”

“I understand,” she said in a tone that said she didn’t, and drained her first drink before raising her second in the air, returning the toast. “You did warn me.”

His eyes held hers. “I promise next time will be different.”

She broke the contact and nodded. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Chapter 12

Charles Stibling stood at the window of his renovated apartment in the Meatpacking District, glaring out at the buildings across the street as he listened to the robotic voice emanating from his cell phone. His left eye twitched when the call disconnected, and he turned to a hatchet-faced man by the door as he slipped the phone into his jacket pocket.

“He gave us half an hour to get to a garbage can at East Sixty-Eighth Street, just inside the park wall,” Stibling growled.

The man nodded as Stibling moved to the dining room table and flipped open the latches on a slim-line eel-skin briefcase. He swung the lid up and removed ten bundles of hundred-dollar bills, and then stalked into the kitchen to fetch a brown paper sandwich bag from one of the drawers. Back at the table, he slid the money into the bag before looking at the man.

“As usual, he warned me to come alone and to tell no one. But I’m tired of this. Do whatever is necessary to mount surveillance that won’t be spotted. I want to know who this cockroach is so we can deal with him for good,” Stibling said.

“Any constraints?” the man asked.

“None, other than don’t trip up. I want photos, and I want him followed. Whatever it takes, do it. Budget’s not a consideration.”

The man glanced at his watch. “I’ll scramble a team. But it’ll be tight.”

“Just do it.”

The man nodded and departed, and Stibling waited for several minutes before leaving with the bag. It would take him twenty minutes at that hour of the night if his driver pulled out all the stops, which he would if he wanted to keep his job.

The apartment was an acquisition from the prior decade, where Stibling had enjoyed the company of paid female companionship before his wife had passed away from a sudden stroke. She’d always had a taste for cocaine and meth, and he’d paid a small fortune for her drug-induced passing to be covered up by his private physician, who’d signed the death certificate and ensured a scandal-free funeral. Stibling had been relieved by her death – her behavior had become increasingly antagonistic as she’d aged, and the bizarre mood swings and hallucinations from a lifetime of hard-drug abuse grew to dominate her life. Thirty years his junior, and once a revered beauty and socialite, she had gone dramatically downhill as she’d approached forty. The last few years she’d been a virtual shut-in, living out a waking nightmare of drug abuse, her habit catered to by the wait staff who kept her Park Avenue condo clean and her three Pekinese rat dogs fed and watered. Stibling had viewed her departure from the planet as a blessing, enabling him to keep the several billion dollars he’d have had to pay in a messy divorce. He’d already had one turn on that dance floor with his first wife and had resolved never to do so again, no matter what the circumstances.

He swallowed the fury that threatened to overwhelm him as he descended the stairs to the Maybach waiting in a red zone in front of the dumpy building. Some shitgrub had been blackmailing him for four months, a hundred grand at a swat, and it was time to put a stop to it. The money wasn’t the issue; it was more that Stibling didn’t dance to anyone else’s tune, regardless of the circumstances. A demigod in the hedge-fund world, nobody told him what to do. He’d more than earned his position of privilege in a dog-eat-dog world, and he’d see to it that whoever was extorting him would pay for their impudence.

But he’d have to be surgical. Stibling couldn’t afford rumors of his twisted proclivities to circulate – his reputation would be ruined, and with it, his legacy as a Wall Street giant. He’d still be rich, but he’d be a pariah in the New York social scene if his sexual appetites were revealed; and in his universe, becoming an ostracized nobody, or worse, the punchline to a season’s jokes, would be the ultimate punishment.

That wasn’t going to happen. He’d see to that.

Benjamin, the head of his security team and his main dirty-tricks expert, would do whatever it took to track the blackmailer, after which Stibling would make a call and have him neutralized. He’d had sufficient business dealings with questionable elements to know the right person to contact. He wasn’t worried about the law; people in his circle never did. Rules were written to keep the general population in check, not him – he bought and sold politicians and judges like schoolyard boys had traded baseball cards when he was a boy. No, he’d provide whatever information he could discover to an anonymous voice on the phone, and the blackmailer would be squashed like a bug without any risk to Stibling – that was how things were done.

The worst part for Stibling being that he had no idea who had dared to take him on.

The lack of control was intolerable for him. It couldn’t continue.

His driver held the car door open and Stibling grumbled the address to the man. “Break records getting there. It’s of paramount importance I arrive before midnight.”

“Yes, sir.”

The powerful motor pushed Stibling back into the leather seat as the driver floored the accelerator. Stibling nodded in satisfaction as they blew through a yellow light at triple any sane speed and slowed to make a left onto a major artery. The driver glanced at his master in the rearview mirror and then back to the road, traffic thin on a Monday night by Manhattan standards.

The vehicle pulled to the curb at Central Park with four minutes to spare, and Stibling got out unassisted, his long overcoat gripped tight against the cold that each year crept deeper into his aging bones once the leaves began to turn. The area was deserted, and his Ferragamo heels clicking against the sidewalk were the only sound as he made his way to the shadowed park entrance.

When he was a young man, Central Park after dark had been a death sentence, but over the last generation it had become as safe as anywhere in the city, the gentrification of the island complete, costs in Manhattan so high that the criminals could no longer afford to live in even the worst areas. He had little fear of being mugged, and wasted no time in finding the metal trash container and dropping his bag of money inside, unable to spot any signs of surveillance.

That he was being watched by at least his own men was a given. That his blackmailer was also nearby was an assumption, but a safe bet. The thought that the prick was within spitting distance enraged Stibling, but he kept his fury in check and marched back to where his car was waiting. His part in the night’s adventure was over.

A figure shuffled from the depths of the park toward the can six minutes after the expensive sedan’s brake lights disappeared around a corner. A soiled climbing jacket with a rip across the back enveloped the figure’s upper body, baggy jeans and construction boots completing the ensemble.

The vagrant stopped at the can, reached in, and after ferreting around for a moment, retrieved the paper bag, peered into it, and stuffed it inside the folds of the jacket. His gaze roved over his surroundings, and then he made his way toward Park Avenue, occasionally glancing over his shoulder to ensure he wasn’t being followed. If he sensed the multiple cameras filming him from three angles, or the interest of a man on a motorbike a block down, he gave no indication. Two minutes later he vanished down the stairs of a subway station, leaving the streets to late night revelers and taxis racing downtown – and the surveillance team that had captured his every move.

Chapter 13

Jeremy checked the time as he slid the key into the lock of his Upper East Side brownstone and cursed under his breath. It was later than he’d realized, and he had to be at work in only a few hours – as always, well before the markets opened. Time had gotten away from him by the point his night with Dakota had ended, a constant refrain in their sojourns.

He stepped through the doorway, pulled the antique iron and glass door closed behind him, and dropped his keys into a ceramic bowl on an end table in the foyer. Running his fingers through thick hair still damp from his shower at the downtown apartment he kept for his trysts, he headed down the hall to where a light shone from the living room.

A man about Jeremy’s age with a scraggly beard and bloodshot eyes sat on one of the butterscotch leather Scandinavian sofas, a blanket over his legs, thumbing a gaming console. In front of him, a commando toting an assault rifle bounced behind cover on the massive wall-mounted flat-screen TV.

Jeremy frowned and sniffed the air. “Were you smoking something in here, Bob?” he asked, his voice low.

“No,” Bob said, not missing a beat with his shooter.

“Smells like weed to me.”

An exasperated sigh issued from Bob and he paused the game. “What are you saying, Jeremy? That I’m lying?”

“I know what I smell.”

“You’re probably picking it up off my shirt or something, dude. Just chill out.”

“Bob, I’m not going to chill out. This is my home, and I have rules.”

“Yeah, I know, I’ve heard all about them. Relax. I’m not smoking in the house.”

Jeremy eyed the bottle of rotgut vodka beside Bob and the remains of pizza crusts in a half-open container on the floor. “Clean this up before morning, will you?” he snapped, and then turned on his heel, unwilling to escalate the argument at the late hour.

“Sieg heil, mein Fuhrer,” Bob muttered. Jeremy let it go, pretending not to hear him.

Jeremy climbed the stairs to the second floor and slipped off his shoes, leaving them by the stairs. He padded down the wood-floored hallway toward a dark room at the far end and then stepped across the threshold and moved silently to a twin-sized bed. He leaned over and kissed the little boy slumbering in it, and then did the same to a little girl in the second bed. She stirred and he gazed at her for a long moment, holding his breath. She turned over and adjusted her pillow, and then resumed her regular snuffling, her allergies a constant concern in the autumn and spring.

The hallway floorboards creaked under his weight as he returned to the stairs with measured steps. He paused to scoop up his shoes and then continued to the third-floor master bedroom. He paused at the door and blinked several times to allow his eyes to adjust to the nearly complete darkness, the heavy velvet curtains on the window drawn shut, blocking out the streetlights.

The hinges squealed softly and he winced at the sound, having forgotten to oil them in the constant battle against entropy in a building more than a hundred years old. He’d bought it with his annual bonus from a particularly good year when he’d seen over ten million dollars for landing several whale customers. It had appreciated considerably since, but no matter how skilled the refurbishment, it was impossible to stave off all the effects of age. As with the floorboards, he’d just gotten used to the cranky home’s idiosyncrasies, but tonight they all seemed to be conspiring against him.

A stirring from the king-size bed stopped him in his tracks, and a woman’s groggy voice called out to him.

“Honey?”

Jeremy swallowed and blinked. “Yes, sweetheart.”

“What time is it?”

“Two thirty. I’m sorry, Elizabeth. The night ran later than I’d hoped.” Jeremy approached the bed and sat beside his wife.

“Did it turn out well for you?”

Jeremy shook his head. “Not really.”

“You want to talk about it?”

“Maybe after I brush my teeth. Try to go back to sleep.”

“What is it, honey?” Elizabeth asked, concern in her voice, which was now more awake.

“I…nothing.” He paused and looked around the darkened room. “Bob’s turning the living room into a disaster area again. I think he was smoking a joint in there, too.”

“He’d never do that.”

“He denied it, of course.”

“I’m sorry. It’s only for another week or two, until he gets back on his feet.”

“Why don’t we put him in a nice hotel down by the Bowery, where all the other ex-cons and dope fiends hang out? It’ll be like homecoming for him. He’ll probably know half the flophouse.”

“That’s mean, Jeremy. He’s family. I can’t just throw my brother out into the street.”

“I’m not suggesting the street. Just out of our house,” Jeremy said, rising. He leaned over Elizabeth and kissed her. “I’m sorry. I’m just on edge, is all.”

“Come to bed and tell me what’s going on, Jeremy.”

“Let me get ready for sleep, Elizabeth. Morning will be here before I know it, and I’ve got a big day.”

Elizabeth watched her husband walk to the bathroom after tossing his jacket onto a chair. When he closed the door, she kicked the covers off her legs and stood, her sheer nightie falling to her feet. She moved to the closet, opened it, and hung up his jacket, taking care to remove his wallet and phone. The sound of running water splashed from the bathroom as she returned to the bed moments later, her eyes gunmetal gray in the soft moonlight filtering through the teak blinds as she waited for Jeremy to come to her.

Chapter 14

Tess was startled when her hotel phone rang at nine a.m. – nobody had ever called on the landline in her week’s stay at the upscale inn. She finished pulling on her jog bra and reached for the handset, her brow furrowed.

“Hello?”

“Yes, Miss Gideon? It’s Lamar at the front desk.”

“Sure. What can I do for you?”

“There’s a Dakota Reed here, asking to be put through.”

“Dakota?” Tess asked. “Um, of course. Put her on.”

A series of clicks later, Dakota’s voice came on the line. “Hi, Tess. Sorry to bug you. Did I wake you up?”

“No, not at all…”

“I was in the neighborhood, and I’ve got an hour before class, and…well…you want to get some coffee or something?”

Tess frowned at Dakota’s tone. “Sure. I can be down in a few minutes.”

“If it’s any trouble…”

“No. Of course not. Just wait for me in the lobby.”

Tess finished dressing, any thoughts of a morning bike ride gone, and pulled a wool jacket over her loose-fitting T-shirt. When she arrived downstairs, Dakota was pacing in front of the brass and crystal door, her jeans and peasant blouse hanging off her thin frame. Tess approached and hugged her, a concerned smile in place.

“Hey. What a nice surprise,” Tess said.

“Yeah, well, like I said, I didn’t have anything this morning, and I felt a little guilty for blowing you off last night…”

“You didn’t blow me off. Don’t say that.”

“I figure I can at least make it up to you with some java.”

“That’s a deal I can’t pass up. You have any place in mind?”

Dakota shrugged. “There’s a Starbucks just down the block.”

“Lead the way.”

They emerged onto the sunny sidewalk and threaded their way through the dense pedestrian traffic. After they got their drinks and commandeered a sofa, Tess took an appreciative sip and eyed her cousin. “You were brilliant last night. Really breathtaking. Your mom must be so proud.”

“Yeah, she’s pretty jazzed. She’s probably making everyone she knows crazy with the bragging, knowing her.”

“You miss Chicago?”

“A little bit, but it’s mostly homesickness, you know? I mean, compared to New York…let’s just say I understand what all the fuss is about.”

“It’s got a lot going for it,” Tess agreed. She paused, a bit unsure of what they were actually supposed to be talking about, and took another sip of her coffee. “Jeremy seemed nice.”

“He’d just gotten off work. He puts in serious hours – like eighty a week. Makes me look like a total slacker. You really thought he was nice?”

“Sure. He’s handsome, seems bright, on a fast track…but the question is what you think of him, not me.”

“Oh, I’m totally, you know…he’s just so amazing in so many ways.”

Tess set her coffee down on the table in front of her. “How well do you know Jeremy?”

Dakota gave her a knowing look. “Well enough.”

“I mean besides that.”

“Pretty well. I mean, we go out a couple times a week, we talk on the phone…he’s usually super busy, but he makes time for me, treats me like I matter, you know?”

“So you’re happy?”

“Yeah, sure,” Dakota said, lowering her eyes.

“Then that’s all that counts, right?”

“Well, yeah, I guess so. It’s just that sometimes things can be…complicated, you know?”

“That’s the way relationships often are. What’s… is there something wrong?”

“I…nothing, really. I mean, I’ve dated guys before Jeremy, but I really like him a lot. He’s different. Way more mature and, like you said, smart.”

“But?” Tess said, eyes narrowing.

“It’s just that he can have anyone, you know? Sometimes I wonder what he sees in me.”

“You? Besides that you’re talented and beautiful and charming, you mean?”

Dakota blushed and busied herself with her tea. “Is that enough, though? There’s the age difference…not that I care, but maybe his friends might?”

“He’s dating a star of the American ballet. Who cares what his friends think? He’s lucky to be with you, not the other way around.”

“Now I know you’re full of it.”

“No, seriously. Don’t sell yourself short, Dakota. You may think he’s all that, but that’s a two-way street.” Tess hesitated. “Are you sure there isn’t anything bothering you? Did you have a fight?”

“No, it’s nothing like that. We don’t fight.” Dakota shrugged and offered a brittle smile. “I’m just tripping. I get insecure sometimes.” She looked across the room and then back to Tess. “So did your date ever show up?”

“It wasn’t really a date.”

“Who’s the mystery man? Come on. I realize I didn’t do anything yesterday but talk about myself. Spill the beans.”

“He’s just a guy I met. It’s still too early to say.”

“What does he do?”

“He’s an inspector. With the police.”

Dakota’s mouth made a silent O. “Did you meet him when…oh, I’m sorry. I meant, um…”

Tess waved off her concern. She remembered what it was like to be eighteen, and tried to make the awkward subject less charged. “Yes, I met him when all the stuff went down with my dad. He was really supportive, and I like him. But we’re just friends.”

“Friends that get together for drinks at eleven at night?”

“He’s got a crazy schedule, too.”

“Doesn’t every eligible guy in New York?” Dakota paused. “What’s he look like?”

“He’s…I don’t know. Good-looking in a quiet way. Tall, brown hair, hazel eyes. But not anything you’d stop to stare at.” Tess wanted to say, not like Jeremy, but didn’t.

“Are you thinking it might get more serious?”

Tess finished her coffee. “We’ll see. You sure there’s nothing on your mind that you want to talk to me about?”

“No…it’s just that I don’t really have any close friends here. Everyone’s so competitive in the company. So it’s not like there’s anyone I can just hang out with and talk about nondance stuff, and sometimes it’s nice to just…chill.”

“Well, any time you want to chill, you know my number.”

Dakota checked the time on her cell phone and stood. “Crap. I need to go.”

“No problem. It was nice seeing you again. And whenever you want to talk, I’m around. Maybe for lunch sometime again? That was fun.”

“Yeah. Sure. That would be cool. I’ll call you, okay?”

“Perfect. Are you dancing again tonight?”

“Yup. Five performances this week.” Dakota shouldered her dance bag. “Sorry to drag you out.”

“I was just getting ready to go for a bike ride. No biggie.”

Dakota waved goodbye and made for the door. Tess watched her depart, her face clouded, wondering what that had really been all about. Dakota had seemed agitated and was clearly preoccupied, and the cause was obviously Jeremy. The question was, what had happened?

Tess dropped her cup into the trash and moved to the exit, glad she was no longer a teenager, remembering the way she could blow hot and cold all within the space of an hour. Her cousin was a talented dancer, but she was still very young, and Tess knew that at her age, the smallest thing could take on crisis proportions, especially with boys.

Dakota would figure it out, Tess reasoned. After all, she had.

Her thoughts darted to Ron, and she smiled humorlessly.

So much for it getting any easier.

Chapter 15

Night had fallen. The lights in the display windows of Gunter’s gallery, just around the corner from Delancey Street, glowed with sophisticated promise for well-heeled clients in the market for edgy, expensive contemporary art. Open by appointment only, the raw brick walls featured numerous notable works by name artists who commanded premium prices in an already hyper-inflated market, as well as European discoveries that Gunter handled exclusively in the U.S.

This evening he was playing host to a young couple, recent transplants from Belgium. He was a wiz with a high-frequency trading firm, she an editor at a mainstream fashion magazine. They’d bought a bungalow, as they referred to their three-thousand-square-foot vacation home in the Hamptons, and were evaluating art for their recent acquisition.

Gunter tried to disguise his disgust at the couple’s pedestrian tastes, but after an hour of discussing the merits of his offerings, he found himself speculating about future values rather than aesthetic appeal or impact – a reliable indicator that the clients knew nothing about art, as was the case with so many of the nouveaux riche who paraded their wealth around with insulting self-importance. The Wall Street wunderkind were the worst, but he’d learned to feign interest in their braggadocio, their incessant whining at the inconvenience of Aspen airport landing fees for their private jets or the impossible waits for a table at the latest hot spots around town.

This pair had fully embraced the American ugliness of one percent wealth and eyed his pieces with indifference as he searched for any common ground with which to communicate. This was the third time they’d been at his gallery, and he desperately needed a sale, which, of course, worked against him. The rich could sense flop sweat a mile off, and Gunter had to fight to seem aloof and nonchalant as he discussed the merits of a sculpture that occupied a central position toward the rear of the main gallery.

“It is a difficult piece. One can feel the artist’s turmoil. I’ve sold several of his others, and they’ve already appreciated over a hundred percent in just the last year,” Gunter lied, speaking the language the two rapacious collectors understood best – that of money.

The woman considered the pair of buttocks extruding from a clenched fist, sculpted in pewter, with her hand on her chin, and then turned to her husband, whose three-day growth of beard and carefully unkempt hair reflected how little they cared for appearances.

“I don’t know, ma chérie. It is evocative, but I don’t feel that it’s…special, you know?” she said with a shake of her three-hundred-dollar coif.

“Yes, of course. In the end, it is just trying too hard. Its anger is contrived, no? Not so genuine. Too commercial,” the husband replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. “No, Gunter, I like very much the two paintings, but we must consider it more. It’s a pity that none of the sculptures fits our vision. We’d hoped to cover all our acquisitions in one place.”

Gunter mentally saw his quarry running back to the safety of the woods, and sighed. “You are taking a real risk, my friends. I have another collector who’s expressed interest in those pieces. I would act now, or you could lose them.”

The woman looked at Gunter in disbelief. “This is too important a decision to rush. We must live with our choices every day. They must be exactly right.”

“Of course,” Gunter backpedaled. “Without question. But based on everything you’ve shared, the paintings, at the very least, are perfect, are they not?” He reached to an end table for the bottle of two-hundred-dollar white burgundy he’d opened for them and poured each another generous portion. “The colors, the anger in the strokes, the use of empty space as a kind of punctuation… You, Madame, said it yourself. They are breathtaking.”

“Yes, they are. But I need to feel that I cannot have any but them. I don’t feel that way yet.”

The man swallowed his wine in two gulps and set his glass down. “We’re close, Gunter. We have much to think about.”

“Yes, thank you, Gunter. We’ll be in touch,” the woman said, handing him her untouched glass with what might have been the beginning of a sneer.

Gunter had been in the game long enough to know there would be no sale that night. He’d wasted his time if he was hoping for a fast turn. When the couple left and he locked the front door behind them, he was saying goodbye to a half million dollars of profit. Perhaps they would return. Or perhaps not. The art game was akin to chess, the adversaries both gullible and wary, each move calculated to draw their opponent out without revealing anything. Gunter was ordinarily as cold and precise as they came, but the pressure of his debts was mounting, and his increased methamphetamine consumption was doing his nerves no favors.

Gunter swigged the remainder of the wine and then hurled the bottle at the back wall with a scream of rage. The glass shattered against the brick and missed ruining one of the paintings by inches, and he cursed as his vision clouded and his pulse thudded in his ears. He gasped for breath as he stood, shaking, and then stalked to the front entrance and exited, pulling the steel security awning closed and locking it, leaving the mess behind for the following day.

Twenty minutes later, he was shouldering through a press of humanity. Wailing guitars shredded from the stage with robotic precision over a dub-step beat as he made his way to the rear of the club. The doorman at the backstage entrance recognized him and nodded as he slipped by. Upstairs in a private area, different music boomed, and he sat in one of the darkened booths beside a tattoo artist who was stenciling a horned goat’s head onto a young woman’s shoulder. Onstage, a transvestite in an outfit straight out of the Rocky Horror Picture Show was whipping a bald Malaysian man who was naked except for a mask covering his eyes and part of his forehead. Gunter tapped out a rock of meth into a glass pipe and lit it, inhaling the vapor and holding his breath before coughing. A rush like a freight train slammed through his body, every nerve tingling and hyperaware, and he leaned his head back as the room spun.

The music changed, and a statuesque woman in her fifties, her nude body adorned with piercings, mounted the stage and impaled herself on the whipped man’s erection, straddling him where he lay on the platform. Another, younger woman, also naked, moved toward the couple with a strap-on, to muted applause. Gunter watched the coupling, the penetrator being penetrated, and smiled with each crack of the older woman’s palm against the man’s face.

A young man wearing chaps and a cowboy hat approached Gunter. His torso was bare, his earlobes stretched with inch-diameter plugs, and his nose, lips, and nipples were pierced, his Prince Albert genital accessory on proud display.

“What’s your pleasure?” he asked.

“Bottle of Grey Goose,” Gunter said, keeping eye contact.

“Tab, or pay as you go?”

“Tab. Clint knows me.”

“Name?”

“Big G.”

The waiter’s eyebrow rose a quarter inch, and he nodded. “Ice bucket?”

“Yes. One glass. Unless you’re on break soon, in which case, make it two.”

The young man looked Gunter up and down with a smirk. “Let me think about it, Big G. I’ll be right back with your bottle.”

Gunter watched the waiter sashay away, the samurai martial scene tattooed on his back intricately detailed, and closed his eyes again, reveling in the buzz from the speed. After several moments, he fished a small bottle from his jacket pocket, opened the top, and took a deep inhalation of the vapor. Amyl nitrate combined with meth was a powerful combo, providing him with the stamina of a bull, and his vascular system responded instantly to the volatile chemical.

He’d deal with Paulo and the money issue tomorrow. Tonight he was a dark God, master of his underworld, and unbound by trivial material concerns. There would be time enough come daylight to contend with such niggling annoyances. For now he had more important matters to attend to, and he wouldn’t allow his troubles to interfere with the enjoyment of his earthly pleasures.

Chapter 16

Ron sat in Amy Silva’s cluttered office, reading a report. When he was finished, he set the folder down and frowned at her.

“Doesn’t really leave us a lot to work with on the first body, does it?”

Amy shook her head. “No. The problem’s the exposure. It’s difficult to pinpoint when she was killed because of her corpse being out overnight. Rigor mortis and lividity aren’t going to be as useful as with the second corpse – that one was indoors, so I can be much more accurate. As it is, we’re sort of left with the age of the insects that got to the first one, and all I can do is ballpark it. You know how that goes.”

Ron nodded. “I was hoping you’d pull off a miracle.”

She shrugged dispiritedly, ignoring the ping of an incoming email on her computer. “I’m afraid I used up my quota for the month.”

Ron sighed. “It’s been more than three days since we found the second victim’s body. Which means he can’t be that far from doing another one.”

“We don’t know that.”

“I do. In my gut. Run down the details on the first corpse for me again.”

“The first girl was between twenty and thirty years old, and had cocaine, meth, and ecstasy in what remained of her blood. She’d had rough sex recently before she was killed, but it’s impossible to determine whether that was minutes or hours before, based on the vaginal lesions. No trace of sperm, so likely with a condom. Time of death is an eight- to twelve-hour range the day before the first video hit.” Amy looked over her reading glasses at him. “Were you ever able to ID her?”

“Nobody came forward. Probably a pro, maybe newly arrived. Or could have been visiting.” Ron hesitated. “Any hits in the DNA database?”

“Negative. If she’s got a record, it wasn’t here.” New York had been collecting DNA samples from its felons for some time, and now even those convicted of misdemeanors had samples taken.

“So we lose that lottery.”

“The good news is that on the second girl, we can be far more precise. Time of death was between midnight and three a.m. of the day we found her.”

“That will help some if we ever get a suspect.”

“She also had coke and meth in her system. So there’s a pattern for you.”

Ron grimaced. “Half the hookers in New York fancy that little combo, so it doesn’t take us very far.”

Amy nodded. “But it’s something.”

“Anything from the autopsy?”

“Nothing unusual with the organs. She had traces of cocaine adhering to her septum.”

“What about the trace elements she was dusted with?”

“That’s taking a while. The scene was a construction area, so she was covered with fine material – dust, debris, you name it. I’ve got one of my assistants on it, but it’s slow going. Separating the wheat from the chaff, so to speak.”

“Nothing promising?”

“Too early to say.” Amy paused. “She did have some older scars that were indicative of cutting, though, on what remained of her forearms. Hard to make out with the tattoos, but there.”

“Cutting?”

Amy nodded. “Self-inflicted, usually as a teen. A psychological disorder. Self-mutilation.”

“Ah.”

“And her anus had signs of regular abuse.”

“From the killer?”

“Can’t rule that out, but no, I’d say more vocational.”

“The witness who identified her said she was into rough trade.”

“Then there’s your answer. I’m sorry I don’t have anything more to give you yet, Ron. Believe me, you’ll be the first to hear if I learn anything new.” She pushed the file aside and stared glumly at a dozen more. “Been a busy few weeks.”

“I heard.” Rival drug gangs had been fighting it out for territory in Spanish Harlem, and the bodies were piling up like cordwood. Amy had more than her average workload, and she didn’t need to explain why her lab was taking so long – each body required an autopsy and full processing, even if the cause of death was obvious.

An awkward silence hung between them, and Ron glanced at his watch. He and Amy had dated casually three months earlier, but it had never gone anywhere because of his interest in Tess. Amy was a good-looking, smart, eligible woman, but she’d been the one doing the pursuing, and Ron’s rejection had stung her pride, even if she’d shrugged it off. They hadn’t had much cause to spend any time together since then. Amy had remained distant, which he understood, but he could sense that there was still resentment there.

He stood and offered a small grin. “Well, I suppose I’ll get back to investigating. We’re canvasing the church neighborhood, but so far, nada.”

“Sometimes they break that way,” Amy said. Most cases for Ron were the especially difficult ones, so they were both used to it. The majority of ordinary murders were usually a family member or someone with a financial interest and easily solved, often with a confession. Crimes of passion were homicide’s bread and butter, but Ron was a floating specialist who was called in on the exceptional cases, those involving serial killers or unusually violent deaths where the investigators had conducted their preliminary inquiries and were stumped. There was nothing simple about his job, she knew.

He shrugged. “Beats flipping burgers.”

Amy nodded. “No name tag or paper hat. You’ve got it made.”

Chapter 17

Two days later, Ron was sitting across a conference table from his FBI counterpart, Clinton Fredericks, and Sheila MacLeay, an FBI profiler who was considered one of the agency’s best. Their task force meeting had so far been tense, and Ron had just finished giving a terse report on the NYPD’s lack of progress. Ben had followed it with a blow by blow of steps the force had taken, but the feds were obviously unimpressed.

MacLeay sat forward, a binder open before her, and shook her head as Ben finished.

“I’m afraid nothing I’ve heard so far is going to get us very far in stopping the killer,” she said.

Ben bristled and stared her down. “What do you suggest, then, that we haven’t done?”

Ron interrupted the exchange and nodded to MacLeay. “Why don’t you tell us what you’ve come up with, in terms of the character of the man we’re looking for? Given our dearth of hard evidence so far, can’t hurt to get a read.”

MacLeay flipped a few pages in her binder and cleared her throat. “You’re looking at a fellow who’s probably a loner or, at least, feels isolated from his fellow man, as well as from reality in general. He’s probably over thirty, single, high-functioning, and has delusions of grandeur. He thinks in terms of bigger-than-life statements and seeks attention for his views. He’s also a misogynist. He’s probably used to the limelight in one way or another and wants endless amounts of it. And he believes himself to be far smarter than the authorities, so much so that he’s confident he’ll never be caught and can toy with us with impunity.”

Ben snorted. “How tall is he?”

MacLeay frowned. “This is an inexact science. All I can do is give you broad strokes, which are likely correct – but there are no guarantees.”

“You left out that he wasn’t breastfed as a baby and prefers dogs to cats,” Ben retorted.

Ron cut the younger detective off. “Do you think he’s done this before?”

“My instinct is that he has. But whether or not he’s filmed it is another matter. To me, the filming is an escalation in attention seeking, but it could well be a rationalization he’s using to justify his deeds – that he’s making a statement with them.”

“Yet the database shows no matches on similar MOs.”

Fredericks nodded. “True, but we both know that there are hundreds of missing persons reports filed every year where the subjects aren’t ever found. It would be a mistake to believe the files contain all, or even most, of these sorts of killings. If he’d dumped the bodies over the side of a boat or buried them in a rural area, we’d be none the wiser, other than the videos.”

“The first and second videos arrived five days apart,” Ron said. “You think that’s his cycle?”

MacLeay stared at her pen for a few beats. “I think it’s a mistake to view this in terms of cyclicality. For all we know, these were crimes of convenience – he killed because he had an opportunity.”

“The locations would lead me to believe they were planned,” Ron shot back.

“Perhaps, or perhaps that’s just post hoc reasoning. Could be he’s got an entire list of dumping spots he’s scoped out, and used the two most opportune. No way of knowing without more data.”

“You mean more murders.”

“Hard to plot a trend with only two points. It would be grossly misleading, at best.”

Ron sat back. “Why chop off their appendages and decapitate them?”

“That’s a harder one. Could be for theatrical effect. Or there could be some symbolism.”

“Why position the second victim’s head so it appeared to be watching the torso?”

MacLeay sighed. “Any number of reasons, including a whim or that the voices told him to do it.” She paused. “I don’t have all the answers. The truth is that we’re more likely to catch him – if we do – from forensic evidence and old-fashioned police work than any profile I develop. This is the toughest kind of case.”

“At least you admit it,” Ben said.

MacLeay closed her folder. “Gentlemen, I’m not the enemy. I’m trying to help. If you don’t need any, that’s fine. I have many other things I could be doing instead of wasting my night in here, being insulted.”

The phone in the middle of the conference table chirped, and Ron stabbed the line to life. “Yes?”

“Sir, one of the networks is sending over footage that just arrived. Another one.”

Ron’s shoulders slumped. He regarded the faces of the other task force members. “When can we see it?” he asked.

“AV says within ten minutes.”

“Where?”

“I notified Captain Larraby. He’s already on his way in. His office in twenty?”

“That will be fine.”

Ron terminated the call. “So much for no cycle. Today’s the fifth day. Right on schedule.”

“We’ll want a copy of the footage immediately,” Fredericks said.

“Of course. I’ll send someone out for coffee.”

Ron pushed to his feet and Ben followed him out of the room as the rest of the assembly conversed in hushed tones. Ron’s expression was hard as they waited for the elevator, and Ben shifted from foot to foot and fidgeted beside him. When the doors opened and they were alone inside, Ben looked to Ron.

“This is about as bad as it gets, isn’t it?”

Ron nodded silently.

At the captain’s office, a tech was setting up a DVD player and a monitor in his reception area, the room deserted now that business hours were over. Ron took a seat on the leather sofa, and Ben pulled up a chair. An officer poked his head in and offered them coffee, which they both accepted, and three minutes later they were sipping the hot brew from polystyrene cups, waiting for the captain’s arrival.

When Larraby appeared, his face was haggard.

“Okay, let’s see it,” he barked, and the tech pressed play and left the room, pulling the door closed behind him.

An image blinked to life, music in the background: a naked young woman with duct tape over her mouth, her eyes wide in terror, bound to the usual metal chair, the familiar garbage bags on the floor. The camera zoomed in on her face and then roved over her body. She was thinner than the previous women, her breasts little more than bumps and her ribs clearly visible beneath her flawless skin. The focus returned to the woman’s face and fixed on it.

Ron jumped to his feet with a curse. “Damn,” he said, hot coffee having spilled down the front of his trousers and across the floor.

“What the hell’s gotten into you?” Larraby barked, pausing the video.

Sour bile rose in Ron’s throat, and he swallowed hard to overcome the wave of nausea that suddenly hit. He took a deep breath. “I…sorry, Captain,” he said as Ben reached for some napkins. “But…I think I’ve seen the victim before.”

“You know her?” Larraby exclaimed. “From where? Who is she?”

Ron squinted at the screen through watering eyes and felt for the table edge to steady himself. “I don’t know. I mean, I could be mistaken.”

Larraby’s tone hardened. “Stanford, it’s no time to be talking in riddles. If you know her, speak up.”

“It could be someone who looks similar,” Ron tried, his voice unconvincing as he mopped up coffee with a wad of towels Ben had handed him. “I can’t be sure.”

Larraby’s eyes narrowed. “My patience is wearing thin, Detective. Do you know her or not?”

Ron studied the image frozen on the screen. It had been such a brief encounter…

He cleared his throat and struggled for composure. “I believe that might be a young woman who’s related to someone I know.”

“Who you know?” Ben said.

Ron nodded, and when he spoke, his voice was tight. “Yes. The victim’s name, if I’m correct, is Dakota. She was eighteen and a dancer with the American Ballet Company.”

Chapter 18

Tess arrived at the midtown precinct after receiving Ron’s call, a ski cap pulled hurriedly over her hair, her expression radiating confusion at his cryptic summons an hour earlier. He met her in the lobby, where a collection of lowlifes and relatives of habitual criminals waited on wooden benches, and led her into the bowels of the building. One look at his face froze any greeting in her throat, and they walked in silence down a cold corridor to one of the interview suites.

Outside the door, he stopped and turned to her. “Tess, I don’t know how to do this easily…”

“Do what? What is it, Ron? You’re scaring me.”

“We received another video today.”

“I’m sorry, Ron.” Her eyes searched his. “But what does that have to do with me?”

“I can’t be sure, but I think I might have recognized someone you’re close to on the tape.”

“Close to?”

Ron nodded and looked away. “Dakota.”

The room spun and Tess gripped Ron’s arm for support. “No. That’s impossible. There must be some sort of mistake.”

“That’s my hope. Remember that I only caught a short glimpse of her at the restaurant – I wasn’t really paying attention. I’m probably mistaken.” Ron paused. “When did you last speak to her?”

Tess shook her head as though to clear it. “Yesterday morning. She was fine.” Tess fished out her cell phone and pressed redial. “I’ll clear this up right now.”

Ron stood by as Tess held the phone to her ear. After a few seconds she hung up, obviously frustrated. “She’s probably in rehearsal. It went to voice mail.”

“I have a few screen shots from the video I’d like you to take a look at, Tess.”

“You’re wasting your time, Ron. It can’t be her.”

“Humor me, okay, Tess?”

He opened the door and they moved to a steel table surrounded by six chairs, with a single manila folder resting in the center. She took a seat and he nodded at the two-way mirror. “You want some water or coffee?”

“No. Let’s get this over with.”

Ron sat beside her and opened the folder. A tech had done screen captures from the close-up scenes in the beginning of the tape, and Ron slid one toward Tess, his face unreadable. Tess glanced at it dismissively and then raised it from the table for a better look. Her gasp of shock was all the confirmation he required.

“God, no, Ron. No. This can’t be happening,” Tess whispered, her eyes welling with tears. “It’s got to be a mistake. Someone who looks like her or something.”

“I have a few more shots, Tess, if you’re not sure.”

She shook her head. “No. It can’t be Dakota.”

“Tess…”

He slid another shot toward her, and despite her best efforts to appear resolute, she reached for it with a shaking hand. A soft moan escaped her as she touched the glossy image.

“When did this arrive?” she whispered.

“Today. It’s her, isn’t it?”

Tess nodded, tears streaming down her face. “She’s dead?”

Ron nodded, any words inadequate.

“Why?” she demanded. “Why Dakota? She’s just a child. Harmless…” Tess couldn’t continue and broke down in strangled sobs. Ron leaned toward her and hugged her, trying to offer at least slim comfort, hating that he had to be the one to intrude into her life with unmentionable horror. She cried against his tweed jacket and, after a time, sat back, exhausted, her breathing ragged.

He shook his head. “He’s a sick predator, Tess. And I’ll catch him. I promise you that. But I’m going to need your help.”

“Me? How?”

“I want to ask you about Dakota. I need to learn everything I can about her.”

“Have they found her body?”

“Not yet.”

“Then she could still be alive.”

“No, Tess, she couldn’t.”

“Oh, God. How bad is it, Ron?”

“There’s torture, and then he kills his victims. That’s all I can say.”

“I read in the paper that he decapitates them…”

“I’m not allowed to comment.”

She fixed him with a pained stare. “Why Dakota, Ron? She was a dancer. Never hurt anyone. Her life was just starting…” Tess trailed off and was racked by sobs again. Ron had done enough interrogations to know that he needed to give her time, but not enough so that she went into shock and clammed up. After several minutes, he handed her a box of tissues and pointed at the ceiling.

“Tess, we’re going to record this conversation, okay?”

She blotted her eyes and nodded.

“You’ve confirmed that the victim was your cousin Dakota…”

“Dakota Reed. Oh, God, her poor mom. She’s going to go berserk when she hears.”

“Where was Dakota from, Tess?”

“Chicago. She just moved here a few months ago. To dance.”

Ron took her through a series of softball background questions and then steered her to more difficult ones. “Was Dakota involved in anything besides dancing, Tess?”

“What are you talking about? Like what?”

“Did she mention going to clubs at night?”

“Clubs? She wasn’t hanging out at clubs. She had a serious rehearsal and performance schedule.”

“Could she have been involved in anything illegal? Drugs? Prostitution?”

“Are you out of your mind? She was a ballet dancer. Eighteen years old. She wasn’t some stoned hooker.”

“I’m not suggesting she was, Tess. I’m just trying to get a complete picture. Right now I don’t know anything about her other than what you’ve told me, and I’m trying to figure out how the killings are connected.”

“You’re barking up the wrong tree if you think Dakota was involved in anything like prostitution, Ron. She was a kid. Green as they come.”

“You mentioned she had a boyfriend.”

“That’s right. Jeremy. Works on Wall Street.” Her eyes narrowed. “You saw him that night, too. You think he has something to do with this?”

“I don’t think anything. I’m just fleshing out who Dakota was. Do you know Jeremy’s last name?”

“No. I spent maybe three minutes talking to him that night. You probably know as much about him as I do.”

“How well did you know Dakota, Tess?”

“She was my cousin! I mean, we weren’t super close, but we were getting closer now that she lived here.”

“Could she have had another life outside of the ballet?”

Tess snorted. “She went to class every morning, rehearsed all day, and performed at night. She ate, slept, and dreamed ballet, Ron. It’s like a religion for these girls. There’s no secret existence. I went out with some of them for lunch, and all they talk about is ballet. They don’t have any life at all except dance. It’s super competitive.”

An hour of questioning went by, at the end of which Ron was nearly as exhausted by the ordeal as Tess. The image he had of Dakota from the tape was of a young woman still halfway in the world of adolescence, horribly mangled by an unfeeling monster, and Tess had imbued her with life – now it wasn’t just another unfortunate, but a thinking, breathing beauty with a limitless career, who would now never grace the covers of magazines or make history in her choice of pursuits. And unlike the second woman, who’d been a pro, or the first, whom a witness had finally confirmed and identified as a prostitute from Pennsylvania named Connie Vance, Dakota wasn’t a sex worker – so she appeared to break at least that part of the pattern.

When Ron showed Tess out, he promised to call later and made plans to take off early to spend the evening with her. She was visibly stunned and shouldn’t be alone – not if he could help it. He watched her walk away, her eyes unfocused and her steps unsure, and it took all his willpower to keep from running down the sidewalk after her and taking her into his arms.

Back at his desk, he saw that he had a message from the captain, instructing him to come to his office at once to discuss damage control and a press release. Another message slip, this one only a few minutes later, reiterated the demand and underscored that the mayor would be attending the meeting via speakerphone. Ron groaned softly at the thought and quickly ran through the remainder of the messages before standing and making his way to the door, resigned to another agonizing round of bureaucratic inaction masquerading as progress.

The truth was that after three brutal murders they had nothing, and at this point there was little chance that they’d be able to do anything to stop the killer before he struck again.

Which, Ron was sure, he would.

Chapter 19

Tess sat in her hotel room, staring vacantly through the window at the darkened city, the television on but muted. How had everything gone so wrong and ugly so quickly? Dakota dead, victim to Manhattan’s latest serial killer, her life snuffed out without compunction by a monster who reveled in his ability to strike terror in the heart of the population. She’d read the newspaper descriptions of the deeds memorialized on the videos, and her stomach roiled at the thought of her cousin having been subjected to such atrocities. She’d vomited twice, heaving until her stomach was empty.

She knew from her prior experience that the media didn’t release completely accurate information; but still, what was described was beyond sick – the acts of a demented animal who showed no mercy for his innocent victims.

How had Dakota fallen prey to him? The question had been cycling through her brain since her numb departure from the police station. How had she been targeted? And then lured? Through the ballet? Someone she knew casually from a coffee shop or a bar?

Or her boyfriend, Jeremy? Who didn’t like crowds and couldn’t get out of the bar fast enough with her? Who was evasive when asked routine questions? Could he be involved?

The thought seemed ridiculous on its face, but then so did the notion that her teenage cousin could wind up hacked apart on a torture tape. What did she know about the man, anyway? A first name, and that he worked in the financial industry. That wasn’t much. Could Dakota have been dating a serial killer?

Tess realized she was stretching to make sense out of something that was likely entirely random, or whose connection to Dakota was something she simply wasn’t seeing. More probable was that the killer worked somewhere that he’d seen Dakota, and had taken an interest in her. Maybe at the theater? The ballet? A diner or market nearby? Perhaps the apartment she shared with the other girls? The possibilities were endless, and if it was simple luck of the draw, the police might never identify the killer.

The thought that the murderer could go free sickened Tess almost as much as the mental image of Dakota being butchered. Someone would pay for robbing her of her life. There was no way that would go unpunished, and Tess felt anger building at the thought.

The phone rang, jolting her from her funk, and she realized that hours had gone by since she’d returned to the hotel. She reached for the handset.

“Hello?”

“Tess, it’s Ron. I’m downstairs in the lobby. How are you holding up?”

“Terrible, Ron. I…I still can’t believe this is happening.”

“I know.” There was an awkward pause. “Have you eaten anything?” he asked.

“I don’t think I’ll do very well going out anywhere.”

“You want some company? We can order room service.”

The last thing Tess wanted was to see anyone, but she also realized that sitting and staring at the wall, replaying dark thoughts, wasn’t doing her any good. And maybe she could bounce her suspicions off Ron…

“Sure. Give me a few minutes to put myself together.” She gave him the room number and hung up.

Ron’s knock was soft, as though fearful of jarring her further. Tess opened the door, her chin high, but within seconds her lower lip began to tremble and her eyes brimmed with moisture. Ron wordlessly hugged her as she broke down for the umpteenth time in a few hours. He cradled her until the wave had passed like a summer storm, and when she’d stopped crying, he wiped the tears from her face, his touch soft as a butterfly’s wings.

She closed her eyes, and before she knew it, her lips were crushed against his, as though she needed pain introduced into the pleasure of the connection to remind her that she, at least, was still alive. The moment stretched as heat built between them, and then she pulled away with a shake of her head.

“I’m sorry, Ron…”

“No need to apologize, Tess. I didn’t come over…for anything more than to spend time with you.”

“It’s just – it’s all wrong, Ron. Everything is, right now.”

He nodded and pushed the door closed behind him. “I know. Don’t sweat it.” He brushed a lock of hair from her forehead. “How are you doing?”

“Not so great. I can’t help going over this again and again. None of it makes sense.”

“Often that’s how it works, Tess. You see a lot of things on the job you can’t explain. At some point you have to stop trying to understand the unthinkable and settle for catching the perps and taking them out of action forever.”

“I feel so hollow. Like everything good in the world is gone.” She sat on the bed, her hair in disarray. Ron sat beside her and took her hand.

“It’s natural to feel that way, Tess. You wouldn’t be human if you didn’t.”

Tess nodded and they sat in silence. Eventually she turned to him. “What about Dakota’s mom?”

“A detective I know in Chicago is going over to her house as we speak. Technically, we don’t have a body, but in light of what we know, it seems reasonable to break the news to her.”

“That poor woman. All of her hopes and dreams for her child crushed, over…over nothing. It’s not right, Ron.”

“No, it isn’t. And you have to believe me when I say that I won’t rest until we catch him.”

She released his hand and went to the bathroom for a glass of water. When she returned, she sat at a small table in the corner of the room. There was only one chair, so Ron remained on the bed. “I’ve been thinking, Ron. About how Dakota could have been targeted. There are so many ways, it seems impossible to follow up on them all.”

“Tell me about them,” Ron said. Tess sensed that he was trying to appease her, but she appreciated the opportunity to vent, and she took him through her thinking process, finally ending with Jeremy.

“How are you going to proceed, Ron?” she asked.

“There isn’t a lot to go on till we have a body, Tess. We always start with the forensics. That’s how most crimes are solved if there’s no confession. Eventually the killer slips up. Often something small. But it’s enough.”

“Are you going to question Dakota’s friends? Go after this Jeremy? Maybe he’s the killer, or it has something to do with him?”

“Of course we’ll take a hard look at him, Tess. But it’s too early to make any determinations. We can’t really go after him, demanding an alibi, if we don’t even know when Dakota…if we can’t get a time frame for the crime. That’s why we have to wait and not go off half-cocked.”

“But you can interview her friends in the meantime.”

“And we will, Tess. Trust me on that. But there’s a system to investigating a crime, and it’s best to follow it if you want the case to stand up in court. It’s like building a skyscraper – you don’t just start at the tenth floor, you lay a firm foundation and build your case, level by level. Otherwise a good lawyer will get him off, and nobody wants that.”

She stared away. “Like your hobo killers.”

“That was actually a different problem – a jury issue. Like with the OJ case, sometimes you present all the evidence, it says the perp’s guilty as Hitler, yet a jury decides to let them go in spite of everything. It’s frustrating when that happens, but it’s the system, and you learn to live with it.”

“When you figure out who killed Dakota, you should shoot him. I couldn’t live in a world where scum like that get off.”

Ron didn’t say anything. That the same thought occurred to him on almost every case was his darkest secret – that as a functionary of the justice system, the best use of his time would be to put a bullet in the sick bastards’ heads and save everyone millions in trial expenses and heartbreak – was a truth he couldn’t state out loud, lest voicing the idea eventually made it impossible to resist.

After a long pause, he sighed. “I’d love to play god, Tess, but then I wouldn’t be much better than the ones I hunt.”

“Of course you would be. You’d be bringing justice home. An eye for an eye,” she countered, her tone hard.

“Believe me, if they change the law so that’s my new job description, I’d be the first to celebrate. But for now, I have to work within the lines, Tess. Frustrating as that is.”

“It’s stupid,” she spat, her lips clamped tight.

“Many things about what I do are. But let’s go back to the boyfriend. Tell me everything you know – we could start there, for lack of anywhere better.”

“Like I said, his name’s Jeremy. They were going out for about eight weeks. She was kind of head over heels for him, although the last time I saw her she seemed troubled…”

“Troubled?”

“Like relationship problems, maybe? I’m guessing. And I don’t want to project. I realize that the chances that he’s the killer are pretty slim. But I want someone to hate, and he’s as good as anyone,” she said flatly.

“I understand, Tess. Maybe you can come down to the station and sit down with an artist for a few hours? Describe him?”

“Sure. Whatever you think is best.”

He glanced around the room. “How about some food?”

“I can’t eat, Ron. Probably won’t be able to for a long time.”

“A little wine?”

“I might not be able to stop.”

Ron offered a sad smile. “I’ll act as your chaperone. Tell the desk to cut you off after the first bottle.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll order a sandwich or something. Maybe you’ll want some of it. Never know.”

“Ever the optimist, huh?”

“With what I do for a living, I couldn’t get out of bed every day if I wasn’t.”

Ron read the room service menu and tried a grin on her. “I may need to take out a loan to afford this place, but it’s my treat.”

“Don’t worry about it. I have a feeling my wine will cost a lot more than your BLT.”

He phoned in the order and then eyed the TV. “Not much on the early news, huh?”

“No. Just that there would be more on the late edition.”

“They won’t be releasing much, Tess. At least not for now. It’s an open homicide investigation, so they should play ball.”

“They said they’d be showing part of the tape.”

Ron nodded. “The bastards want ratings.”

“Someone will recognize Dakota.”

“I have no control over this, Tess.”

“The killer could bolt.”

He shook his head. “He hasn’t so far. No, this guy’s going to continue until he’s stopped. I can feel it in my bones.”

Room service arrived with a bottle of passable chardonnay and a French dip sandwich and diet soda for Ron. He picked at the fries while Tess downed her first glass of wine in a few gulps, and was preparing to take a bite of his sandwich when his cell phone rang. He retrieved it and thumbed the line to life.

“Stanford.”

“Ron, it’s Shelly. You busy?”

“Not for you. What have you got?”

“Turns out your boy DJ Endo is supposed to be working a kink party we heard about, down in SoHo.”

“When?”

“Tonight. It’s probably already started.”

“Shit. Where are you?”

“At the precinct. You can come with me, but you have to dress like a civilian, not Columbo. And you can’t bring your piece or your badge. There will be metal detectors.” Shelly paused. “A word of warning, Ron. We’re going in soft. There’s no evidence of any criminal activity, so this is more as a favor to you. We’ve been watching this particular group for drug and prostitution violations, but the case isn’t made yet, so we can’t have you playing cowboy and lousing it up.”

“It’ll take me about twenty minutes to hit my place and change, and another twenty to get to the precinct. What should I wear?”

“You have leather hot pants and nipple clamps?”

“Jeans and a concert T-shirt do?”

“I wouldn’t have called if I’d known you would be so serious.”

“Wait for me. I’m on my way.”

Ron hung up. Tess was slowing down on the wine, but half the bottle had vanished. Ron laid a hand on her shoulder. “I’ve got to go. A possible break in the case.”

“Really? Dakota?”

He shook his head. “No. One of the earlier victims. But whatever road leads home, is my motto.” He leaned into her and planted a soft kiss on her mouth. “I don’t know how late this will run.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’ve got my buddy Kendall-Jackson here, and I have a feeling if I get lonely, his friends Jim Beam or Jack Daniel’s might show up.”

“If it’s not too late, I’ll call.”

“Go do what you have to do, Ron. Catch him. That’s all I ask.”

He nodded grimly and patted his shoulder-holstered pistol unconsciously. “I will.”

Chapter 20

Ron arrived at the precinct in a pair of distressed jeans, construction boots, and a black hoodie over a Wine Dogs concert T-shirt. Shelly was waiting for him when he arrived, her black vinyl pants and gold sequined top leaving little to the imagination. Ron remembered her as a fitness enthusiast, but any doubts he might have had were banished at the sight of her flat stomach and defined muscles.

“You can put your eyes back in your head now,” she said, her voice typically dry.

“I was just admiring your outfit.”

“Point is to dress like one of the talent. Men never suspect a scantily clad female. Gets ’em every time.”

“I’ll have to remember that if I ever go into the bank robbery game.”

“Let me know. Anything’s got to pay better than this gig.”

Ron smiled. “What’s the background?”

“We’ve been investigating a group of Russian mob-affiliated ecstasy dealers, who are supposed to have a white slavery sideline going, but we’ve been unable to get enough evidence to pop them. Ordinarily I’d be going in with my partner, posing as a curious husband and wife, but since you’re after Endo, and he’s DJing the party…well, if you think you can manage acting like a reluctant swinger, the job’s yours.”

“What kind of party is it, exactly?”

“Nothing too extreme. That stuff, we never really hear about until after it’s happened. This is more group sex, orgy fare. Glory holes, man-on-woman, man-on-man, whatever,” she said, as though discussing which viscosity oil she preferred for her car.

“Oh, so just my usual Friday night,” he joked.

She gave him a long, appraising glance. “I hope you’ve got a better poker face than that.”

“Pun intended?”

Shelly dropped a tiny cell phone into her clutch and snapped it closed. “You don’t have anything on you that will get picked up by a metal detector, do you?”

“Just my keys.” He paused. “How do we get him out of the place if we don’t have badges?”

“That’s kind of up to you. Remember, we’re not even sure he’s going to be there. It’s all rumor at this point.”

“Shelly, if he is, we’re going to have to raid the place. No way can I chance losing him.”

She shook her head. “Then you’re not going in. Too much time’s gone into this to blow it, Ron.”

“I understand. But I’m going to have to pull rank. This guy’s instrumental in the Rose Killer investigation, Shelly. That trumps a vice bust, I think you’ll agree.”

“Go screw yourself, Stanford. Deal’s off,” she snapped, obviously angry.

“If I have to, I’ll call the captain into it, Shelly. I don’t want to, but I need the DJ.”

She regarded him with barely concealed fury. “You sucker-punched me, Ron. Good luck ever having anyone in vice cooperate with you again.”

“Shelly, there’s got to be a way to get him out of there without tripping up your investigation. What if I can take him quietly?”

“How?”

“I don’t know. Depends on the layout. Tell me where the club is, exactly, and I’ll get some bodies to circle the block.”

“Oh, perfect. Because nobody will ever suspect, with a dozen flatfoots hanging out, that something might be going on,” she spat. “Seriously? That’s the best you’ve got?”

“Do you have any people you can depend on? Shouldn’t take more than a couple at the back and a couple in front.”

“Right. Unless the mobsters decide to start shooting.”

He frowned. “Then we go in hard. Kick down the front door, SWAT, the whole nine yards.”

“You’re not leaving me a lot of options.”

“Sorry.”

She sighed and checked the time. “I know a few guys I can call.”

“Fine. Get them in place, and we’ll try it soft, first. That fails, I drag the prick out by the hair.”

“Is this the softer, gentler Stanford I keep hearing about?”

“The rumors are greatly exaggerated.”

She eyed his outfit and tilted her head to the side. “I’ll say. You look like a mugger. I’ll make calls on the way.”

Half an hour later they were outside of a club that ordinarily catered to the gay and lesbian crowd, according to Shelly. But tonight the upstairs section had been rented out for the private party, and the organizers were responsible for its security. Once their backup had confirmed they were in place by the fire stairs in the rear, as well as sitting in a beat-up eighties-era sedan across the street, Shelly entwined her arm with Ron’s and walked him to the entrance, where about three hundred pounds of bald Samoan man with full facial tattoos glared at them before offering a grin. “You here for the soiree?” he asked, his voice surprisingly soft and high-pitched, given his appearance.

“That’s right,” Shelly said, and Ron gave him his best trooper smile. The man looked him over and pointed to an ancient airport metal detector.

“Take anything metallic out of your pockets. Change, keys, straight razor, .38 Special…” he said, handing them each a red plastic basket. Ron obliged, tossing his keys and phone into the container and handing it to another bouncer on the other side of the door. Shelly allowed the second man to do a cursory search of her purse, and then they were in the bar and making their way to a door at the rear of the club, where two more bouncers waited with crossed arms and cold stares.

“We’re here for the party,” Shelly said.

“Who invited you?” the larger of the pair demanded.

“Yvgeny told us about it,” she said, naming a low-level street pimp who worked with the Russians.

“Fifty apiece,” the man growled, and Ron’s eyebrows rose. Shelly nodded, unfolded a hundred-dollar bill, and handed it to him. The bouncer gave Ron the stink eye and nodded to her. “Got to search you.”

“We just went through that thing,” Ron said, pointing behind him.

“You want in, or you want to argue?”

“Fine.”

Two minutes later they were upstairs. A DJ booth was set up at one end of a darkened room, with colored lights strobing around it, sofas and beanbag chairs strewn about the space and a bar at the opposite end barely lit enough to make out in the gloom. Ron tried not to stare at a young woman off to his right suspended in a leather harness, her nude body glowing in the black lights, being penetrated by a skinny man wearing nothing but a T-shirt and a colorful Mexican Lucha Libre mask. The music was a pulsing techno beat, blaring loudly enough to peel the enamel from his teeth, and he leaned in to Shelly.

“That looks like it takes some agility,” he said.

“Not illegal if she’s of age.”

“She looks…experienced.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“Nothing would surprise me anymore. Want a beer?” he asked.

“Sure.”

They passed a group of a half dozen men and women in various stages of undress, groping one another, but not yet to the main course, and Shelly took Ron’s hand. “Don’t get any ideas. But it looks weird if we’re not together,” she explained.

“I’ll lie back and think of England.”

He watched the DJ as the bartender withdrew two bottles of beer from a tub filled with ice and set them on the counter. “Twenty bucks,” the man yelled over the music. Ron’s eyes widened imperceptibly, but he paid without comment, tipping two dollars that the bartender pocketed with a sneer. Ron toasted Shelly and took a pull on the beer, and then whispered in her ear.

“That Endo?”

“Beats me. It’s a DJ. I’ve never seen the guy. This is your game from here on out.”

Ron nodded, took another swig of his beer, and led her toward the dance floor, where a dozen tranced-out twentysomething women were undulating in the best stripper tradition, their faces blank pouts, their Victoria’s Secret teddies making it clear they were part of the entertainment. Several men in their forties were dancing with them, stiff as only white men of a certain age tended be when trying to pretend they had game, and Ron found the spectacle more disturbing than the copulating couples in the shadows.

He pushed past a couple of slacker types leaning against the sound booth, looking bored as only New York hipsters at an orgy could, and sidled up next to the man working the twin turntables, his profile so gaunt that he looked like a prisoner of war. The man focused hooded eyes on Ron and tried a stoned grin.

“Endo?” Ron asked.

“What up, my man?”

“You DJ Endo?”

“I win the lottery?”

“Not quite. I need to talk to you. NYPD. Let’s do this the easy way.”

The DJ moved fast, considering how high he appeared to be, and was at the rear emergency exit before Ron could cover half the ground from the booth. The fire alarm sounded as Endo pushed the door open and bolted onto the fire escape, and Ron raced for the door, ignoring the curses and yells of the revelers behind him. Shelly was already on her phone, backing away from the commotion, following several partygoers who had gotten spooked by the excitement and decided to call it an early night to the front entrance.

Ron’s shoulder hit the rear exit door like a linebacker as the siren blared overhead, and then he was out in the night, high above the street on a corroding iron stairway that was bouncing like a ship in rough seas from Endo’s tromping down the steps two at a time. The thin man moved like a thoroughbred, Ron had to concede as he gave chase, cursing as he cut his hand on the railing on the way down.

The DJ tore off down the alley at astonishing speed, and Ron was worrying that he’d get away when a figure stepped into his path from the gloom and swatted him in the abdomen with a baton. Endo doubled over with a woof of escaping air and then went down on his knees as the figure with the club pointed it at his head and growled something Ron couldn’t make out.

When Ron arrived at his side, the DJ was struggling for breath. Ron nodded to the big man, whose club had vanished into the depths of his overcoat, and spoke softly. “Got a spare set of cuffs?”

The man’s face could have been carved from mahogany. He reached into his jacket and extracted a pair of gleaming handcuffs, which he tossed to Ron without a word. Ron pulled the DJ to his feet, frisked him, cuffed him, and then tossed ten pills in tiny plastic bags onto the street.

“You see these? Looks like our young friend here might be dealing,” Ron said.

“They’re for my back pain, man,” Endo said.

“Sure they are. You have the right to remain silent…”

“Oh, man. Come on. I wasn’t doing shit. Just playing my tunes, you know?” He looked down at his stained jeans. “You made me piss my pants. Why’d you have to hit me like that, bro?”

The cop turned away, disgusted, and Ron moved closer and stopped reciting his rights. “Maybe that was out of order. Seeing as I’m feeling generous, maybe you can answer some questions, and all this goes away.”

Ron’s phone rang and he glared at the DJ as he pulled it from his pocket. It was Ben.

“Third body surfaced,” Ben said.

“Where?”

“In the park, by the Conservatory boat pond.”

“The pond? That’s weird. Forensics on its way?”

“Already there.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can. Figure half hour, tops. I’ll call you when I’m en route.”

Ron disconnected and faced the DJ again. The thin man stared at him through unfocused eyes, and Ron shook his head. “He’s too stoned. Take him to the station and write up the dope, but hold booking him until he and I can have a little chat. This might be his lucky night, if he decides to play ball. Otherwise…what’s possession with intent to sell what looks like hillbilly heroin bringing these days?”

“Oh, an easy couple of years if he’s got a jacket. More if he’s got similar priors.”

Ron eyed Endo and nodded. “Something to think about until I get there. Seems like a good time to be cooperative, Mr. Endo. In the meantime, enjoy being a guest of NYPD.”

Shelly was rounding the corner, fury in every step, as Ron walked toward her. “Nice going, Ron,” she spat. “Very subtle. There goes half a year of undercover work, up in smoke.”

“Sorry, Shelly. I’ll make it up to you. You can sweat him once I’m done. I’m sure he can give you a good account of any misbehavior.”

She glared at him as he brushed past her. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“I asked your buddy to read him his rights and take him to the station. I’ll be there later. He’s too wasted right now anyway.”

“You’re just going to take off and leave me with this handful of shit?”

He looked down the alley and then at Shelly. “Another body surfaced, Shelly. Again, I’m sorry about this, but I have to go.”

She watched him disappear around the corner, her mouth open, and then turned to where the DJ stood unsteadily, waiting to be transported to the precinct. The procedure had barely registered on him in his heavily altered state. She called for a squad car and shook her head at the disaster the night had become, the pungent smell of the DJ’s urine adding insult to the injury of a blown investigation, any illegal girls long since gone from the party at the first sign of trouble.

Chapter 21

Ron strode briskly through the park toward the flashing blue and red roof lights of the police cruisers at the southern parking area of the Conservatory pond. When he arrived, there were at least fifteen uniforms loitering around the area. Ben was standing with Amy near the edge of the pond by the boathouse, where the body was being worked on by the forensics technicians. He walked over and nodded a greeting.

“What have we got?” he asked.

“We only got her to the surface a few hours ago. Kid doing some early evening model boating thought he saw something in the water. He got more than he bargained for,” Ben said.

Ron frowned. “Why the pond? What’s the symbolism of her being left in water?”

Amy matched his expression. “Whatever it is, it’s going to make pinpointing an accurate time of death harder. This is a worst-case scenario, obviously, in just about every way.”

“What can you tell eyeballing it?”

“At least twenty-four hours. So last night, maybe longer.”

“We can narrow it down based on her performance schedule,” Ron said, and then looked away. “She was a dancer with the ABC.”

Ben made a face. “Wouldn’t know it to look at her now.”

“Put that on your list of things to do, Ben. Talk to the director of the company and find out if she performed last night, and if not, when she was last seen.” Ron shook his head. “We’ll also need to look at everyone who might have come into contact with her. Stagehands, musicians, dancers, you name it.”

“That’s a lot of people.”

“I know. But it’s got to be done.”

“It’ll take a while.”

“I have no doubt.” Ron took several steps away from Ben, and Amy joined him by the water. “When can you perform an autopsy?” he asked.

“Tomorrow’s Saturday, Ron. Depending on the workload, Monday at the earliest – we’re jammed up right now. But with the body in this condition, don’t expect miracles.”

“This is a rising body count situation, Amy.”

“I’ll do what I can. But I can’t levitate, and there’s only so many hours in a day…”

“I have faith in you.”

“And I know how waterlogged bodies process. No high hopes, that’s all I’m saying.”

Ron nodded and Amy went back to work with her techs. He was lucky she was working the case and hadn’t shunted it off to one of the other pathologists. Even after their aborted relationship, he had a better rapport with her than any of the others, who varied in competence and level of hostility.

Ben approached, notebook in hand. Ron eyed him. “You notify the feds yet?”

“Yup. Put in the call a few minutes ago. Wouldn’t do to piss anyone off, would it?”

“Don’t suppose there are any nearby cameras?”

“A few. I’m going to pull footage from yesterday through today. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

“How visible are they? Would he have spotted them?”

Ben shrugged. “He’s pretty savvy. Probably. I mean, there are plenty of ways to this area of the pond where you could avoid them, too.”

“Carrying a body?”

“Absent the head, feet, and hands, she probably didn’t weigh more than seventy-five pounds. If he used a travel dolly, or even a rolling suitcase, distance wouldn’t be a big deal,” Amy said.

Ben frowned. “I’d think that would stick out.”

Ron looked glum. “Depends. Lot of tourists in New York.”

“But in the middle of the night?”

Amy shook her head. “Assuming that’s when it was. Might have been more like just before dawn.”

“What do you make of this? The first site was at a school. The second, a church. Both obviously symbolic. What do you think it means?” Ron asked.

“Besides that he’s frigging nuts?” Amy said.

“Seriously.”

“I’m being serious, Ron. The guy hacks women up on camera. That’s crazy with a capital C. I think the rest is whatever the voices tell him to do.”

“Right. But what’s the meaning? And how does this one fit?”

Ben glanced at the pond. “Water? Perhaps it’s some sort of ritual baptism? Washing away the evil? Rebirth?”

Ron nodded. “Could be.”

“I wouldn’t stress over it too much. The truth is that we have no idea what all of this actually means to him. Leave that to the FBI chick to figure out.”

Ron’s frown deepened. “The video was almost exactly like the first two. So that’s not going to tell us much.”

“Yeah, well, he’s been careful.”

“Yes,” Ron agreed. “He has. And he wanted us to find her in the pond. So we need to understand why.” Ron looked around the dark area. “Why this, why here?”

Ron waited for the technicians to get done with the preliminary examination of the corpse, and when they had finished the gross inspection, he wished Amy luck before heading back to the precinct, where an angry message from Shelly had informed him that his suspect, DJ Endo, was on ice in a holding area, awaiting his arrival.

The DJ was still largely out of it when Ron arrived, and Ron eyed him with obvious distaste before taking a seat across from where he was cuffed to a metal ring on a steel chair mounted to the floor. The DJ glared at him with bloodshot eyes, making Ron’s skin crawl.

“Why you want to come down on me like this, man?” he asked.

“I need information, and I don’t have time to waste.”

“Info? I ain’t no snitch. Code of the street.”

“That’s great. What does the code say about being caught red-handed with ten hits of oxycodone with obvious intent to sell?”

“I told you. That’s for my back. It’s all messed up. Skateboarding accident.”

“Right. I suppose you have hospital records to convince a jury of that.”

Endo’s eyes flitted sideways. “Long time ago, man.”

“That’s what you’re going to be telling your doctor in a few years when he asks about when you were first gang raped in the prison showers. I’ve seen your jacket. You’re small time, but I can arrange for you to do some seriously hard time if I want.”

“Why? What’s your beef?”

“You run girls.”

“I don’t do nothing illegal, man.”

“Spare me. One of your ladies was killed by the Rose Killer. I think you know all about it.”

“What? Who? When?”

“Dusty, real name Cindy Kerrick. Six days ago.”

Endo’s denial was too fast. “Don’t know any Dusty.”

Ron sighed. “See, that’s why I get tired of this job sometimes. It’s late, and a piece of human garbage like you is keeping me at work, wasting my time, when I’m trying to do you a favor and keep you out of Rikers.” He pushed back from the table. “Suit yourself, tough guy. I’ll be back later, nice and rested, while you go into the overnight holding cell with a bunch of fellas who will enjoy making your piss-soaked acquaintance. Enjoy that. And think long and hard about how much man love you want in the meantime, because with the court system the way it is, you could be in for months before your case even comes up for trial – not that you have any chance of pleading out or winning once I get done talking to the DA. No, you’re the guy who doesn’t know nuthin’ – who could even be an accessory to the murder of one of his girls. Hey, see what I did there? You just moved up from drug charges to homicide! Congratulations, Juan. You got a whole world of hurt coming at you like a freight train, and you’re too stupid to get out of the way. Fine by me.”

Ron left the man cuffed to the chair, and told the desk sergeant to stick him in the drunk tank until he returned. Ron wanted to get back to the pond and take another hard look at the scene and then stop by his apartment to get cleaned up before coming back and putting the screws to the DJ in the morning. There was no reason not to snatch a few hours of sleep, which he badly needed if he was going to be effective. DJ Endo could sit in his own urine with a cellful of reprobates and consider his lot in life. Ron hoped that with a hangover and no prospects come daylight, he might see the wisdom of coming clean.

Because if he didn’t, they were back to square one. And their killer was still at large, planning his next abomination.

Chapter 22

Morning sun warmed the terrace off the breakfast nook of the brownstone as Jeremy and Elizabeth sat enjoying their morning coffee, he reading the financial pages of the Wall Street Journal, she the New York Sun. A daily ritual for bonding, Jeremy and Elizabeth sipped their rich brew with satisfaction, Chopin playing in the background. The tykes were still asleep upstairs, there being no school on the weekend.

“Oh, isn’t that a shame,” Elizabeth said.

Jeremy looked over his paper with a quizzical expression. “What?”

“They’re talking about raising subway fares again. Mrs. Savan will be furious, and we’ll have to give her a raise.” Mrs. Savan was their housekeeper, charged with attending to the children and keeping the home spick and span.

“Let’s wait until she asks for one. Sends the wrong message if we offer,” Jeremy observed.

“Probably right. Give them an inch, and they’ll take your whole arm.”

They laughed easily together, and Jeremy went back to his reading as Elizabeth skimmed her sensationalistic news. She paused as she read from back to front, as was her custom, and took a small bite of the croissant she’d bought fresh that morning from a nearby French bakery.

“I was thinking, honey,” Elizabeth said. “Should we be looking at a Cape Cod beach cottage before the prices get too silly? I was talking with Zoe yesterday, and she feels that there’s going to be another leg up soon.”

Jeremy shrugged. “I don’t know. The market feels kind of toppy to me. I’d rather be late than wrong on that one.”

“Well, they aren’t making more oceanfront.”

“True. Too bad the Hamptons have gotten so expensive. It’s ridiculous.”

“You said that five years ago, too,” she chided.

“I was right then, and right now. As soon as the Chinese and Arab money stops pouring in, there’s going to be a come-to-Jesus, you watch.”

“I’m sure there will be,” Elizabeth said, preferring not to argue with Jeremy about financial matters. He was always so serious about his money, which she supposed went with the territory, given his job.

“What do you have planned for today?”

“Oh, don’t you remember? There’s a meeting for the opera guild fundraiser committee: lunch at the Tavern on the Green. I have Mrs. Savan coming at eleven to babysit.”

“I’m sorry. I completely forgot.”

“What are you going to do, with me out of your hair?”

“I’m afraid I have to go into the office. We’ve got some rather delicate negotiations scheduled for next week, and I want to make sure everything’s perfect. These are really big clients. Sovereign wealth funds.”

Elizabeth didn’t follow all the technical jargon he used, but she understood the rough meaning – if he landed the clients, there would be another big payday come bonus time. “That’s wonderful. I’m sure you’ll do well. After all, there’s nobody smarter.”

They resumed their reading. When Elizabeth got to the front page, she drew a sharp intake of disapproving breath.

“Oh, that’s horrible. How can people behave in such a ghastly manner?”

“What is it?” Jeremy asked.

“A ballerina was killed by that Rose fellow. Imagine that. As if the poor things don’t have it hard enough.”

Jeremy looked over his paper at her, his expression neutral. “Really? When?”

“It says the video hit yesterday.”

“This town’s getting more dangerous by the day. What company was she with?”

“American Ballet Company. Oh – that reminds me! I signed up to be one of the volunteers for their ‘Nutcracker’ drive. Damn. I hope this doesn’t affect ticket sales. That’s all we need.”

“Anyone you know?”

“No. I don’t recognize the name. Dakota something. Must be new.”

Jeremy’s right eye twitched almost imperceptibly, and he lowered his head again. “Well, I hope everything will be fine. I know how hard you work on these philanthropic events. It would be a lot easier to just donate money.”

“I know, but it gives me something to do. After all, there are only so many yoga and Pilates classes you can do before you throw up your hands.”

“That’s my girl,” Jeremy said, engrossed behind his pages. Moments later he finished and stood. “Kiss the little ones for me. I want to hit the ground running today.”

“The firm doesn’t realize how lucky they are to have you, going in on a Saturday like this.”

“Yes, well, half the floor will be there as well. That’s just life in the big leagues.”

“Have a good day, sweetheart. Remember we have dinner at Nobu at seven thirty with the Lancasters.”

“Oh, damn, I completely forgot. I don’t suppose I could step in front of a bus to get out of it, could I?”

“Not this time. You canceled the last one.”

Bob’s voice called from the living room. “Keep it down, would you? I’m trying to sleep.”

Jeremy bristled, but a warning glance from Elizabeth was enough to stop him from escalating the exchange. As he made for the hallway, though, he whispered to her, “I want him out of here, Elizabeth. Next week. Promise me.”

“Let’s discuss it later, dear.”

Jeremy’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t respond, choosing to stalk to the front door, which slammed as he left. Elizabeth looked up at the loud bang and shook her head.

Jeremy could be so moody sometimes.

Chapter 23

Ron nodded to the uniformed officer standing outside the holding cell, who had brought DJ Endo from the drunk tank after what the desk sergeant described as a “very rough night.” Ron had requested that he be put in with the scariest miscreants the precinct had to offer, and the sergeant had obliged, always happy to do homicide a solid.

“How’s he doing?” Ron asked.

“Smells like the floor of a truck-stop urinal. Looks a little worse than one.”

“Good,” Ron said, sipping from his cup of fast-food drip. “Open up.”

“Yes, sir.”

DJ Endo looked up at the sound of the door opening and threw Ron an ugly glare as he strode in and sat across from him. Ron savored another taste of his coffee and returned the dark look, and then checked his watch, underscoring that this was to be a short meeting indeed.

“Okay, DJ Shitbird, you think it over? You going to cooperate, or do we rake you over the coals?” Ron asked in a reasonable tone.

“I been thinking. None a this will hold up.”

Ron chuckled and shook his head. “Has it occurred to you that I haven’t asked you anything about the bust? Fleeing from a cop, possession of ten hits of oxy, none of it? Want to know why?”

Endo looked confused, so Ron continued.

“Because we have you dead to rights. Your prints all over the dope. Two witnesses to it being in your possession. To you running and trying to evade arrest. I don’t need to ask you anything about that to put you away for good. But listen up. At the point I book you for dealing, you won’t be asked anything by anyone. My deal offer will be off the table. You’ll be going up the river for the drug charge, and if I have my way, on accessory to homicide – and even if you got down on your hands and knees and begged me to listen to what you had to say, I wouldn’t.” Ron paused. “Get this through your thick skull: we have you cold on the dope. You’re going to do the full weight of the charge, and Rikers will make what you went through last night look like a trip to Cancun.”

Endo sulked as he absorbed Ron’s words. “What you want to know?”

“Dusty. You were pimping for her. I want to know what she was into. When you last saw her. Who she was working for – who the john was.”

“And I tell you that, you let me off?”

“If it checks out. Bullshit me, and I’ll bury you.”

“When you say Dusty got killed?”

“Last Friday night.”

“Awright. She was working a party along with some other girls. Out in Connecticut. Big swinging dick’s place.”

“A party, huh? You set it up?”

“I gave the ladies a ride. Tha’s all.”

“So you dropped them off, or you hung around and played some jams?”

“Dropped ’em off. That kind of place, they don’t let people like me in. ’Specially not for one of those gigs.”

“What kind of gig was it?”

“Serious S&M shit. Makes the party you busted me at look like kindergarten. You name it, they was into it, you know?”

“And Dusty worked those?”

“Girl was loco, do anything for a buck. High as a kite most of the time, but she’d put on a show if the money right.”

“How much did she get paid?”

“Ten grand.”

Ron’s eyes registered shock. “For how many hours?”

Endo shrugged. “Three.”

“I’m in the wrong line of work.”

“Yeah, well, you probably wouldn’t be into what she was.”

“Who was the client?”

“I tell you the name, we done, right?”

“You tell me the name, and it’s not a lie, we’re done. Who is he? Time’s wasting.”

“Dude named Charles Stibling. Used to run money on the street. Old dude, but seriously twisted.”

Ron wrote the name down, along with the address Endo gave him. “That was the last time you saw her?”

“Yeah. After that, I drove to the airport. Had a gig in Vegas for two nights. That’s why I ain’t been around.”

“What airline and flight?”

DJ Endo gave him the information. “Stayed at the Palms. You can check.”

“I intend to. What time did you drop Dusty off?”

“Around nine.”

“Who were the other girls?”

“I only know their street names. Chloe and Sabrina.”

“They work for you exclusively?”

“I ain’t no pimp. I just help the ladies out, you know?”

“Right. You help them out a lot?”

“Only for this kind a thing. They too unreliable. Wasted all the time.”

Ron noted the names in his notebook. “Where can I find them?”

“Might have their numbers. Ain’t got my phone.”

“That’s convenient.”

“I can check when I get home.”

Ron stood. “Anything else you can tell me?”

“Nuh-uh. That’s it, man.”

“I need you to testify that you dropped her off at this Charles Stibling’s house, that’s part of the deal.”

Endo shook his head vigorously. “Man got a reputation as a badass. Wouldn’t want him after me, you know?”

“Rikers has a reputation, too. Which do you think would be worse? Assuming you believed he couldn’t get to you behind bars – double whammy.”

“Why you bagging on me like this? I tol’ you all I know.”

“Because that’s the nature of the beast, Juan. You’re a scumbag dope fiend and a pimp. I’m a cop. I eat dirt like you for breakfast, just for practice.”

“Ain’t right.”

“Life isn’t fair.”

Ron moved to the door and rapped twice. When it opened, he nodded to the uniform. “Keep him in here. Get him some breakfast. I’ll be back shortly.”

Ron checked his messages on his cell as he made his way to the elevator, and saw one from the captain that was the essence of brevity: My office when you get in. Ron sighed. The captain knew he’d be working seven days a week on the case, so he’d be on call – there was no way to dodge the meeting. He phoned in Stibling’s name and address to Ben, who was already at his desk, and asked him to pull all information while Ron was occupied.

Once in the elevator, Ron punched the button for the top floor and waited as the contrivance whisked him to the administrative offices, where the captain was sitting behind his desk, wearing a white polo shirt and golf slacks.

“Come on in. Mayor wants me to call so we can update him. Then, the FBI,” Larraby said by way of welcome.

“I’ve got a hot lead I’d rather not sit on.”

“This will only take a few minutes. It’s not optional, Ron. Sorry.” Larraby looked at him hard. “What’s your hot lead?”

“I’ve got a witness who can put the second victim at a sex party the night of the murder. The lead’s the name of the guy who threw it.”

The captain’s eyebrows rose. “Really? That’s great news.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. He sounds pretty connected.”

“Nobody’s too connected on a case like this.”

“I hope not.”

The speakerphone warbled, and the mayor’s voice came over the line. Larraby gave him a quick preamble and then Ron offered a brief summary of what he’d learned. When the mayor heard Stibling’s name, he took the call off speaker on his end and the background noise faded.

“Charles Stibling?” the mayor repeated. “That’s absurd. The man’s an icon, Stanford. Above reproach.”

“I have him cold as hiring the second victim for his party.”

“There must be some mistake. He’s…he’s got to be seventy if he’s a day.”

Ron and Larraby exchanged a glance. “Sounds like you know him,” Ron said.

“Of course I do. I was at a benefit last night, and he was there. You’re treading on very dangerous ground, Stanford. He’s got more juice than the President.”

“A young woman was systematically dismembered and decapitated the night she worked his orgy, Mayor. He’s our only lead, and I have to pursue that. I’m sure you understand.”

The mayor’s voice softened to a whisper. “Be extremely careful, Stanford, or it’ll be your ass.”

“That sounds like a threat, Mr. Mayor.”

“It isn’t. It’s a prediction.”

The call ended and Ron made for the door. “Sounds like it’s going to be a race to get to this character before a little bird gives him a warning call and he’s lawyered up,” Ron said.

“I don’t think the mayor would do that.”

Ron grimaced. “He’s a politician. Guys like Stibling buy them by the dozen. Of course he’ll call him. Question is how long it takes him to decide to.”

Larraby looked even unhappier than usual. “Do what you have to do, Ron.”

“I intend to.”

Chapter 24

Ben drove Ron uptown to Charles Stibling’s Park Avenue apartment, where they’d decided they had the best shot at finding him, given that he’d been in the city late the prior evening at the function with the mayor. Ben had done a quick rundown on Stibling’s properties and had come up with the home in Connecticut and the apartment from the tax records.

A doorman in an impeccable double-breasted gray wool uniform frowned at them when Ben parked the unmarked cruiser in the loading zone in front of the building and they exited the sedan.

“Can’t park there,” the doorman said stiffly.

Ron flipped out his badge. “Yes, we can. We’re looking for one of the residents. Charles Stibling. Is he here?”

The doorman’s expression didn’t change. “I couldn’t say.”

“I asked you a direct question.”

“I’m not hard of hearing. But I came on duty this morning. I have no idea which tenants are in their apartments and which aren’t.”

“What number is his? We’ll go take a look.”

“I’m afraid I can’t allow that. I can call for you and see whether he’s in.”

Ron glanced at Ben, who took two steps toward the annoying man. “Listen, buddy. We’re cops, and we asked you a direct question in the course of a homicide investigation. You’re a doorman. You don’t tell us where we can and can’t go, do you understand? Now what floor and apartment is Stibling’s?”

The doorman blanched. “I have to check with my boss.”

“No, you don’t. Floor and number. Now.”

The man looked away. “Mr. Stibling’s in seven C.”

Ron nodded. “See? That wasn’t so hard. But what will be is if you call and warn him that we’re on our way up. Then it could get very, very ugly for you. Follow?”

“Threats are unnecessary.”

“Then stay off the phone until we get back.”

They brushed past the doorman and approached the golden doors of an art deco elevator. When Ben depressed the button, an old-fashioned dial ticked down from the fourth floor. The doors slid open, revealing a marble-floored interior with a mini crystal chandelier.

“Must be nice to be one of the one percent,” Ron said as they rode the elevator up.

“Point oh one percent, I bet. This thing’s worth more than my condo.”

They stepped out of the elevator into a wood-paneled hall that was wide enough to drive a truck through, and made for one of three apartments on that level. Ron’s knock echoed in the corridor and they waited, ears straining for any hint of movement inside the apartment.

A woman’s voice called from behind the oversized door a few moments later. “Yes?”

“Police. Is Charles Stibling there?”

No answer. Ron knocked again, this time louder.

“Mr. Stibling isn’t seeing visitors,” the voice called after a long pause.

“We’re not visitors. We’re the police, and seeing us isn’t optional. Open the door.”

“I…”

“Lady, open the door right now.” Ron was exceeding his authority, with no warrant, but he was getting sick of being treated like a deliveryman by the hired help.

Thirty seconds went by and a male voice spoke through the door. “Let’s see your badges, gentlemen.”

Ron held his up so that it could be seen through the peephole, and then Ben did the same. Two deadbolts snapped unlocked and the door eased open. A tall man with the predatory gaze of a hawk stared at them with steel gray eyes, his blue silk smoking jacket something out of a Bogart film. “What is the meaning of this?” he snapped.

“The meaning of this is we need to ask you some questions, and we can either do it here or at the station,” Ron growled. “Are you Mr. Stibling?”

“That’s right. And you are?”

“Detective Ron Stanford. Homicide.”

“Homicide?” Stibling repeated. He blinked once – his only visible reaction.

“That’s correct. Do you want to do this here in the hallway, where your neighbors can hear it, or inside? Your choice.”

Stibling stepped aside so Ron and Ben could enter. He closed the door behind them and led them through a palatial living room to an office that was easily the size of Ron’s entire apartment. Stibling took a seat behind an antique desk and motioned for them to sit.

“Why is homicide disturbing me at home?”

“Investigating a murder,” Ron countered. “You had a party at your Connecticut home Friday a week ago.”

Stibling refused to be rattled. “Really? That’s out of your jurisdiction, isn’t it?”

“Answer the question.”

“Is there a law against having parties?”

“One of your paid entertainers turned up dead. Hacked to pieces. Time of death was that night.”

“One of my…now see here, young man–”

Ron cut him off. “Mr. Stibling, you seem to be under the misapprehension that you call the shots. You do not. You hired a young woman for your party – one of several – and she was killed while at your home, or shortly thereafter.”

Stibling swallowed hard. “I think it’s time to bid you good day and consult with my attorney.”

“Sure, if you like. You might want to mention to him that I have an eyewitness who puts you with her that night at your home, who will swear to it in court. And I can’t guarantee that any of the reporters snooping around the case don’t break your involvement in the matter. I mean, I’m sure you don’t care if all the lurid details of your sex parties wind up as front-page fodder, nor your part in the most horrifying serial killings in recent memory.” Ron made to stand.

“What are you talking about?”

“The woman in question was the second victim of the Rose Killer. You knew her as Dusty, assuming you asked her name at all.”

“Doesn’t ring any bells.” Stibling considered Ron like he was a specimen on a lab slide. “Detective…”

“Stanford.”

“Detective Stanford, I have many entertainers at my little soirees, which are private, and none of your, or the public’s, business. I can assure you I would sue you and the department if any hint of impropriety was leaked in an effort to pressure me.”

“That’s good to know. And I can assure you that the last place the woman who was chopped to pieces on tape was seen was in your house, the night she died. That’s fact. So are the eyewitness accounts of what went on. If you want to play hardball, that’s fine. Lawyer up, we’ll do this the hard way, and you can answer the press’s questions about your personal life while in the public eye. Or you can cooperate and help us out, in which case there’s no need for any escalation. You’re a smart man. Which would you prefer?”

Stibling’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not accustomed to people threatening me in my own home.”

“I’m not accustomed to being stonewalled by a possible material witness.”

The two men stared at each other like combatants in a ring, and then Stibling nodded. “We seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot, Detective. Let’s start over, shall we? You say this young lady was slain the night of the party. It was over at midnight and the guests and entertainers gone. Can you be more specific about when she was killed? I suspect if it was before that, you’d have a warrant rather than empty threats.”

“Time of death was after that. Where were you from midnight to the following morning?”

“Why, Detective Stanford, where anyone of my age would be. Asleep in bed.”

“Any witnesses?”

“You have a very high opinion of my stamina, which, alas, isn’t accurate.” Stibling smiled. “I had some housekeeping staff cleaning up downstairs for an hour or so. I’m sure one of them can vouch for my whereabouts. As could my security force.”

“What about Dusty?”

“Can you describe her?”

“Twenty-six. Full-sleeve tattoos. Dyed black hair. A looker.”

“Ah, well, the tattoos are the distinctive element. I recall the young lady.”

“When did she leave?”

“That’s a bit vaguer, I’m afraid. Last I saw her she was with three men.”

“Three men?” Ron asked, leaning forward. “What were they doing, and who are they?”

“They might have been doing drugs. Not that I condone that sort of thing at my events, but it’s hard to stop adults from indulging…”

“We’re not vice cops, Mr. Stibling. Who were these men?”

“One of them was the performance artist. Rather well known in certain avant-garde circles. Hitoshi Sato. A bit worse for wear after his act. I got the impression that he was just leaving – as I said, he might have been killing the pain from his performance.”

Ben jotted down the name. “Why would he be in pain?”

“He specializes in unusual performance art. Sometimes he hurts himself.”

“Who else?”

“Gunter Ausberg. He’s a fixture of the New York contemporary art scene. Owns a gallery down by the Bowery. He organizes events as a sideline.”

“And the third?”

“I don’t know his name. A greasy Latin type. Pedro, Paulo, something like that. I heard him mentioned in passing.”

“What does he do?” Ben asked.

“I get the impression he was in charge of talent acquisition for Gunter.”

“Describe exactly what you saw, Mr. Stibling.”

“The three of them were in the foyer, with this young lady. I remember because of the hair and tattoos. They might have been snorting lines. I’m afraid it’s a bit fuzzy – too much good Scotch that night.”

“That’s it?” Ron demanded.

“I’m afraid so. As I said, I was tired and going up to my room, making a last pass. Everyone else had left other than the cleaning crew.”

“You have a crew that works at midnight?” Ron asked skeptically.

“Detective, I don’t believe in procrastination. I want to wake up to my home spick and span. I can give you the name of my Connecticut housekeeper if you wish to question her. As I said, I’m sure she noted that I went upstairs.”

“Your story is that Dusty left with the men?”

“Detective Stanford, I have no story. You asked me when I last saw her. My answer is that the last time I saw her she was with them. Whether she was waiting for a lift or was going to catch a ride with one or all of them, I don’t know. I wasn’t mingling, if you get my drift.”

Half an hour later, Ron and Ben were back in the elevator, descending to the ground level.

“Bastard’s way too slick,” Ben said.

“That’s how the mega-rich are.”

“I wouldn’t know. What do you think?”

“I’m sure if we talk to his housekeeper, she’ll back his story. But whether he snuck out later, we’ll never know.”

“Does he strike you as a serial?” Ben asked. “I don’t have as much experience as you with that animal.”

“He’s too old, I’d think, but you never know. I’d have thought he was too old for the sex parties, too.”

“What with Viagra these days…”

The door opened and they stepped from the elevator. The doorman glowered at them resentfully from his stool by the front entrance. They ignored him and walked to the car. Ron slid into the passenger seat and eyed his watch.

“Call in Sato and Ausberg and let’s see what we can find out,” Ron said, and then his phone rang. Amy’s voice greeted him when he answered.

“We have a hair,” she said.

“What? Where?”

“From the debris on the second victim. Took forever to sift through it all. We missed it the first time. It’s a tiny piece, really no more than a fragment, but it’s a hair and includes the follicle – likely pubic based on the texture. I already submitted it to the DNA database to see if we get a hit.”

“That’s great. What are the odds it’s not from the site?”

“Even money, given how dirty the place was. If it matches to a church construction worker, there’s your answer.”

“How long till we know?”

“Twenty-four to forty-eight hours. More likely forty-eight.”

“Can you speed it up?”

“On a weekend, when there are only skeleton crews working? Not likely.”

“Pull someone in. I’ll get whatever clearance you need.”

“You really want this bad, don’t you?”

“You read me like a book,” Ron said.

“Let me see what strings I can pull.”

“Do your best, Amy. Good catch.”

“Let’s wait to see what the report says before we break out the bubbly.”

Chapter 25

When Ron and Ben got back to the precinct, the homicide floor was eerily quiet, with only a few detectives working the weekend beat. Ben made a beeline for his computer, anxious to see what he could learn about the men Stibling had implicated in the second victim’s death. Ron went to the bathroom and then poured a couple of cups of coffee, his energy flagging from too little sleep and the adrenaline roller coaster of the last hours.

“Anything?” Ron asked as he placed one of the cups beside Ben’s monitor.

“It’s still searching. I’m doing an international search, too, since they’re both foreigners.”

“Why, Ben, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were racially profiling,” Ron joked.

“Yes, white males from Germanic countries have had it rough here, haven’t they?”

“Damn straight.”

The screen blinked, and a menu appeared. Ben tapped the keys and then read with rapt attention before sitting back and whistling.

“What?” Ron asked.

“Our boy Hitoshi Sato’s one seriously sick puppy. Look at this crap. Articles on his shows. Reads like a horror movie.” Ben read a choice few aloud, and when he was done, they stared at each other in puzzlement.

“Who the hell would pay to see that kind of shit?” Ron asked.

“Beats me. But he’s apparently kind of famous for being the most extreme of the extreme. He did an exhibition in Munich that wound up getting banned. Self-mutilation, sadism…I mean, what the hell… he had addicts sharing dirty needles in the gallery as a statement of the drug culture being planned genocide of the chemically dependent by the establishment. The public health department shut it down and brought charges, which were later dropped.” Ben shook his head. “And that’s just one of them. The list of hits goes on.”

“Which fits with the whole craziness of sadism as performance art.”

“Right. This sure sounds like the kind of guy who could make the leap from crazy-for-pay to making a statement by chopping up women, doesn’t it?” Another screen popped open, and Ben scrolled through a report before fixing Ron with a hard stare. “This is from Interpol. Sato was a suspect in a Japanese ring that was accused of producing snuff films. It never went to trial – apparently his partners were yakuza and too powerful to prosecute.”

“Snuff films? All of that’s supposed to be urban legend. All my years on the job, I’ve never seen a genuine one,” Ron said. “Except for our boy.”

“Apparently not. There’s a market for it in Japan among the super-rich. Says here that he was suspected of working with Japanese criminal syndicates to produce videos, but that he claimed they were just special effects and acting, designed for a particular brand of fetishist. No bodies were ever found, and without a corpus delicti, they couldn’t go forward.”

“Hard case to prove if nobody’s dead.”

“Here’s some notes from the lead investigator. Says he suspected underage girls from Vietnam, Cambodia, and North Korea were smuggled into Japan, trafficked as prostitutes, and when their useful lives were over, were killed on camera during a sex act – but nobody ever came forward to identify any of the actresses, so it remained an unproved theory. Sato left Japan shortly thereafter and came to the States.”

“Great. Because there’s not enough extreme craziness to go around here.” Ron paused. “When did he arrive?”

“Three years ago.”

“Has he been in New York the entire time?”

“Beats me. No known address for him.”

“Check the hotel records. Could be he’s staying in flophouses. But we know he was just here. Maybe we’ll get a hit.”

Ben typed in a series of commands and pressed enter, then minimized the screen and switched to another menu. He entered Gunter’s name and took a sip of coffee as he waited.

More information popped up, and he skimmed it quickly.

“Nothing on Gunter. Emigrated from Denmark a decade and a half ago. Green card in good standing. No warrants, not even a traffic ticket.”

“But according to Stibling, he’s the organizer of the pervert circus. How could there be nothing against him?”

“Could be Stibling’s lying, trying to get us to chase red herrings. Or could be Gunter baby is really clever and super-careful. Tomato, tomahto.”

“What’s his background?”

“University degree from Copenhagen in fine arts. Owned an art brokerage house there until he moved to New York. Not much to go on.” Ben tapped the screen. “Here’s his immigration photo.”

Ron rolled his chair closer for a look. “Creepy looking, isn’t he?”

“Wait until you get a gander at Sato. He looks like a carnival geek.”

“Show me.”

“Let me print this. It’s Gunter’s current home and gallery addresses.” Ben hit a key and the printer thrummed, and then he moved to an earlier screen and pulled up a black-and-white photo of an Asian man with spiky, unkempt hair, a nose that had been broken numerous times, and scar tissue around his eyes and cheekbones, like a losing boxer at the end of a bad career.

“You’re right. Guy’s a freak,” Ron agreed.

“You’d have to be, to do the kinds of things he does for a living. Seriously. Makes me think the world would be better off with dolphins running things.”

“That’s not a hard sell. Where do I vote for the dolphins?”

Ben laughed. “I have to admit, he kind of fits with the FBI profiler’s take. Loner, views things as symbolic, delusions of grandeur, into big gestures…”

“And inured to pain and suffering. Has to be a frigging sociopath.”

Ben nodded. Another window popped up on his screen, and he whistled again. “We got a hit.”

“Yeah? Where is he?”

“Dive down near the alphabet streets. Boarding house masquerading as a hotel.”

“How long has he been there?”

“This shows ten days.”

Ron pushed to his feet. “We can be there in fifteen minutes.”

“I’ll drive.”

“I’ll call in backup. This could be our boy.”

“10-4.”

Chapter 26

Ron’s phone rang as Ben brought the car around from the lot. It was Tess.

“Hey. How are you doing?” he asked.

“Better. I slept like a log. And I’ve got a headache.”

“I know that feeling.”

“I got a call from Dakota’s mom, but I was still asleep. I haven’t called her back yet.”

“They broke the news this morning, Tess.”

“I figured. I’ll call her later, once I’m human again.” She paused. “Any progress?”

Ron inhaled slowly. “It will be late today or tomorrow before we have the results of the lab work. We won’t really know anything until then.”

“Have you started interviewing her friends yet?”

“No. Like I said, we want to have all the forensics in place before we start asking questions, so we know exactly what to ask. Otherwise we run the risk of tainting the testimony. People will answer a question differently if they’ve had time to think about it, so we try to avoid that.” It was his turn to hesitate. “Was Dakota involved in the performance-art scene?”

“What? No. She was strictly ballet.”

“Was it something she was interested in, do you know?”

“What, like people who pour milk on themselves or scream at people or whatever in a gallery? Why? Do you know any eighteen-year-olds who are into that?”

“Not personally,” he admitted. “It was just a question.”

“Does this have to do with the sex parties? I already told you that’s a blind alley.”

“I know. I’m just following a different lead, is all.”

“On one of the other victims,” Tess snapped, her voice suddenly cold.

“We find the killer, it doesn’t really matter how, does it?”

There was a long silence. “It does to me.” Another pause. “I’ve got to go, Ron.”

“I’ll call later when I have a chance.”

The line went dead, and Ron shook his head as he dialed another number. The desk sergeant of the Lower East Side precinct answered. Ron identified himself and requested a pair of plainclothes detectives to check on Gunter’s shop and apartment. If they found him, they were to bring him in for questioning after calling Ron.

The drive to the alphabet streets took twelve minutes. When they arrived at the address, the hotel turned out to be little more than an ancient tenement that would have been condemned decades earlier if the owner hadn’t had some political sway. A cluster of filthy rooms, many with a shared bathroom at the end of a hall, the dive was a notorious shooting gallery, a distribution point for street dealers, and a last resort for the indigent and the desperate only a slim step above living on the street.

Ron and Ben waited in their car for backup to arrive. The neighborhood was on the edge of a section of town that was a no-man’s land between the recently renovated and abject squalor, where even the police hesitated to go after dark and the residents kept to themselves, crimes avenged with the blade of a knife or a bullet rather than a call to 911 and vain hopes for justice from a system that viewed the poor as expendable.

Ron had spent enough time on the street to know that most unfortunates perceived the police as storm troopers and the courts as subjugation tools of an apparatus bent on grinding them to dust. One of his retired friends had commented at his farewell party, after enough Irish whiskey had gone down the hatch to kill a platoon, that if you wanted to understand whether a system was just, you didn’t ask those in a position of privilege, you asked the underdogs and the downtrodden. Ron had long ago dispensed with the idea that he was doing the Lord’s work, but rather saw himself as a societal survival mechanism that dealt with the worst of the worst – those who had, somewhere along the way, slipped a gear and become the stuff of nightmares.

He’d put away enough serial killers to know that evil was very real and existed as something more than the moral abstraction most believed it to be. He’d stared madness in the eyes countless times, and with each instance understood that Nietzsche’s declaration that when you peered into the abyss it looked back into you was accurate. It took all his courage every day to face himself in the mirror and not quit the job, his soul having been stained by every exposure to degrees of evil most could never grasp.

Ron had seen the mundanity of sociopathology, the complete absence of remorse of killers who could butcher a family and then have a hearty breakfast without a second thought; he’d listened to dispassionate accounts of murder, torture, and depravity relayed with no more concern than discussions of the weather. It would have been far more comforting to him if the offenders looked especially noteworthy or different, but the truth was that most monsters looked exactly like their benign brethren, their material distinction only that they had no problem killing to achieve their ends.

Ben’s radio crackled on the seat beside him, and the backup checked in. Ben murmured into the radio, his eyes roving the street, and instructed them to take the alley in back, in case their quarry tried to bolt. When the backup confirmed they were in position, Ron and Ben stepped from the car and moved to the hotel entrance, past a pair of vagrants dozing on the sidewalk, filthy newspapers covering their bodies.

“Nice,” Ben whispered as they neared the steps.

“Our man’s got good taste,” Ron agreed.

A skittish clerk whose discolored bags beneath his red eyes lent him the appearance of a bulldog regarded them from behind bulletproof glass. Ron showed him his badge.

“Hitoshi Sato,” Ron said.

The clerk nodded and checked his register. “Three D.”

Ron nodded and pointed to the stairs. Ben’s nose crinkled at the ammonia smell of dried urine and industrial cleanser as they made their way to the dark stairwell. Ron gestured to a rear exit sign glowing at the end of the hall. “Take the back stairs.”

Ben moved to the door and pushed it open, and scowled at Ron. “I think something died in here.”

“Hopefully not recently,” Ron answered, and then ascended the steps, head angled upward.

At the third floor he paused, listening. A woman’s voice echoed down the hall, chiding someone for being a no-good bum and a lousy baby daddy. Ron’s eyes adjusted to the gloom as he made his way to the end of the hallway, where the door to 3D stood ajar.

Ron cursed and glanced at the open window beside him, and then toed the door open, his weapon drawn. “Hitoshi Sato? Police,” he called into the room.

No answer.

Ron peered into the dark space and noted that there was no bathroom and only a small window at the far end – too narrow for anyone to escape through.

He spun, moved to the window at the end of the hall, and hoisted it open, only to see a figure disappearing onto the roof from the fire escape. Ron pulled his radio from his pocket and called in his pursuit to the backup officers. He didn’t wait for a response, instead forcing himself up the rusting metal ladder, ignoring the vertigo that threatened to overwhelm him.

Ron poked his head over the roof lip and saw a man loping toward the adjacent building. He took aim, but the man was too fast and had jumped to the next roof, out of range, before Ron could yell a warning. Ron hauled himself onto the flat concrete and got to his feet, gun in hand, and sprinted toward the spot where the man had vanished over the side.

The next roof was cluttered with debris, and Ron saw his quarry picking his way through it, some of the piles stretching from one end of the roof to the other. Ron gripped his weapon in a two-handed combat grip and called out.

“Hitoshi Sato. Freeze. Police.”

The man glanced over his shoulder as though calculating the distance between them and, when he spotted the gun, stopped and slowly raised his hands. Ron nodded and took careful steps toward him, eyes locked on his face, and when he was ten feet away, extracted his radio from his jacket pocket and called to Ben.

Sato’s face was expressionless, his eyes the flat black of a shark’s. His bare arms extruding from the sleeves of his olive camouflage pattern T-shirt were covered with scabs, scars, and tattoos. Ron could see wiry bulges of muscle beneath the taut skin and the jaundiced whites of eyes that spoke of hepatic disease. Yet the performance artist was barely breathing hard, whereas Ron’s chest rose and fell from the exertion of the chase. He kept his pistol leveled at Sato’s torso as Ben approached from behind him.

“Cuff him,” Ron said. He nodded to Sato. “Try anything, and you’ll regret it.”

“Why are you arresting me?” Sato demanded in a tight voice, only lightly accented.

“Besides resisting arrest and evading police, you mean?”

Sato spat to the side and returned Ron’s glare. “How could I know you were police?”

“Who else would we be?”

“In this neighborhood? Just about anybody but the cops.”

The cuffs snapped closed and Ben did a careful search of Sato’s pockets. He retrieved a wad of hundred-dollar bills, a lighter, and a room key. Ben looked to Ron as he held up the finds.

“Looks like our boy here is flush.”

“Is it against the law to carry cash now?” Sato asked, his voice reasonable.

“Depends,” Ben countered.

“On what?” the Japanese asked.

“On what we find in your room.”

“I’ve done nothing wrong.”

Ben grinned at Ron. “Hear that? We’ve got yet another innocent man. Amazing how that’s all we ever seem to arrest, isn’t it?”

Ron nodded, his face somber. “The city’s full of innocent men. Come on. Let’s get him out of here and put a forensics team on his room.”

Chapter 27

Gunter awoke with a start, his head spinning, and groaned at the light from the window. He glanced at the digital clock on the end table next to him and rolled off the bed, every nerve in his body radiating pain. He stared at the nude man still snoring beside him and remembered where he was – he’d met his date at one of the clubs last night and, after Olympian quantities of tequila and coke, had accompanied him home.

Gunter shook his head in an attempt to clear it and winced. His pulse was thudding in his temples, and his throat felt like he’d swallowed molten tar. He looked down at his naked form and moved to the bathroom, where he found a dusting of cocaine on a hand mirror that he was able to scrape into a tiny line and snort.

The rush was barely sufficient to raise his pulse, but it was a start. He showered quickly and, after toweling off, found his clothes and slipped into them before making his way to the small living room.

Three shots of tequila in a glass of orange juice cleared some of the haze of a blinding headache. He blew his nose into a paper towel and frowned when he was rewarded with a palmful of blood.

Five minutes later, after applying pressure and breathing through his mouth, the bleeding had stopped. He considered leaving a note for his new friend, but decided against it – the sex had been rough and wild, but nothing to write home about, and Gunter knew he could do better. The young man had potential, he thought, but better developed elsewhere. Gunter was not a patient instructor.

Out on the sidewalk, he switched on his cell phone and checked his messages. There were two from potential clients asking to make appointments. He was in no shape to return calls, much less walk home, so he slipped the phone back into his pocket and hoofed it to the intersection to flag down a cab.

The ride was mercifully short, and when the taxi pulled up to the curb at his block, Gunter paid the driver, fighting down nausea from the rocking of the car. He climbed from the back and approached his building – a two-story turn-of-the-twentieth-century wedge with four flats, perennially faulty plumbing, and reasonable-for-the-city rent.

He keyed open the front door and climbed the stairs to the second-story landing. At the sound of the floorboards creaking, the door across from his flat opened, and an exaggeratedly feminine male voice called through the gap.

“Gunter, sweetie. Is that you?”

Gunter groaned inwardly. It was Marty, the obnoxious toad of a queen who lived next door. “Yes, Marty. I’m afraid it’s been a rough night, and I’m just getting in…”

Marty stepped into the hallway, his paunch straining at a green silk shorty kimono. “You don’t look too bad. Nothing a little sleep won’t fix. Want a mimosa?”

“Not today, thanks.”

Marty’s expression grew serious. “The police were here looking for you not ten minutes ago.”

“The police?” Gunter asked, his voice cracking on the last syllable. “Why?”

“They didn’t say.”

“They talked to you?”

“No, love, they knocked on your door. Nearly gave Miss Beth a heart attack.” Miss Beth was Marty’s annoying Yorkshire terrier, who, like her master, was easily spooked and resentful of anyone bigger than she was. The little rat growled at him whenever they encountered each other in the hall. Gunter didn’t know which he despised more, the dog or its owner – Marty was always making clumsy passes Gunter did his best to ignore.

“I’m sorry to hear it. How did they get in?” Gunter asked.

“Must have buzzed Arnold or Mrs. Guthrie downstairs.”

“How odd. I hope there wasn’t a burglary at the shop…”

“Best call your alarm company. I hope not.” Marty gave him a slit-eyed glance. “Ooh, you do look a little worked. I’d go down for a few winks. Been there myself a few times.” Marty sighed. “Seems like forever…”

“Thanks for the heads-up,” Gunter said, anxious to terminate the discussion.

“Ta-ta. Knock if you need anything. Anything at all. My offer of a mimosa or three stands.”

“Will do.”

Marty disappeared back into his lair, and Gunter fumbled with his keys. He’d barely gotten the door open when another wave of nausea enveloped him, this one far stronger than the last. He staggered to the kitchen and vomited into the sink, the prior night’s tequila and the morning’s cocktail less pleasant on the return trip, and stood dry heaving until the spasms passed. Weak from the exertion, he made it to his bedroom, swallowed two Xanax to fend off the worst of the hangover, and collapsed on his bed, resolved to call the alarm company as soon as the pills kicked in. He closed his eyes, the room spinning, and within two minutes the only sounds in the flat were the dull roar of a motorcycle from the street below and his soft snores, the drugs and three hours of drunken sleep having taken their toll.

Chapter 28

Ron arranged for DJ Endo to be released, with a promise he would remain in the city at a number where he could be contacted until further notice. The DJ griped about having to turn down work elsewhere, but agreed when Ron gave him the alternative, which was more time to think about things in the drunk tank.

Ron watched the skinny punk strut from the station with typical jailhouse swagger and shook his head. Some were just meant to spend their lives in the system and would never learn from their near misses. Ron had absolutely no doubt the man would be back behind bars sooner than later, and his threat of Rikers would wind up being his reality.

Normally Ron didn’t have much interaction with garden-variety criminals, who were usually below average intelligence – after all, one of the reasons they risked everything by being criminals in the first place was their inability to weigh risk against reward. The serial killers and the aggressively violent who were Ron’s beat tended to be at the higher end of the spectrum, which made the job more challenging, as well as frustrating.

Ron and Ben reunited outside the holding room, where Sato was cooling his heels. They’d found a number of syringes and a dime bag of heroin in his room, along with a handful of antibiotics with no prescription, but nothing that pointed to his guilt with the victims. It would have been too easy to find a box with Dakota’s head in it, but that never stopped Ron from hoping.

They opened the slab door and took seats across the familiar table. Sato was sitting motionless with his eyes closed. He opened them and fixed Ron with a neutral gaze. Ron resisted the urge to shiver – it was like being stared at by a lizard.

“Like your skag, huh, Hitachi?” Ron began.

The man shrugged. “Hitoshi. It is useful for the pain.”

“It’s also illegal.”

“Many things are in this country. I hurt nobody but myself.”

Ron eyed Sato’s cuts. “Looks like you got dragged behind a truck there. What happened?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

“It was a performance piece.”

“What kind of sick crap is that?”

“Like I said, you wouldn’t understand.”

“Is it symbolic of something?”

“Naturally. All art is, if it’s good. Sometimes one must suffer for effect.”

“Does that pay well?” Ron asked, genuinely curious.

Sato shrugged. “I get by.”

“With twelve grand in pocket change, I’d say you do more than that.”

“I am a simple man with simple needs.”

“And the heroin probably eats up a lot of your extra cash, am I right?”

“We all carry our own burdens.”

“You’re big into symbolism, huh? Those tats; your so-called art. It’s all about making a show, isn’t it?”

“My life is performance. Yours is accosting people for no reason. I’m comfortable with my role.”

“No reason? You took off across the roof. Not exactly the act of an innocent man.”

“I explained that. I didn’t know you were police.”

“Sticking with that story?”

“As you pointed out, I have a small amount of a harmless substance for pain. It seemed prudent to make myself scarce.” Sato paused. “Besides, there is often violence in the hotel. I do not wish to be a victim.”

“No, you’re all about inflicting the damage, am I right?”

Sato frowned. “I’m afraid I have no idea what you mean.”

“Come on. We know about the snuff films.”

Sato sighed. “A vicious lie spread by a jealous competitor. Those were faked. The police finally figured it out after much fruitless investigation.” He offered a small half smile. “Even in my country, the police are not so smart at times.”

Ron frowned. “You think this is funny?”

“I still do not understand why you arrested me.”

“Dusty. Does that ring any bells?”

“You are criticizing my cleanliness now?”

“Five foot seven. Black hair. Full-sleeve tats. Last seen with you nine nights ago at a party in Connecticut. Going to deny that, smart guy?” Ron growled.

“You have me at a disadvantage. I did perform at an event in Connecticut. I’m still healing from it, as you can see. The rest has no meaning, I’m afraid.”

“A girl, smart-ass. Dusty. You were doing lines with her after your show.”

Sato’s eyes narrowed. “It was baking soda, I believe.”

“Not the drugs, moron. The girl,” Ron snarled.

“What about her?”

“You know, you prick. You know damn good and well.”

Sato shook his head. “It would be helpful if both of us had the faintest idea what you were talking about.”

“Where did you take her?”

“Take her? Nowhere. She was one of a number of people I said goodbye to after the performance.”

“We have an eyewitness that has you with her right before she was killed.”

Sato sat back, his face still impassive. “She is dead?”

“As if you didn’t know.”

“Why would I?”

“It’s all over the news, for one.”

“The hotel doesn’t come with a television. I don’t read the newspapers. You are mistaken.” Sato eyed Ron with his eerie flat stare. “You say she was killed that night?”

“You heard me.”

“Then it couldn’t have been me. My assistant drove me from Connecticut. She can vouch for my whereabouts.”

“A junkie in a skid row pit has an assistant? Oh, yeah, we’ll believe that. So will a jury.”

“She drove me from the venue to the emergency room,” Sato said. “Where I was admitted and treated. You can check the records. I assume you’ll apologize when you realize your mistake.”

Ron tried to conceal his surprise. No wonder the man had been willing to talk without an attorney. “What hospital?”

Sato named the largest facility in New Rochelle. “I was there for at least four hours. A lot of lacerations.”

“You know we’re going to check.”

“I hope you do so quickly. I don’t want the hotel to rent my room to someone else.”

Ron stared Sato down. “Pretty sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

Sato smiled, and the effect was chilling. “Detective, if I may offer some constructive criticism, you are not a convincing actor. I mean no disrespect.”

“Who were the others you were with?”

“Besides the girl? You said you have an eyewitness.”

“I want to hear it from you.”

“I forget. The drugs, you know…”

“Maybe a few days in a concrete cell for possession will clear the fog? I understand withdrawals can be ugly. I might just have to check in every few hours to see for myself.”

“I have no idea where the drugs you are referring to came from. This is where I ask for a lawyer if you intend to pursue this farce.”

Ron pushed to his feet. “I’m going to check your alibi.”

“Yes. Do so. And then, if you’re willing to let bygones be bygones, I might remember who I was with.”

Ben and Ron exchanged a look. The little weasel had painted Ron into a corner without breaking a sweat.

“Where were you the weekend before the party?” Ron demanded.

“I’ll answer, even though I asked for a lawyer, because I have nothing to hide. I was in the Poconos. You know the area? Lovely this time of year. They have Jacuzzis shaped like champagne glasses. A little, how do you say, white trashy, no? Would you like the hotel name?”

“Yes.”

Ron led Ben from the room and bolted the door behind them, and then turned to Ben. “He was at the hospital, wasn’t he?”

“Sounds like it. A call will verify it.”

“Damn. Make it.”

“I will. Then what? The dope charge is a nothing, and we both know it.”

“Yeah. We’ve got no leverage.”

“Withdrawals seemed to get his attention. Maybe try the soft route?”

“I knew this was too easy.”

“You did chase him across a roof.”

Ron rolled his eyes. “I’m gonna grab some coffee. You want some?”

“Make mine a double.”

Chapter 29

Tess paced her hotel room, her body, like her mind, wound up and revving into the redline from frustration and inaction. Her anger at Ron’s approach was illogical, she knew, but another part of her argued that he should be doing something, anything, to get to the bottom of Dakota’s murder rather than focusing his resources on the prior cases and waiting for the labs to be delivered. She understood he was busy with the highest-profile case in the city’s recent history, but Dakota wasn’t just a statistic – she’d been, until only a few days ago, a living, breathing embodiment of tomorrow’s hopes and dreams.

All of which had been destroyed. And it felt wrong to do nothing to avenge her. That was the heart of it – Tess not only wanted justice, but vengeance, in a very real, scorch-the-earth, Biblical sense. She wanted Dakota’s killer to suffer in agony, to know death was inexorably approaching, to apprehend that his future was nothing but infinite oblivion.

She eyed the half-eaten plate of omelet she’d ordered that morning and gagged. She needed to get out of the room, to move. Tess glanced at her bike leaning in the corner, and nodded to herself. She’d ride the fury away, as she’d done so often before.

Tess pulled on her riding outfit and was tying her hair back in a ponytail when an idea struck her: if Ron wasn’t going to at least talk to her cousin’s friends and poke around, she could. She’d share whatever she learned with Ron and perhaps convince him to prioritize Dakota’s case, or at least put more resources on it. So far it sounded like all he’d done was collect her corpse and ask for lab results, which was to say, precious little. Tess wasn’t constrained by his workload, and she might be able to do some good.

The thought cheered her somewhat until she realized that it was Sunday. How would she find her cousin’s friends? Was there a show tonight? She didn’t know.

She sat at the table, tapped her tablet to life, and browsed the web until she found a schedule for the ballet. There was, in fact, a performance that evening. Tess tried to recall what Dakota had said about her routine. Weekdays were full, but what about a Sunday?

And then she remembered. Sundays, even with a performance scheduled, her cousin and her roommates and friends would get together at the place where they’d eaten and have a long lunch while talking shop. She checked the time and exhaled – two hours to kill, and she knew exactly how she would do it.

The bellman watched as she carried her bike to the hotel entrance and set it on the sidewalk, which was largely empty on the weekend. She swung a leg over the saddle, snapped her shoe clip into place on the pedal, and with a glance over her shoulder, pushed off and did the same with the other before picking up speed.

The temperature felt warmer than the day before, Indian summer in full blow, and she shifted through the gears until she was speeding along the street, dodging potholes and double-parked cars, constantly scanning her surroundings for unexpected threats, reading the direction of the front tires of the vehicles in front of her for clues that they were going to turn or change lanes. The process was exhilarating, second nature after two years as a messenger, and she reveled in the rush of the wind and her apparent freedom. It felt like she could just keep riding until the end of the earth, and she realized as she pointed her handlebars north how badly she missed that sensation.

At Central Park, traffic grew denser until she was one of hundreds of bicyclists moving along the paths. Her destination wasn’t in question – Ron had mentioned that Dakota had been found at the boat pond, and she knew the location well. During temperate months, scores of children, faces smudged with remnants of Good Humor ice cream and sundry treats, would float model sailboats on the water, watched over by doting parents.

Today, the area took on more ominous tones as she coasted to a stop near the boathouse. To her eye the area looked untroubled, no sign of the grisly find remaining in the late morning sun’s glow. She walked her bike along the perimeter of the pond, unsure what she was searching for, but not finding it. A kit of pigeons landed nearby, where an old woman was dispensing bits of day-old bread from a paper bag, and the birds scrabbled for the doughy morsels, wings flapping and chests puffed out. The sight of the woman’s lonely errand filled Tess with unaccountable sadness. What stories could she tell; what triumphs and defeats had she seen in her many years? Tess wasn’t surprised by her melancholy thoughts, but they weren’t helping her focus, so she dismissed them and continued on her circle of the pond.

Finished with her lap around the water, Tess remounted her bicycle and pedaled north, pushing herself hard, the burn in her legs and lower back a reminder that she’d gotten soft in the intervening months. Used to be she could keep the pace up for eight hours without pause, and now, after forty-five minutes, even after a rest she was straining.

She looped west near Ninety-Seventh Street, crossed the park, and returned south on Central Park West in anticipation of her lunch. Tess slowed as she rode back downtown, leaving herself half an hour to rinse off, change, and get to the restaurant. She wasn’t worried about running late – she had a feeling the ballerinas weren’t sticklers for promptness, just as she hadn’t been at their age.

Tess made it back to the hotel and was in and out of the shower in a blink, selecting jeans and a faded Purdue sweatshirt matched with a pair of scuffed combat boots. She inspected herself in the mirror and decided to leave her hair up – she looked younger that way, and anything she could do to bridge the gap that might separate her from the dancers would doubtless work in her favor.

The restaurant was bustling when she entered, and her heart fluttered when she saw the table with three of Dakota’s friends seated at it, subdued compared to her last meal with them. She approached and smiled when Dianne, one of Dakota’s roommates, caught her eye.

“Dianne, right?” Tess said.

“Yeah. Oh, my God, it’s Dakota’s cousin,” Dianne said as she stood. “Tess, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” she said, and Dianne embraced her.

“I’m so sorry. It’s such a shock. We’re all floored…” Dianne said, choking on the last word.

The other two girls looked away, eyes moist, and Tess felt a tear roll down her face. “Yeah, it’s surreal. I mean, we were just here with her, and now…” Tess swiped the tear away. “I’m sorry.”

“No. Please, here, sit down. Join us,” Dianne said. “You remember Jamie and Kirsten?”

“Sure. Hi, guys.”

“Hi.”

The waiter came, and Tess ordered a lemonade and a salad. Once he had departed, the girls probed Tess for any information on what she thought might have happened, but she had no answers. When the food arrived, she nibbled at it halfheartedly, and Tess waited until everyone had pretty well finished eating to begin her inquiry.

“You were her best friends in the city, you know,” Tess said. “She was so excited to be dancing with the company and to have such cool people to work with.”

“Yeah, she was really amazing to hang out with. Always made us laugh,” Jamie agreed.

“Did any of you ever meet her boyfriend?” Tess asked after a few minutes of easy chatter.

They all shook their heads. “No. But we heard all about him. That’s all she talked about…other than ballet,” Dianne said.

“What did she have to say? I know nothing about him.”

“Oh, that he was super successful and handsome and basically rode up on a white unicorn and swept her off her feet,” Kirsten said with an eye roll, and then her face fell. “He must be devastated. I shouldn’t talk like that.”

“I don’t know whether anyone’s even told him. I have no way of getting in touch. Did…did Dakota leave her phone or anything in her room that could help?”

“You’re totally welcome to check if you like. Nobody’s gone in there yet,” Dianne offered.

Tess felt a flash of annoyance. She knew the police were busy with leads on the other victims, but it felt like they were ignoring Dakota. Nobody had even sealed off her room? Or checked her things? “I don’t know. The police will probably want to look through her stuff.”

“I can take a quick peek, if you want. Without disturbing anything,” Dianne said.

Tess brightened. “That would be awesome. I’ll give you my number.”

“Cool. Anything I can do to help.”

“Did she mention his last name or where he works or anything? Maybe I can track him down.”

“Not really,” Jamie said, shaking her head.

“No,” Kirsten echoed.

“Oh, she did mention his company once,” Dianne said. “But I’m terrible with that kind of thing. It was something with two words, though. Names.”

Tess mentioned a couple of the big brokerages she used to deliver packages to, but Dianne frowned at each one. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Well, think about it. If you remember, tell me. I mean, he could be traveling or something and not have heard. Imagine how that would feel…” Tess paused to let it sink in. “Got a pen?”

“Sure,” Dianne said, and offered Tess hers. Tess wrote her number on a paper napkin and handed it to her with the pen. Dianne looked at the number and tucked the napkin into her dance bag.

Tess shifted on her seat. “I’m staying at the Envoy hotel downtown. If you find anything or if anyone else can help, let them know.”

“I will.”

“Do you have a performance tonight?” Tess asked.

“Yeah, company barre at six, curtain at eight.”

Jamie made a face. “It’s really hard to go on knowing that some crazy killer’s out there. It just makes you wonder if you’re next, you know? Like, is he connected to the company or something? It’s totally freaked a lot of us out.”

“Yes, I can understand how tough that’s got to be. But the other two victims weren’t in the ballet, were they?” Tess asked.

The ballerinas looked at each other. “No, I don’t think so,” Kirsten acceded.

“Then I’d try not to let it throw you. Hard as that is,” Tess finished. She eyed the plates, noticing that she’d eaten more than any of them. “How do you keep your energy up on that few calories?”

Jamie giggled nervously, and Dianne and Kirsten looked away. “A lot of coffee and diet cola,” Dianne said.

“Yeah. A lot,” Kirsten echoed.

Tess noticed a distinct cooling of the mood at that, and Dianne signaled for the check. Tess grabbed it when the waiter brought it. “This one’s on me. For Dakota.”

The girls nodded and allowed her to pay and, once their drinks were finished, rose from the booth. Tess touched Dianne’s arm as they walked to the exit.

“Will you call me if you remember anything about Jeremy?”

“Sure. And I promise I’ll look for Dakota’s phone.”

“Or anything else that could help.”

“Right. I’ll call either way tomorrow. But I won’t get home till one or so tonight.”

“That’s perfect.”

“What did you say?” Dianne asked, an odd expression on her face.

“Um…that’s perfect?”

She stared at Tess’s boots and then into her eyes with a shy smile. “That’s the name of the company. That Jeremy works for!”

“What?”

“Regis and Perfect.”

Tess nodded. She’d done deliveries to the firm, just as she had every bank and hedge fund on the Street. She smiled at the younger woman in return and nodded. “Regis and Prefect,” she corrected. “I’ve heard of them.”

Chapter 30

Ron grudgingly released Sato, with the caveat that he’d need to make himself available should the police have any further questions, and Sato agreed, his composure never once cracking. Ron had returned the antibiotics but discarded the heroin with the warning that the Japanese would have to write off the loss as an occupational expense.

Back in his cubicle, the floor largely unoccupied, he reviewed all the information he’d collected so far, and decided that out of the ones he’d spoken with so far, he still liked Stibling for the murders. He had no idea how the old douche might lure a youngster like Tess’s cousin into his scheme, but money had a way of lubricating even the most obstinate of hurdles, and Ron was pragmatic enough to understand that it could buy just about anything.

His desk phone rang, and he answered on the second ring.

“Stanford.”

“Ron, it’s Amy. I got the results back on the DNA match for the hair, as well as the latest girl’s autopsy. As we saw on the second girl’s labs, the last one also had methamphetamine in her bloodstream. Lower concentration level, so probably her last hit was a few days before she was killed.”

“Wait. Dakota Reed? The dancer? She was doing meth?”

“Correct.”

“Wow.”

“I know. And now for the good news. The hair match. We got a hit on one Paulo Bollo. Thirty-three, Italian, did some time for dealing.”

“You send his jacket over?”

“Already emailed.” Amy paused. “He’s no construction worker, Ron.”

“I read between the lines. Can you also forward me the results on Dakota? Anything else stand out in terms of time of death?”

“I told you it would be more difficult. Best I can do is an eight-hour period. The night before you got the video. Thursday, from ten p.m. to seven a.m. It’s all in the report. I’m still waiting for a couple of tests to come back, and then I’ll shoot it off to you.”

“Thanks, Amy. You’re a genius.”

“Not really, but flattery never hurts. Just don’t lay it on too thick.”

Ron hung up and turned to his monitor. He pulled up his email and opened the attachments Amy had sent. First was Paulo’s record. His last address was not that far from the station, near the river. Ron studied the booking photograph – this was no doubt the Latin that Stibling had seen Dusty with. Long dark hair, a sparse five-day growth of goatee, pockmarked face, the gaunt features of a habitual hard-drug user.

He turned to Paulo’s arrest log. Busted several times for possession of stolen goods, but charges dropped for insufficient evidence. Then a weapons charge that had pled down to a misdemeanor with time served and a fine. Followed six months later by the drug arrest – ecstasy, just enough to make it dealing. Did nine months upstate, no arrests since. That was five years ago. He’d shown up for parole on time and straight, and hadn’t had any further entanglements with the system.

Until a fragment of his pubic hair had been found on Dusty.

Paulo’s Sunday was about to take a marked turn for the worse.

Ron read the notes in the file that identified Paulo as suspected of being mobbed up – specifically with the Italian mafia family that ran most of the waterfront and collaborated with the newly arrived Russian mob on prostitution and protection. It was unknown whether he was a made man or one of the constellation of wannabes who did the grunt work for the higher-ups, but he was definitely connected in a big way.

Ron reached for his phone and dialed Ben’s extension. When the younger detective answered, he relayed the information about Paulo and suggested they bring him in.

“What about a search warrant?” Ben asked.

“We can have Larraby deal with it. He’s hot to get this cleared, and he knows a lot of judges.”

“Got it. I’ll get the car.”

Ron gave him the address and next called the captain at home to report on the new development and request that he begin the process of obtaining a warrant. Larraby agreed and wished him luck, and then Ron was trotting to the elevator, a tremor of anticipation in his chest at the possibility that Paulo could be their man.

The drive took ten minutes. When a surprised and somewhat hungover Paulo answered his door, he was unsettlingly calm when they took him into custody. Ben read him his rights and he grunted an affirmation that he understood them, and remained silent.

“You’re being arrested for murder one, big boy,” Ron said.

“You kidding me?” he asked.

“Look like we are?” Ben said as he twisted cuffs closed on his wrists.

There was nothing in his pockets but his apartment keys and a few hundred dollars, which Ben signed into evidence as Paulo was processed at the precinct. After his mug shots had been taken and he was fingerprinted, Ben escorted him to an interview room and cuffed him in place. Ron entered behind them and switched on a voice recorder.

He announced the date and time, and then studied Paulo’s file while Ben inspected his fingernails. Eventually Ron set the file aside and fixed Paulo with a hard stare.

“Murder one, Paulo. The big time. We’ve got you cold,” he said.

“You’re higher than a crack whore,” Paulo fired back.

“Where were you Friday night a week ago?”

Paulo frowned. “Friday? Oh, that’s right. At a party. High end. In Connecticut.”

“We know about that. How about from midnight to four Saturday morning?”

Paulo’s brow furrowed, and then he grinned. “At a bar down on Avenue B. Cleo’s. Kind of a dive, but comfortable, you know?”

“You were there the entire time?” Ron demanded skeptically. “How do you know what time you left?”

“Easy. They close at four. Took about an hour to get from Connecticut, and I left the party about eleven fifteen, so…twelve thirty to four.”

“Anyone with you?”

“Place was half empty. Didn’t see anyone I knew. Maybe the bartender. Why? What’s this about, anyway?”

“We found your DNA on a murder victim – pubic hair. You were with her that night. Case closed.”

Paulo squinted in disbelief and then laughed. “You mean Dusty? That’s easy. I banged her at the party. More like an orgy.” Paulo winked. “Slice off a cut loaf, you know? Never could turn down free pie.”

“You admit to having sex with her?”

“Yeah, but if every girl I banged died, half Manhattan would be in the grave, you know?”

Ron sat forward. “You think this is a joke?”

“I think you’re barking up the wrong tree. I didn’t do anything but drink too much that night.”

“You don’t seem surprised she’s dead.”

Paulo shrugged. “Hookers buy it all the time. Especially a freak like her. I’m supposed to pretend I’m shocked?”

“You didn’t recognize her from the news?”

“I don’t have time for light reading, and I don’t own a TV.”

“Of course not. You’re a busy guy.” Ron looked at Paulo like he’d wiped him off the sole of his shoe. “How you making a living?”

Paulo smirked. “This and that. Whatever comes my way. I get by.” He hesitated. “Look, check out my alibi. Save us a lot of headaches. I got places to be this evening.”

Something about the man’s tone gave Ron pause. “Let’s say I believe you. How did you get from Connecticut to the city?”

“Train. Grand Central.”

“Alone?”

“Yeah.”

“When was the last time you saw Dusty?”

“At the party. She was hanging out with some of the others. Friendly like.”

“Know their names?”

“Not really.”

Ron let the lie go by. He’d circle back to it later and hang the little prick with his words.

“How’d you get from the house to the station?” he asked.

“I walked to a main street and caught a cab.”

“Remember the company?”

“Dunno. Besides, I did a deal with the cabbie – no fare on the books, so there’s no record.”

“Convenient.”

“Not really. Sounds like that fare would have been worth its weight right about now.” Paulo coughed and looked at them both. “Check my story. If after that you want to hold me, I call my lawyer and we dance. But that costs me four jings an hour. Go do your job so I can go home.”

Ron and Ben left the cell, and Ron exhaled heavily. “Nothing about this case is going right.”

“You think he’s bluffing?”

“Nah. Look how cocky he is.”

“Could be he just thinks he can bluff us. Remember the FBI profile – delusions of grandeur. Superiority complex.”

“The guy’s a skid mark.”

“Yeah, but smart.”

“Street smart, maybe,” Ron agreed. “I suppose I’ll have to go to Chloe’s and check.”

“Want a ride?”

“No. You go ahead and take off. It’s getting late.” Ron checked his watch. “Can you have the boys go by Gunter’s again? He’s odd man out.”

“Sure. Same plan as before?”

“Yes. Call me if he’s there.”

“Done.”

“Oh, and pull the security footage from Grand Central for the Connecticut trains between midnight and two for that Friday and see if you can spot our boy Paulo. Shouldn’t take too long.”

Ben nodded. “So much for going home, huh?”

“I meant after that.”

“Right.”

Ron headed back to his office to get his jacket and was slipping it on when his desktop phone jangled. He scooped up the handset and held it to his ear.

“Stanford.”

“Ron, I’m sending the autopsy report in a minute.” It was Amy.

“No rush. I’m on my way out the door.”

“Then I’m glad I caught you. You sitting down?”

Amy’s tone stopped him cold.

“Why?” he asked softly.

She told him, and everything he thought he was sure of collapsed.

Chapter 31

Ron’s mind was racing as he rode the subway toward Avenue B, the once infamous area of New York that had been the haven of drug fiends, violent criminals, vagrants, and gangs. In recent years it had undergone somewhat of a renaissance, but was still sketchy, littered with low-end watering holes, abandoned lots, and tenements that were breeding grounds for crime.

Dusk was streaking the western sky with vivid hues of purple and rose when Ron emerged from the subway station and made his way down the street to where Chloe’s was sandwiched between a Korean grocery and a beauty shop advertising the lowest-priced French manicures and hair weaves in Manhattan. Both establishments were closed for the Sabbath, steel shutters locked across their storefronts, which were covered with gang tags and obscene graffiti. Ron’s nose wrinkled at the pungent stench of urine wafting from the doorways, obviously used as toilets by the neighborhood homeless, who instinctively gave Ron a wide berth.

He glanced up at the red brick buildings that lined the block, built as low-end housing when the city had been in its sprawling growth phase, and shook his head at the thought of the cost to buy even the most decrepit tenements nowadays. A property mania had seized the city twenty years earlier and, in spite of all predictions, had continued unabated, the disastrous events of 9-11 a hiccup as Wall Street salaries skyrocketed and foreign money from Asia poured in, snapping up even the most questionable areas.

Chloe’s had resisted gentrification and was still as squalid a bar as any Ron had seen. Its open doorway was dark, from which a wailing blues guitar from a blown stereo speaker howled like a banshee, and the stoop was littered with cigarette butts that hadn’t been swept away from the prior night. Once inside, Ron’s eyes adjusted to the dim light, where a half dozen rummies sat at the bar, nursing boilermakers and glasses of rotgut whiskey, all male except for a lone prostitute who looked like she’d gone nine losing rounds with Ali.

The bartender was a heavyset shaved-headed man with three chins and a broken front tooth, who called out to Ron with a sandpaper voice seasoned by too many cigarettes and hard liquor. “What can I get you, partner?”

Ron approached as though considering the question and then discreetly flashed his badge so the other patrons couldn’t see it.

“Got a few questions,” Ron said softly.

“All my permits is in order,” the bartender countered. “Everyone got their vig.”

“Not that. Were you working here Friday a week ago?”

The man’s eyes drifted to the stained ceiling and then back to Ron. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“Guess, or were?”

“I got Fridays, so were.”

“What time did you close?”

“Around four, like always.”

“You have a good crowd?”

The man shrugged noncommittally. “Decent enough. Payday’s always high times in this slice of paradise.”

Ron’s gaze swept the room, taking in the darkened tables that lined the wall. “I can only imagine.” He looked over at the hooker, who suddenly became fixated with her phone screen, and then back to the bartender as he slid Paulo’s photo from his jacket pocket onto the bar. “This guy here that night?”

“Aw, man, how would I know? I mean, we mighta had eighty people. Maybe more. I don’t give ’em interviews or nothing. I just pour and keep my head down.” He took another look at the photo. “Why? What did he do?”

“Parking tickets,” Ron said, his expression unreadable.

“I’d like to help, but I really don’t know. I mean, I mighta seen him. I know I have. But a busy night that long ago? Good luck.”

“So you can’t say he was here.”

“Can’t say he wasn’t, either.”

Ron recognized a Mexican standoff and nodded. “You the owner?”

The man laughed, the sound unpleasant as the grinding of gears. “Nah, just doing my time, you know?”

“Aren’t we all,” Ron agreed.

They stared at each other for a long beat, and then Ron turned and walked to the entrance. He stopped just inside and looked up at a mirrored dome over the door. Nodding to himself, he returned to the bartender and leaned over the scarred wood counter. “See you got a security cam there.”

“Yeah? Oh. Yeah, we do. Sure.”

“How long you keep the footage?”

“I don’t know. The owner’s in charge of that.”

“Where’s the control for it?”

“All that’s back in the office.”

“Show me.”

The bartender looked around the room and shrugged. “I guess I could do that.”

Ron accompanied the big man to a room at the rear of the building and waited as he unlocked the door. A whiff of sweat sock and sour vomit drifted from the interior, and Ron swallowed his distaste and breathed through his mouth. The bartender led him to an ancient DVD system in the corner and pointed to a stack of disks stacked haphazardly beside it. “I think he reuses them.”

Ron nodded. “Looks like, what, twenty?”

“About that.”

Six minutes later Ron had found the correct disk and skipped forward to midnight as the bartender eyed him suspiciously. Ron watched the footage stream by at quadruple speed and then paused the image when Paulo walked into the bar at twenty after midnight. The bartender glanced at the still and grunted. “That the guy?”

“Yeah. Can we skip ahead somehow? He said he left at around closing time.”

The bartender toggled and advanced the image to the three-thirty time stamp. A voice called out from the barroom, and he screamed back. “Be right there. Hold your horses.” He turned to Ron. “Got to do my job, man.”

“No problem. I’ll be right here.”

The bartender’s eyes looked doubtful, obviously weighing whether he should leave Ron alone, and then another voice called out, deciding it for him. “Just don’t touch anything,” he warned. “Be back in a flash.”

Ron continued watching the playback and nodded to himself when at three fifty an obviously inebriated Paulo staggered to the door, stood unsteadily as he fumbled to light a cigarette, and then disappeared out of the frame.

When the bartender returned, Ron had finished and was waiting for him. “Thanks. I’m going to keep this disk. I’ll sign a receipt for it.”

The big man looked him up and down. “No sweat. He’ll never miss it.”

The breeze was cooling when Ron emerged from the seedy bar, and he hurried as he made his way back down the street, frustrated that he’d wasted more time on a dead end. His phone warbled at him and he answered it on the fly.

“Stanford.”

“Hey,” Ben said. “He’s on the Grand Central video. Alone.”

“What time?”

“Little before midnight.”

“Damn. Same here. He’s clean. At least of that one.”

“The guys called from Gunter’s apartment. He answered the intercom.”

Ron glanced at the time. “I’ll be there in ten. Have them stay in position.”

“I’ll meet you there.”

“You still at work?”

“It was either that or have a life.”

When Ron hung up, his phone almost instantly rang again.

“Stanford.”

“Ron? It’s Tess.”

He slowed. He’d been so busy he’d completely spaced on calling her to check in. “I’m glad you called. I’ve been meaning to.”

“No problem. Any progress?”

“Just running down leads.”

“I found out where Jeremy works.”

“You did? How?” Ron asked, his voice wary.

“Dakota’s roommate called. I asked her.” Tess told him about the brokerage. “I looked up their employee directory online. Only one Jeremy there – Jeremy Glass.”

“That’s great. I’ll interview him in the morning.” Ron turned the corner and slowed further. “We got the labs back. Did Dakota seem…I don’t know, amped up or anything to you when you last saw her?”

“Maybe a little. She was high strung. Excited about the performances, her boyfriend…” Tess trailed off. “Why?” she asked.

There was no point in sugarcoating it. “She had meth in her bloodstream.”

Tess was silent as she digested the news. “He drugged her? That would make sense.”

“No, the coroner says it was from a few days earlier.”

Tess cursed softly. “Coffee, my ass.”

“What’s that?”

“Nothing. But it makes sense. All the girls are freaked about their weight. That’s one way to get extra energy.”

“You don’t sound surprised.”

“More disappointed. But I should have seen it.”

“You mentioned she was kind of odd the last time you saw her?”

“Yeah. Boyfriend problems.”

Ron considered not saying anything and had almost decided not to when Tess interrupted his thoughts. “What’s going on, Ron? What is it? You think he was giving her meth?”

“I have no idea,” he answered honestly.

“Then what is?”

Ron sighed. “Dakota was five weeks pregnant.”

Chapter 32

Ron met the pair of plainclothes cops Ben had engaged to help locate Gunter and peered up at the darkened building as they gave him a brief rundown. When they finished, he nodded.

“Nobody’s come out?” Ron asked.

“No. I pretended I had the wrong building. I don’t think he’s wise to us.”

“Well, let’s go get him. There a back to this place?”

“Nope.”

“That makes it easier.”

Ron’s phone rang as Ben’s unmarked sedan crawled down the street toward them. It was Larraby.

“Guess who got a call from Stibling?” the captain asked, his voice tense.

“I was as gentle with him as a kitten.”

“Not to hear the mayor tell it. He says you tried to blackmail him.”

“Does that sound realistic to you?”

“You’re dealing with some powerful people here, Detective. Go very easy unless you have him dead to rights. He’s got the juice to bury you if he wants.”

“You can pull me off the case whenever you like.”

“I’m not saying that. I’m saying do this by the book. No more playing cowboy. Am I clear?”

Ron exhaled and swallowed the bitterness that threatened to choke him. He took a deep breath, and when he answered, his voice was flat. “What’s clear is that some scum are more equal than others.”

“Where have you been all your life? Just play ball, Stanford. I didn’t make the rules, but I expect you to play by them. Am I clear?”

Ron glanced at Ben’s car. “Crystal.”

Ben got out of the cruiser and came over to where they were standing. Ron filled him in and Ben patted his holstered pistol. They followed Ron to the front door and he pressed the intercom button. When Gunter answered, Ron spoke slowly and neutrally. “Gunter Ausberg?”

A pause. “Who is this?”

“Police. Detective Ron Stanford. You can look out your window and see me if you like. I need to speak with you.”

Another pause. “I’m sorry. I’ve been sick today, or I would have called.”

“Not a problem. Can you buzz us in?”

They could hear Gunter breathing heavily. “I’ll be right down.”

Ron exchanged a glance with Ben and the two detectives, the shorter of whom shrugged. They waited, and after a few minutes the front door opened and Gunter stepped out, the front of his orange satin dress shirt beneath a black velvet jacket oddly formal. Even in the gloom Ron could see the dark bags beneath the man’s eyes, and he wasted no time with niceties.

“I’d like you to come down to the station and answer a few questions for us, Mr. Ausberg.”

“What’s this about?”

“We’re investigating a murder, and we think you might be able to help.”

“A murder! Who?”

“A young woman.”

Gunter pursed his lips. “I’m afraid I don’t know many of those, Detective…Stanford, was it? Can I see some identification, please?”

Ron flipped out his badge case and showed him his ID. Gunter studied it and nodded. “You say you think I might be able to help you?” Gunter asked.

“We’re certainly hoping so.” Ron had decided to go the soft route with Gunter, who so far exhibited no hostility.

“On a Sunday evening? Surely this can wait until tomorrow…”

“I wish it could. I really want to get home to dinner,” Ron said, sounding long-suffering.

Gunter huffed. “How long will it take?”

“As little time as possible. We’re really sorry to inconvenience you, but it’s important.”

“Well, I suppose now that I’m up and around. But I really am under the weather.”

“We can give you a lift to the station and back,” Ron offered.

Gunter took in the group and tilted his head toward Ron. “Lead the way.”

Once in the car, Gunter tried broaching the subject again, but Ron remained closed-mouthed until they arrived at the station and he and Ben escorted the big Dane to an interview room. Gunter sat expectantly and Ron continued killing him with kindness, treating him like a guest rather than a suspect. Ron adjusted his approach with each suspect, and something about Gunter told him that he’d get further with a gentle probing than a frontal assault. He didn’t have any leverage on the man, unlike with Stibling, who valued his reputation and position of privilege; or Paulo, who had a record; or Sato, whom they’d caught red-handed with dope. Gunter could easily refuse to answer any questions if he believed he was a suspect, and Ron wanted to avoid that for as long as possible. He set his voice recorder on the table and switched it on.

“Mind if I record this? It’s easier than taking notes,” Ron said.

“However you like.”

Ron stated the date, time, and Gunter’s name, and then sat back, his body language relaxed and open.

“Mr. Ausberg, can I ask you where you were Friday night, a week ago?”

“Oh my, let me think,” Gunter said, eyeing the ceiling before looking at Ron. “At a party.”

Ron nodded as though the vague answer was perfect. “Where, if I may ask?”

“Off the island. In Greenwich.”

“Nice.”

“Yes, well, I have a select clientele and often get invited to events. I’m very fortunate.”

“Do you recall how long you were there?”

“Oh, probably till eleven. It didn’t go late.”

“I see.”

“You mentioned a young lady?”

“Yes. She was also at the party. We’re trying to ascertain her movements that night.”

“I see. I didn’t really know most of the people there. As I said, it wasn’t my soiree…”

“This young lady was rather memorable, I’m told. She had full-sleeve tattoos and dyed black hair. Were there many like her at the event?”

“Mmm, not that I recall. Oh – wait. I think I know the one you mean. Good Lord. She was murdered? How awful.”

“Yes, it was a tragedy. But back to you. You left the party…with someone or alone?”

Ron thought he detected an edge to Gunter’s expression, and then it softened. “Alone, I’m afraid.”

“How did you get home?”

“I drove. What does this have to do with the murdered girl?”

“We’re just trying to place everyone at the party, in case there’s a connection.”

Gunter gasped and held a manicured hand to his chest. “You think the murderer was at the event?”

“We honestly don’t know. But we’re ruling people out by process of elimination. We’re almost done, Mr. Ausberg. Again, thanks for being so patient. It’s a necessary evil.”

“I’m just shocked at the idea, frankly.”

“Yes, I know it’s unsettling. When you got back to the city, did you go out or home?”

“Oh, home, and then took a long walk to get the alcohol out of my system.”

“Hmm. Do you recall where you went?”

“Just around the neighborhood. It’s quite lively on weekend nights. Like a street party, you know?”

“Did you see anyone you know? Stop in at a bar or anything?”

The hard look came back into Gunter’s eyes. “No, I just went home after a walk and went to sleep. It had been an exhausting week.”

Ron nodded sympathetically. “I forgot to ask – which route did you take home?”

“The Kennedy Bridge.”

“How was traffic? I hear it can be a bear during the day.”

Gunter appeared puzzled by the question. “It was fine going that direction. Not many cars at that hour.”

“And you drove straight home? What time did you hit the sack?”

“I just said I did,” Gunter said, exasperated. “It took perhaps an hour. I was in bed by one, one thirty. I walked for forty-five minutes or so.”

“Okay, then. Final question: did you see the young lady leave the party?”

“No. But I honestly wasn’t paying much attention.” Gunter thought for a beat. “I’m afraid I don’t know when she left. I wish I could be of more help.”

“Thanks for your cooperation,” Ron said. “Is there anything you’d like to add?”

“Not really, other than that it’s disconcerting to consider that someone at the party could be a murderer. Are you absolutely sure?”

“Unfortunately, nothing in this business is absolute. But it’s our current best guess.” Ron glanced at Ben. “Would you take Mr. Ausberg back home?”

“Sure,” Ben responded evenly.

Ron shook hands with the art dealer and returned to his office. Ben called twenty minutes later. “I dropped him off. What do you think?”

“He’s way too smooth. Cocky.”

“I got that. But where does that leave us?”

“With his story. So now we do the heavy lifting to pick it apart. Same as ever.”

“You like him for it?”

“Either him or Stibling. They both give me the creeps.”

“Pity that’s not admissible.”

“In either case, we have to proceed carefully. Neither of them is stupid.”

“I’m going to head home. See you tomorrow morning.”

Ron sighed at the thought – another wasted day with little to show for his efforts. “I’m going to be out first thing. I want to question the dancer’s boyfriend, get an alibi.”

“There’s nothing to tie him to the first two, is there?”

“No. But I promised her cousin I’d speak with him.”

“Ah. Okay. See you when I see you.”

Ron sighed at the pile of reports in his inbox and rubbed his eyes. He was operating on almost no sleep, and to continue trying to make sense of things was a fool’s errand until he caught up on his rest. He sent off a few emails requesting verification of several elements of Gunter’s story, and shut down his computer, resolving to return to fight another day and leave the remnants of this one to the bad guys.

Chapter 33

Paulo signed for his belongings and stormed through the precinct doors, furious at having been detained frivolously. His time in custody had cost him dearly in lost profits. His loansharking business was a seven-day affair, and he’d intended to pay personal visits to reluctant debtors to remind them of their obligations – but now that night had fallen, that would have to wait until the morning.

He made his way past groups of uniformed policemen smoking and joking on the sidewalk, and darted between two cars to cross the street before hurrying toward a larger intersection and the subway that ran beneath it. Some primitive part of his reptilian brain registered a threat, and he slowed to identify it without being obvious. He paused in front of a deli and studied the reflection in the storefront window, and spotted the likely cause: a man in a black leather jacket across the street who was watching him from near a trash can while he pretended to consult his phone.

Like most predators, Paulo had a keen survival instinct, and the watcher tripped every internal alarm Paulo had. The possibility that he was a cop occurred to him, but Paulo dismissed it. He recognized a professional when he saw one, and if he’d had to guess, he would have said the man was an assassin, either Russian or Puerto Rican mob, both of which boasted scores of hired killers in the city – men who would snuff out a life without compunction for anywhere from five to fifty thousand dollars, depending upon the level of difficulty and whether the hit needed to appear accidental.

If Paulo was right, he was probably safe on the same block as the precinct, but would run the risk of a bullet in the back when he turned the corner. He made a quick calculation and decided to err on the side of safety, and retraced his steps to the station as he placed a call to one of his associates, who would know what to do.

Paulo reentered the precinct and moved to the front desk under the watchful eye of several cops. He asked to use the restroom and was told to move along and find a public toilet. He nodded and proceeded to read the wanted posters tacked to a large corkboard, waiting for a call that would tell him that his countermeasures were in place.

Fifteen minutes went by before his phone rang.

“Yeah?” Paulo answered.

“We’re in position.”

“You have him in sight?”

“Yes.”

“Then let’s rock.”

Paulo smiled to himself as he dropped his phone back into his pocket and checked the time. He could have easily arranged for the stalker to get an ice pick to the spine in the crush at the station, but he wanted to know who the man was working for, and killing him wouldn’t achieve that.

He had to be taken alive.

After which the man’s remaining hours would be the most agonizing in his life.

The Italian mafia had long ago learned the value of organizing itself into cells rather than a centralized structure, and Paulo had a loose affiliation with several dozen hardened criminals, any one of whom would relish the chance to do a job for him in return for a deposit in the favor bank. Three enforcers were now out on the street in strategic locations and would converge on the hapless pursuer when he followed Paulo around the corner.

The only problem might be if the man wasn’t working alone, but Paulo didn’t think that was likely, based on his shoddy tradecraft. No, he had all the earmarks of a low-level hired thug who had jumped at the chance to make some easy money without researching his target.

Paulo descended the precinct steps and strolled past the police again, this time a little more slowly, although not so much so that he would arouse suspicion. He didn’t make any rookie mistakes like glancing over his shoulder or stopping again, instead walking determinedly to the larger street, ignoring the few other pedestrians around him, none of whom appeared threatening.

He again crossed the street and entered the deli, watching the sidewalk from the corner of his eye as a paunchy clerk rang up a sandwich and can of soda. Two minutes later Paulo was back on the street, a bag with his dinner in hand, and increased his pace as he neared the corner in order to create urgency in his tail.

Paulo ducked around the corner and broke into a run, sprinting past a doorway where two of his associates waited with saps in their hands. Moments later his pursuer trotted past, and then things happened quickly as the man withdrew a suppressed pistol from the folds of his jacket and prepared to end Paulo’s life.

The swat of a sap against the back of the man’s head sounded like a wet sack of cement hitting pavement. His knees buckled and he pitched forward, his gun dropping harmlessly against the ground as he went down. The two men caught him before he struck the sidewalk, dragged him to a waiting van, and threw him through the side cargo door. One of them darted to scoop up the pistol and then ran to the open door and climbed aboard. The van pulled away at a measured pace as a few pedestrians watched with open mouths.

Paulo’s phone rang moments later. “Butcher shop. Fifteen minutes,” a voice said.

Paulo flagged down a taxi and gave him an address in the Flatiron District, where his associates did business out of a butcher shop that catered to the restaurant trade. When he arrived, a swarthy balding man with the jowls of a basset hound nodded to him from his position outside the service exit, a toothpick sticking from his lips, the bulge beneath his windbreaker as clear a warning to would-be troublemakers as a snake’s rattle.

When Paulo arrived at the oversized walk-in freezer at the rear of the shop, the man who’d been stalking him was hanging upside down by a chain wrapped around his ankles, suspended from an iron pipe near the ceiling, with his hands bound behind him. The man’s eyes were closed, but a swift kick to his ribs got his attention and they opened, wide with shock.

“He have any ID?” Paulo asked one of the three men watching by the sides of beef cured on meat hooks.

“Nah. Clean. Just a couple Benjamins and an extra clip. .22 long rifle, hand-loaded dumdums,” one of the mobsters said, his New Jersey accent as thick as a brogue. His hair was trimmed to a quarter inch long, revealing the white trace of a scar that ran from his right ear to the crown of his head.

Paulo nodded and kneeled to look the captive in the eyes. “Who are you working for?”

The man didn’t answer. Paulo shrugged as he straightened. “He’s going to need some convincing.”

The mobster grinned. “No problem. How much you want of him left by the time I’m done?”

“Enough to answer questions.”

“Joey, go get the blowtorch and Drano, capiche?” the mobster called out. The shorter of the waiting muscle nodded and offered a twisted grin before disappearing into the warehouse area.

Paulo returned to the hanging man and stared down at him with indifference. “Here’s how this is going to work. These boys will burn your skin off, section by section, and then use drain cleaner to eat your nerves alive. You can’t imagine the pain – I’ve seen real hard cases beg for death seconds after the Drano hits. Or you can answer my questions, and it’s no hard feelings. You need I should let them at you for half an hour, just so you know I’m not bullshitting?”

The man shook his head. “Please. I didn’t know,” he said, in a Russian accent.

“Yeah, well, we all make mistakes, am I right? So let’s try this again, and maybe you get to walk out of here alive. Doesn’t matter to me. Who are you working for?”

“Drugov.”

Victor Drugov was a mid-level Russian mafia capo who ran operations in the Bronx.

“Long ways from home here on the island, aren’t you?” Paulo asked.

“They didn’t tell me anything about who the target was, or I wouldn’t have taken the contract.”

“How much they pay you?”

“Ten.”

“Who’s the client?”

The man’s eyes closed for a second. When they opened, they were welling with tears. “Don’t know.”

“Ah, see? And you were doing so good.” Paulo looked to the small man, who’d reappeared with a blowtorch and a container of Drano. “He says he doesn’t know who hired him.”

“Only one way to find out whether he’s full of shit or not,” the man said expressionlessly.

“No, please, it’s the truth. I swear,” the Russian hissed.

Paulo nodded to the man with the torch. “I’m gonna go outside and have a smoke. Start with his face, but leave enough so he can talk.”

Paulo moved to the freezer entrance, feeling for his pack of cigarettes. With the door closed behind him, the Russian’s first screams were barely audible, fading to nothing by the time he was outside, drawing contentedly on a Marlboro as he mulled over how to proceed from there. He had a strong suspicion he knew who’d paid to have him killed; and if he was correct, the disappearance of the hit man would do nothing to stop another from taking his place. There was only one way to ensure his own safety, and that was to demonstrate that nobody was invulnerable or safe from Paulo’s reach.

But he would need confirmation before taking action. The hitter probably knew nothing more than he’d told him, but he had to be sure. A call to Drugov would yield little better result, but if Paulo stressed that he was taking the contract personally, it might alter the Russian’s willingness to cooperate. No contract was worth going to war over, and to target a protected man like Paulo escalated the offense to one where his superiors would get involved. They would put pressure on the Russian and both ensure no further attempts were made on Paulo’s life as well as yield the name of the client, he was sure. The Russian would, of course, claim he’d had no idea that Paulo was part of the Cosa Nostra, and the Italians would accept his assurance as a face-saving way out. Balance would be restored to the universe, and business would continue as usual, without a dangerous upset in the fragile criminal equilibrium in which they all operated.

As to the hit man, Drugov would get his head in a box as a reminder to better research the contracts he accepted, and a warning of what would happen if he stepped out of line again.

Chapter 34

Tess walked slowly down the hall to her father’s apartment, each step as reluctant as a convict to the gallows. Claire had called to tell her that the moving crew had cleared the place out, a cleaning company had been over it for the last few days, and it was ready to be shown. They’d agreed to meet on Monday morning to do a walk-through, which Tess had been looking forward to with the same enthusiasm she would unanesthetized oral surgery.

The door stood open and she looked inside. Claire’s perfume lingered in the air, and Tess called into the apartment.

“Claire? It’s Tess. I’m here.”

Claire’s voice rang out from her father’s bedroom. “Just a sec, Tess. I’m on the phone.”

Tess entered and moved to the kitchen. The cleaners had done a remarkable job. Any familiarity had been scrubbed away, and now it was just a cluster of too-small rooms with no emotional impact on her whatsoever.

She’d paid for a storage facility off the island, but hadn’t had the heart to supervise the offloading of her father’s things. She would have to sort through them at some point, but not now – it was still too fresh, and she needed time to heal.

The disequilibrium that had resulted from news of her cousin’s death had brought back a score of unpleasant memories, and she felt like she was barely holding it together. Her dreams had been filled with visions of her father tortured to death, sprawled on his shop floor, and she would wake up in a cold sweat, heart racing, unable to breathe. She knew the sensation all too well – it had defined her first month in Europe – but had convinced herself that she’d managed to banish the panic for good.

A conceit she now understood had been misguided.

She moved to the now-bare window, the curtains and blinds removed with the furniture, and gazed out at the street below. Pedestrians hurried along with the urgency of ants, unaware of the drama playing out above them. Was that all any of them were? Temporary blips that came to life, lived in futile self-delusion, and then died and were forgotten by future generations, who were equally convinced of their vitality and importance and uniqueness, but destined for the same end?

The thought made her cringe inwardly. Maybe life was deterministic and pointless, but her father had mattered – to her, and to her mother. Perhaps that was all that was required. She’d loved him with all her heart, and as long as she kept his memory alive, that flame kept a small part of him alive inside of her.

That some monster could snuff out such a precious gift as life without a second thought made her question her own humanity. She’d tried to imagine how such a being could operate, what motivations could drive it, but couldn’t – or more accurately, didn’t want to. That Ron had to put himself in the shoes of killers every day was beyond anything she could conceive of. If it had been her, she would have quit and moved to a very small island in a vast sea, and spent the rest of her existence trying to extinguish the stain left on her soul by the experience.

She smiled at the mental image. Ron would probably just say that someone had to do the job, that someone had to protect the flock from the wolf, and that it would be a waste of his unique gift to turn his back on that obligation. It was that dogged sense of centeredness that was part of his appeal. In a world gone mad, where nothing was as it seemed, Ron was a rock, unmoving and unmoved.

“There you are,” Claire said, slipping her phone into her pantsuit jacket pocket as she emerged from the bedroom. “What do you think? Did I tell you, or what?”

“You worked a miracle, Claire. It’s a completely different apartment.”

Claire gave a slight nod at the praise. “Now we need to convince some poor shmuck he just has to have it.”

Tess glanced around. “Think it’ll be hard?”

Claire checked the time as though she hadn’t heard the question and then shrugged. “That, my dear, is why I get paid the big bucks. Have no fear. I’ll drag someone kicking and screaming to the table if I have to.” She smiled. “Seriously, this should go quickly. It’s a desirable area. You’ll make out well.”

“I hope so.” Tess paused. “Also…I’ve been procrastinating, but I need to find a place in the city for myself. Nothing this big – maybe a loft, or a one bedroom with some storage.”

“Piece of cake. Rent or buy?”

“What would something like that, maybe toward the Village, sell for?”

Claire mentioned a number that sounded astronomical to Tess. She shook her head. “Maybe rent, then.”

That number was equally surreal, and Tess had to remind herself that she was well-heeled now, with the proceeds from the sale of her dad’s business, the insurance, her government settlement, and now her half of the apartment.

“Well, if you have anything that would be a good value, I’d probably be a buyer,” Tess said.

“How soon would you be prepared to move?”

“Whenever. I have the money.”

Claire’s smile never reached her eyes. “Let’s set up a time to look at a few prospects. I’ll run a search and see what I come up with. When do you have time to look?”

“Let me deal with my schedule over the next few days. Maybe next week?”

“Call me when you’re ready. Half the places we’d look at will be off the market by then.” Claire sized her up. “You have my number.”

“Will do.”

Tess walked to the front door and took a few photos for her sister and, after thanking Claire for the help, made for the elevator while the realtor finished her inspection. She exhaled in relief when the elevator reached the ground floor, the most unpleasant part of her day over early.

That left her with nothing to do but go back to the hotel and try to see whether the hours of sleep that had eluded her could be found.

She smoothed her hair and pulled her windbreaker tight as she passed the doorman and nodded at him. “Have a good one, Steven,” she said.

The doorman nodded. “Won’t be the same around here without your father, Tess. We all miss him.” He seemed to run out of words and averted his eyes.

“Thanks. So do I,” Tess said, her eyes misting. She quickly slipped on her sunglasses and waved over her shoulder, unwilling to let the man see her pain, the ghosts of the past threatening to choke her as she hurried down the sidewalk, now just another of the ants on its meaningless way.

Chapter 35

Regis and Prefect was located in a towering building on Wall Street, occupying three floors of the commanding edifice with views of the harbor and Statue of Liberty. When Ron arrived, the Street was teeming with earnest young men in bespoke suits, phones melded to their heads as they made and lost fortunes, their eyes clear and ruthless and calculating.

Ron showed his badge to the security guard in the lobby and rode the elevator to the eighteenth floor. After being kept waiting for ten minutes, he was shown to a conference room and offered Perrier or dark roast Colombian coffee, which he accepted as the receptionist went in search of Jeremy.

Ron eyed the rich wood paneling and antique oil paintings, the furnishings reeking of money, and tried to quell his impatience at being stalled as though his time was of no value. Realistically, he’d come unannounced, and people like Jeremy were probably juggling transactions with millions, or billions, of dollars in the balance, so he couldn’t reasonably expect them to drop everything at a moment’s notice. But he was feeling anything but reasonable after a restless night’s sleep, and his headache was threatening to overwhelm his common sense.

He’d had one of his subordinates pull Jeremy’s records, and there had been nothing unusual. A native of Virginia, he’d graduated from Wharton before going to work on Wall Street. Ron’s assistant had left a message for the sheriff of the small town where Ron had grown up, but hadn’t received a return call over the weekend. Ron wasn’t concerned – he already felt like he knew enough to understand what made a privileged banker like Jeremy tick.

When Jeremy arrived with a puzzled expression, Ron was three-quarters of the way through his coffee and preparing to go ballistic. He looked the young man up and down and did his best to choke back his resentment – Jeremy was a good-looking, fit, tanned specimen who radiated intellectual superiority as only the Ivy League graduate offspring of the elite could.

“Yes, Detective…I’m sorry. I didn’t get your name,” Jeremy said, offering his hand.

“Stanford. Ron Stanford,” Ron said, reaching for his badge case instead of shaking. He flipped his credentials out so Jeremy could see them and then put the case back into his pocket. Jeremy nodded, but his expression remained puzzled as he sat down opposite Ron.

“What can I do for you?”

“Might want to close the door so the whole office doesn’t hear our discussion,” Ron said.

Jeremy nodded and reached behind him to push the door closed, and then turned to face Ron again. “Okay, what’s this all about?”

“Where were you on Wednesday night?”

“Why?”

“We’re trying to verify the whereabouts of everyone close to a young woman named Dakota Reed.”

Jeremy held Ron’s stare without flinching. “I see.”

“Look, I’m not here to piss in your Wheaties or ruin your reputation. I ran a background check before I came by, and I know you’re married. But like it or not, I need to clear you from the suspect list. So answer the question: where were you on Wednesday?” Ron repeated, steel in his tone.

“Perhaps I should retain legal counsel.”

“Be my guest. While you’re at it, you can explain to your wife and co-workers why the police are questioning you.”

Jeremy sighed. “I was here Wednesday night. Till about five in the morning. Working on a presentation I have to make in” – he checked his watch – “one hour.”

“You were here the entire time?”

“Other than to grab a snack and a soda, yes.”

“The security desk downstairs. Is it manned twenty-four hours?”

“Of course.”

“How long were you gone when you went out for your snack?”

“I…I don’t know. Maybe – an hour?”

“Why so long?”

“Nothing’s open on Wall Street at that hour. Not that serves anything edible.”

“Where did you go?”

“I just wandered uptown and bought a hot dog from a street vendor. I like walking to clear my head. Gets the blood moving, keeps me sharp.”

“Where was the vendor, exactly?”

“I don’t know. Why?”

“You can’t figure it out?”

Jeremy’s face fell. “Wait. You can’t believe I had anything to do…”

“You’re the boyfriend. Most murders, the killer knows the victim. Crimes of passion.”

“That’s absurd in this case. Anyway, you can check with security.” Jeremy frowned. “Is there anything else?”

Ron held Jeremy’s gaze. “Did you know she was pregnant?”

Ron watched for any tells – a twitch, a sidelong glance, a blink – but got none. “She was?” Jeremy asked, and then broke eye contact. “Good God.”

“You didn’t know?”

“No. Of course not.”

“Where were you the prior Friday?” Ron asked, abruptly switching gears.

“Ten days ago?” Jeremy thought for a moment. “Oh, I was at a fundraiser for the children’s hospital, with my wife.”

“Where?”

“Carnegie Hall. There was a cocktail reception after the concert, and we stayed until, I don’t know, midnight or one o’clock. With about five hundred witnesses.”

“And after?”

“We went home. My wife can testify to that, as can our housekeeper – she put the kids to bed and waited for us to get home.”

After another five minutes of questions, Ron was done. He left Jeremy to his thoughts and showed himself out. Downstairs, he stopped by the security desk, but the guard wasn’t able to pull up any records – only the supervisor could, and he wasn’t there. Ron left his card with the man and exited the building, replaying his interview in his mind as he walked toward the subway. There was something off about Jeremy. Ron had developed a keen appreciation for the abnormal, and Jeremy’s reaction when he’d told him that Dakota had been pregnant was…unsettling. There had been not a trace of empathy or surprise or…anything. Just a veiled stare, completely unreadable.

Ron had no doubt that Jeremy was highly effective at his job if it involved negotiation, because he’d been unable to detect any trace of emotion in the man, only the expected reaction after a moment to consider what might be appropriate.

He had to remind himself to stay on track. Jeremy might have a screw or three loose, but he couldn’t be the Rose Killer. Ron had discharged his obligation to Tess and interviewed him, but at this point the only thing that could be said was that he couldn’t keep his dick in his pants – a sin which many of the masters of the universe on Wall Street were probably guilty of. Ron didn’t like the man, but that had nothing to do with whether he was a murderer, and if the security logs came back verifying his whereabouts, as he suspected they would, Jeremy was a dead end.

Chapter 36

Tess hung up on Ron, angry after their conversation and the information he’d relayed: that Jeremy had an alibi for the night Dakota was killed, which he was in the process of verifying.

“In the process? What does that mean?” she’d snapped.

“It means that there’s no reason not to believe his account, Tess. He’s got an ironclad alibi for the prior murder. Look, I know you think he could be guilty, but it doesn’t hold water. Trust me on this.”

“Sounds like you’re just going down the road you already decided to.”

“I’m going down the road that has the best likelihood of catching the killer, Tess. That’s my job. I’m sorry if that doesn’t match what you think I should be doing.”

“It just seems to me that nobody’s concentrating on Dakota – like her killing is an afterthought. Have you spoken to her roommates yet? The people at the theater or the ballet?”

“I’m going to put a team on it, Tess, but things don’t happen instantly. We have an entire task force, remember? I have to get everyone pulling on the same oar.”

“Which doesn’t involve prioritizing Dakota. I get it, Ron. You tell me her boyfriend is married, which is a motive in neon a mile high, but you have more important things to do than go after him. Did I miss some nuance?”

“Tess…”

“Save it. I’m headed out the door.”

She was fuming at his attitude, even if a part of her recognized the truth of his words. But that didn’t mean she had to be happy about it, and it certainly didn’t mean that she had to sit around and take up quilting instead of further investigating her cousin’s death. And the bombshell about Jeremy being married – there was no way Dakota had known, so he was a lying sack of shit.

Or could she have? Was it possible Dakota knew and didn’t care? Or could he have given her the oldest line in the book: that he was leaving his wife to be with her?

Her phone rang. It was Dianne, Dakota’s roommate, calling. Tess blinked away her fatigue and answered. Dianne’s voice sounded subdued compared to the prior day.

“Hey,” Dianne said. “Sorry it took so long. I slept late, and then I had to go through Dakota’s stuff…”

“No problem. You find anything?”

“Well, yes and no. There was no phone. She must have had it on her.”

“That’s what I was afraid of.” Tess paused. “Anything else?”

“Not really, just some receipts and stuff.”

“For what?”

“Doctor’s visit, some pointe shoes, a flight…”

“A flight?”

“Yeah. To Chicago.”

“When?”

“Next week. We have two days with no performances. I guess she was planning to fly home.”

“That’s weird. She never mentioned it.” Tess hesitated. “What about the doctor?”

“Her gyno. A few days before she…disappeared.” Dianne cursed softly. “Hey, I’m sorry, but I need to run. I can call later if I find anything else.”

“Please do. Oh, wait. When did she book the flight?”

“The day before she was killed.”

Tess disconnected and frowned at her phone. There was nothing suspicious on its face about Dakota buying a plane ticket to visit her mother, but the timing certainly made it seem like she was flying home to talk to her about her pregnancy. Which made sense. That wasn’t the kind of news you broke over the phone.

She remembered Dakota’s mood at lunch, which even at the time Tess had guessed to be related somehow to relationship issues.

Damn. Dakota had told Jeremy. That was it. It had to be. She’d learned about her pregnancy and dropped the bomb at dinner, and he’d freaked, his lie about leaving his wife put to the test.

So he’d killed her. To shut her up.

The only problem being that he had an alibi for the prior murder, so it couldn’t have been him. Unless…

It was a copycat to throw the cops off the scent.

She redialed Ron, who sounded harried when he answered. She told him her theory, and when she was finished, he was silent for several beats. When he spoke, it was obvious that he was struggling to be patient.

“You had her roommate search her room?” he asked.

“You’re not doing it,” Tess countered.

“Tess, I told you to stay out of this.”

“She’s my cousin, Ron. What about my theory?”

“It’s a great one, except that there are a number of things we didn’t let leak about the videos, and the one with Dakota is an exact match for elements only the Rose Killer could know about. Other than that, it’s swell.” Ron grunted. “Which is why I told you to leave this to the professionals, Tess. No disrespect, but we really do know what we’re doing. I know you mean well, but nothing you’re doing is helping.”

Ron’s words stung, and she had no facile retort. Of course they would have already considered the possibility it was a copycat.

“I’m just frustrated, Ron. He’s got to be involved somehow.”

“No, Tess, he doesn’t. I understand how you feel, but that’s why we have to be dispassionate about the case. I can’t allow my emotions to cloud my judgment, and you shouldn’t either. The evidence will lead us to the killer, not our feelings about whether Jeremy is a scumbag or lied to your cousin. I’m sorry. I know you don’t want to hear that, but your theory’s wrong, and my bet is that his alibi will hold up.”

“What if it doesn’t?”

“Then I cross that bridge when I come to it. Tess, I’m sorry, but I have to go. I’ve got a staff meeting starting in a few minutes. I’ll call you later today.”

“Sure, Ron. Do that.”

She resisted the temptation to throw the phone across the hotel room and instead drew deep, measured breaths. She didn’t know which was worse – having Ron talk to her like she was a schoolgirl, or her own disappointment at not having thought about the police keeping elements back from the public. She should have known from her father’s murder, and later, Nick’s, that they would do so.

Tess reached for her tablet and went to Dakota’s Instagram account, where all her selfies were still on display. She choked up at the last photo Dakota had uploaded, taken backstage in makeup as she prepared for a performance, her eyes alight with excitement. Tess scrolled back through her string of photos, each more heartbreaking than the last, some with captions, others only the snap. There was one of herself and Dakota she’d taken at lunch: Dakota throwing a peace sign, Tess smiling, with a caption introducing her bestest cousin in the whole world. Tess spent half an hour aimlessly reviewing her social media and then stopped when she came to a photo of a café with a geotag and a brief description of it as the most romantic morning-after place in the world, just downstairs from her dream man’s apartment.

Tess studied it with narrowed eyes. The location wasn’t that far from the hotel, perhaps ten minutes from Wall Street. The perfect spot for a predator to lure his young lovers for nights of passion. Dakota had obviously fallen for it, never questioning why a wealthy young man would have an apartment in a so-so neighborhood instead of in an upscale building somewhere near the park.

She wasn’t sure what she could do with the information, but with no place to go and nothing to do, maybe she’d go look at the place and nose around. It beat sitting around in a room, agonizing over her predicament, or Ron’s refusal to pull out all the stops to focus on Dakota. She could ride her bicycle over to the café, get some exercise, and think long and hard about how to proceed with him. Their budding relationship, such as it was, had taken a decidedly difficult turn after Dakota’s murder, and she wasn’t sure it would ever get back on track. The chemistry was there, but it took more than mutual attraction to make sparks fly.

And right now, the only sparks flying were the wrong kind.

Chapter 37

The mood in the late morning task force meeting was more optimistic than Friday’s, with two solid possible suspects to research. Ron gave the group a summary of the weekend’s events and then fielded questions from the feds.

“You like this Gunter for it?” Fredericks asked.

“I can go either way. Stibling’s also got big holes in his story,” Ron said. “Although Gunter’s shaping up to look better. I’ve got my people checking the footage from the bridge tollbooth to see whether he lied about the timing of his trip. If he did, the dominoes fall from there. If he didn’t, he’s still not in the clear – we’re checking his cell phone records to see whether he told the truth about his walk. Most people don’t know that their movements are recorded based on when their phones acquire a signal from a new tower.”

“Any word on either?”

“Later today. We’re getting the warrant for the phone. As for the bridge, I have a man going through all the footage, but with multiple lanes, it’s time consuming.”

“Doesn’t that assume he killed her in the city? What if he did it off the island?” Sheila MacLeay asked.

“Then the phone records will show him not crossing into Manhattan when he claims, which should be enough to grill him.”

“It doesn’t bother you that he has no criminal record?” she shot back.

“You tell me. If he’s that smart, he would be able to evade detection, wouldn’t he? We both know most are caught because they do something stupid.” Ron looked around the room. “But I don’t want to get too hung up on Gunter. While he’s promising, so is Stibling. He’s the one who held the party. And it’s his house. So it would be a piece of cake to slip out once he established his alibi – that he was asleep, seen by his staff trundling off to bed – and do the girl in.”

“Only there’s no evidence to corroborate that hypothesis.”

“True, but we’re pulling his cell record as well. Unofficially, in his case. We’ve been warned off from being too aggressive with him because of his standing in the community,” Ron said, the irony in his tone obvious to everyone.

“You think he might have a mole in the department?” Fredericks asked.

“No, but I also know that a prosecutor is far less likely to sign off on us getting his records on a fishing expedition. That’s just the way it works. But there are other ways of skinning that cat.”

“Why are you so convinced he’s dirty?” Fredericks asked.

“There’s something off about him. He got my antennae quivering.”

“Hardly definitive.”

“True. Which is why I haven’t hauled him in. We’ll see what our probe reveals.” Ron eyed MacLeay. “Any further thoughts on the perp?”

“No. I reviewed the new killing. No new information to glean.”

Fredericks sat forward. “We’ve got more detail on how he’s getting the footage to the news stations, but it’s a dead end. He’s streaming from servers in Russia and Croatia, but they appear to be proxy servers. The addresses bounce around, which is typical with child porn rings as well. There’s software that does it automatically, to prevent tracing the feed to the source.”

“So no love there.”

“Afraid not. Although one interesting anomaly – the latest video went to fewer stations, so it’s possible he’s refining his media strategy.”

“Great. Or maybe he’s just mixing it up to avoid any obvious patterns.”

Ben’s phone buzzed and he answered it and, after excusing himself, left the room. The discussion continued, focusing on Dakota’s autopsy and the body dump site. When Ben returned, his expression was serious.

“We identified Gunter’s car on the bridge. It crossed at eleven fifty-two.”

“So far, he’s telling the truth,” Fredericks said.

“Right, but the reason I left was because the screener said that there appeared to be two people in the car, not just Gunter.”

“Two!” Ron said. “Bingo.”

“Yes, but unfortunately the passenger had on a baseball cap, and you can’t make out his or her face.”

“What about the hair?” Fredericks asked.

“Too blurry. The cameras are mainly focused on license plates.”

“He lied about being alone. That should be enough to bring him in again,” Fredericks said.

“And if he says he picked up a hitchhiker? Or gave a casual sexual encounter a ride into town from that side of the river? How do we disprove that? There are plenty of pickup spots on that road,” Ron pointed out. “At which point we’ve tipped our hand. No, we wait for the phone results to see where he went and for how long. That could hang him.”

“Or not,” Fredericks observed.

“We know the approximate time of death for the second victim, and so far he’s still well within the envelope. He’s got, what, three more hours from there to kill her?” MacLeay asked.

Ron nodded. “Sure. But the questions are, where did he do it, and how do we prove it?”

“We find the where, we’ll find evidence,” Fredericks said. “Nobody’s that good.”

“How much longer till we get the phone data?” MacLeay asked.

Ron consulted his watch. “Should be any time.”

“Well, there’s no point sitting in here all day. Call me when you have something,” Fredericks said, standing.

The door opened and a uniformed officer waved a manila folder at Ron. “You wanted these as soon as we got them?” he said.

“Yes. Thanks,” Ron replied, taking the file from him and setting it on the table. He opened it and read the document inside, and then sat back with the beginnings of a grin.

“At six minutes past midnight Gunter’s phone pinged a tower in Chinatown.”

“How far is that from his apartment?” Fredericks asked.

“Too far for him to have walked. He must have driven straight there. See, here he is at the bridge, then uptown, then midtown…and then, to Chinatown.” Ron glanced around the room. “He didn’t drive home. There was no time. He drove somewhere here,” Ron said, tapping a paper printout of the cell towers overlaid on a map of Manhattan. “Where he stayed for an hour and a half before going home, when his cell turned off.”

“Damn. Would have been nice if he’d left it on so we could have tracked him to the church,” Ben said.

“Those are the breaks. But this is a good start. We can prove he lied.” Ron looked to Ben. “Let’s get a dozen men on the street, door-to-door with Gunter’s photo, canvassing the area to see if anyone recognizes him. He’s got to have a stash pad there. Find that, and we cracked the case. We’ll also pull the traffic cams in the area.” Ron rose. “I’ll keep everyone posted, but for now, we have work to do.”

Ben followed Ron out of the meeting and leaned into him as they waited for the elevator. “What do you think?” he asked quietly.

Ron waited until they were inside the elevator and the doors had closed. “I think we’re going to hang his ass out to dry. But I don’t want to jump the gun – we do this by the book, even if it takes a day or two.”

“Want me to put his apartment and gallery under surveillance?”

“You bet. Don’t want him vanishing, although he probably thinks he outsmarted us.”

“He came close.”

Ron frowned. “No cigar for close.”

Chapter 38

Tess chained her bike to a streetlamp down the block from the café and removed her sunglasses as she walked to the entrance. It was a typical hipster hangout, with overstuffed distressed sofas and beat poet photos adorning the walls, all to create the illusion of a time that had long passed and, with it, the innocence that had made it possible. Now, cynical postgrads with neck beards and attitudes of petulant ennui scoured the want ads for minimum-wage jobs while nursing cups of overpriced dark roast harvested by exploited workers in third world hellholes.

Tess stood outside and looked up at the three stories of flats above the café, wondering which window was Jeremy’s love nest. She didn’t know what she’d expected, but she felt no tug, no sense of accomplishment. The café was just another watering hole, the building another brick monolith exactly like the blocks of others that stretched to the river. The afternoon’s ride had been satisfying, and the anxiety had seeped from her body with each mile, leaving her spent and tired as she pushed through the door and into the café, the air redolent of spices and freshly ground coffee beans, the music soft jazz that fit the nostalgic mood of the place.

She ordered a cup of the house brew, loaded it up with chocolate and cinnamon powder, and carried it to a small table with an easy chair in front of it. One of the baristas ambled over with a yellow hand towel and wiped the top of the table, her face tired, clearly signaling that this was the last place on the planet she wanted to be. Tess beamed a smile of gratitude and sat down, wondering if Dakota had sat in the same spot and stared at Jeremy across from her, unaware that every word out of his mouth was a lie.

Tess had decided that there was no way Dakota had known he was married. She was too smart to fall into that trap, too confident in her abilities and the bright path of her future. He’d left that niggling little detail out of his charming overture, she was sure, and Dakota had probably thought she’d won the lottery – a handsome, successful older man had found her fascinating, no doubt paying rapt attention to her every utterance, and had convinced her that he was the piece that was missing from her life.

Resentment swelled in her chest as she imagined the easy lies he’d have told and Dakota’s desire to believe. She’d lacked the cynicism that Tess had from growing up in New York, and had gazed through wide eyes at a world of infinite possibility and wonder. Although perhaps that was overstating her naiveté – she’d been streetwise enough to be doing meth, which didn’t exactly jive with Tess’s image of a delicate hothouse flower loose in the big bad city.

The thought stopped her. Dakota had to have scored the drug somewhere. Maybe it was easily obtainable from other dancers? Or maybe worldly Jeremy had introduced her to the magic crystal after a particularly tiring all-night session of off-the-hook sex?

Tess sipped from her cup and set it on the table. The barista brought her a menu and laid it beside her coffee. “You want to order something?” the woman asked, in an indifferent manner.

“Oh, I didn’t realize you served food,” Tess said, and picked up the menu. “Wow. The breakfasts look great.”

“Yeah, we sell a lot of them.”

“Do you make stuff to go?”

“Sure. We also deliver if it’s nearby, for an additional charge.”

Tess nodded and pretended interest, and then fished her iPhone from her pocket and pulled up one of Dakota’s selfies – one with her hair down, smiling at the camera. “You ever see this girl in here?” Tess asked, holding the screen up so she could see it.

The woman’s expression became guarded as she squinted at it. “Maybe. Why?”

“I’m trying to track her down. This is one of her favorite hangouts.” Tess put a fifty-dollar bill by her cup.

“What’s she done?” the woman asked, eyeing the money.

“Nothing. I’m her cousin. She hasn’t been answering her phone, and I’m getting worried about her.”

“Been a while since she was here, if it’s the same girl. Thin?”

“Oh, definitely. She’s a dancer.”

“That’s what I thought. Has to be the same chick. I seen her with her boyfriend a couple of times, in the mornings. But not for at least a week.”

“Yeah, she said he has a place upstairs.”

“You try there?”

Tess shrugged. “No answer,” she lied.

“Bummer. But you got the right place.” The woman scooped up the cash and pocketed it. “Ready to order?”

“I think I’ll wait for lunch, thanks.”

Tess watched the woman return to her station behind the counter. What had she expected her to say? That she knew Jeremy? That he’d brought an axe into the café and asked her to sharpen it for him? The foolishness of her foray hit her. She was no detective. All she’d managed to do was confirm what she already knew from the web – that the café was downstairs from his place. So what? Or more specifically, now what? Break in? Knock, and when he answered, accuse him of being a serial killer?

All of which assumed that her gut instinct about him was correct, which in turn was based on a grand total of five noisy minutes in a bar and the knowledge that he’d misled her cousin – assuming even that was correct and that Dakota hadn’t known about his marriage.

In other words, an assumption based on a hypothetical based on a hunch.

And now here she was, slurping high-priced drip coffee while playing Nancy Drew.

The absurdity of her presumptions were obvious. No wonder Ron had been hard-pressed to keep a straight face while humoring her. She had no evidence of wrongdoing, no smoking gun, and, in fact, had probably jumped to a completely erroneous conclusion. Ron had said that Jeremy had an alibi for the second victim and what Ron thought was a good one for the night Dakota had been killed. Why did she believe she knew better than the city’s top homicide detective?

The answer was simple: she had a feeling that she couldn’t shake. And regardless of Ron’s qualifications, Dakota was just another case for him, whereas for Tess, it was personal. Perhaps that was misguided, but Tess felt that she had to do something and couldn’t just sit around hoping Ron found Dakota’s killer.

She pulled her cell from her lightweight windbreaker pocket, pulled up the company directory for Regis and Prefect, and scrolled through it until she found Jeremy’s picture. She’d spent an hour that morning researching him, and knew he had a brownstone on the Upper East Side, which would be her next stop. What she could accomplish by riding up there was a fair question; but if nothing else, she wanted a complete picture of his life, which perhaps a glimpse of his home might afford her. She’d promised Ron that she wouldn’t interfere, but there was no law against going for a bike ride, and if she happened to go past Jeremy’s, what harm could come of it?

Tess finished her cup and got to her feet. She felt silly as the barista eyed her from behind the cash register, no doubt chortling over the easiest fifty dollars she’d ever made. Tess walked to the door and pushed her sunglasses onto her forehead, the sun still high in the sky as she swung the door open and stepped out onto the sidewalk. She looked up at the building façade and then crossed to the apartment entryway, where a row of ancient brass buttons formed a tarnished column beneath a battered speaker grid. She searched the entries, but didn’t see Jeremy’s name on them, which made sense – if he was trying to be discreet, he wouldn’t publish his occupancy of the flat.

Tess stepped back from the doorway and moved to the curb, shielding her eyes with her hand as she gazed up at the windows. She frowned and looked at her watch, and then gave up, heading back toward her bicycle with an air of defeat.

Three stories above her, a figure watched from the shadows of a grimy window as Tess unchained the bike from the lamppost and pushed it toward the street. The figure stood motionless, eyes on Tess as she shot into traffic and pedaled like the devil was on her tail.

The trip to the Upper East Side took forty minutes, and Tess was breathing hard when she braked fifty yards down from the brownstone. It was one in a string of stately old homes on the block, occupying slivers of some of the most expensive real estate in the world. She drained the water bottle she’d bought in midtown and wiped the sweat from her brow with her arm as she studied the place without seeming to. Three stories, perhaps twenty-five feet wide, in good repair, bars on the lower windows, and a postage-stamp front stoop.

She was surprised when the door opened and a woman in her fifties came out with a rolling shopping cart. Tess followed her down the street, walking her bicycle, to a neighborhood grocery store two blocks away. She chained her bike outside in a rack and went inside, a vague plan forming in her head as she did so. Maybe she could learn something by an innocent meeting with the housekeeper in the market?

Engineering the encounter wasn’t hard – the woman nearly ran her down as she came around one of the aisles, reading a label on a jar. The housekeeper gave a startled yelp and dropped the container, and Tess leaned forward and caught it before it could shatter on the floor.

“Sorry. I didn’t see you,” the older woman said.

“Oh, no problem,” Tess said as she handed it back. “Say, you look familiar. Are you up on Eighty-Third?”

The woman nodded. “That’s right,” she said guardedly.

“I thought so. I’m on the same street.” Tess smiled. “My name’s Teresa.”

“Oh, well, pleased to meet you. Wendy.”

“You work there, Wendy?” Tess continued.

“That’s right.”

“It looks lovely from outside.”

“They keep it up.”

“Are you full time?”

Wendy blinked twice. “I really don’t think…”

“Oh, it’s none of my business, I know. It’s just that we’re looking for someone who can help with chores – light cleaning, that sort of thing. Never hurts to ask.”

Wendy seemed to relax. “I’m afraid I couldn’t help you. It’s a full-time job.”

“No problem. We only need someone a couple times a week – it’s just my uncle and me. I suppose your people have kids or whatnot?”

“I better be going. Still a lot of shopping to do,” Wendy said, her tone frosty at the probe.

“Of course. Have a good one, and maybe I’ll see you on the street.”

“Sure. Which building did you say you were in?”

“Oh, number fifty-seven. Down the block.”

Wendy nodded. “Nice meeting you.”

“Likewise.”

Tess continued down the aisle, cursing her clumsiness. She hadn’t exactly coaxed a mountain of information out of Wendy, had she? What was she doing, anyway? The whole adventure was foolishness, and she’d done nothing but annoy the housekeeper, judging by the woman’s demeanor.

Tess opened a beverage case on the end cap, grabbed a liter bottle of sport drink, and made her way to the cashier, feeling stupid for having wasted her time and energy on an obvious fool’s errand, while learning nothing. She caught a glimpse of Wendy watching her from the vegetable section and pretended to answer her phone, conscious that she didn’t fit in among the well-groomed patrons of the market with her bike shorts and messenger attire.

She paid for her drink and strode to the door, silently chastising herself for an approach that had all the subtlety of a bull elephant charge. She drained the bottle in a few massive gulps and tossed it in the trash, and then made her way to her bicycle, resigned to leave the sleuthing to Ron from this point forward.

Chapter 39

Greenwich, Connecticut

Charles Stibling sat hunched forward in his office, watching rows of numbers on his screen blink, and they changed color as the Forex markets tracked the performance of currencies, commodities, and markets in twenty-four-hour real time. He had retired from actively managing his fund five years earlier, but still kept his hand in the market with a basket of speculations that kept his mind sharp.

Normal trading hours had long been over, but there was always a casino open somewhere in the world, and his bet on the direction of the Argentine peso was turning out to be more of a winner than he’d hoped, offsetting softness in the Chinese yuan that had been a persistent irritation for him this month. Not that any of it made a material difference in his fortunes – he was rich many times over, so much so that he couldn’t easily calculate the value of all his holdings.

Of course, compared to some of his peers, he was the poor relation, but he’d grown comfortable with his lot in life. He could pick up a phone and reach his congressman on a weekend night; could dictate terms to judges, politicians, and policy makers; knew the heads of the three most influential newspapers; and could read tomorrow’s headlines today, should he so wish. But as he’d aged, much of it had ceased to matter to him, the challenge gone from the game, his destination preordained. Now, when death was no longer a remote possibility at some distant point in the future, but rather a constant probability with each passing day, most of the things that had seemed so desperately important to him as a younger man had faded to triviality.

It seemed unfair that he could accumulate so much and yet would go to his grave taking none of it with him. Lately his thoughts had been increasingly morose, and it was only his fascination with the visceral that kept him waking up each morning. He had three mistresses, all skilled, young, and beautiful, to keep him interested, and his parties to whet his appetites and satiate his desire for more esoteric pleasures. But even that was waning, and the jolt of power that came with watching people humiliate or endanger themselves for his amusement was increasingly inadequate to counter the inexorable wearing by the hands of time on what remained of his soul.

Stibling eyed the clock in the corner of his screen, tapped in a few commands, pressed the return key on his keyboard, and powered down the monitor, ever thrifty in spite of his wealth. There was no reason to consume electricity if he wasn’t going to be there, and he was scheduled to have dinner with the governor and a host of vultures who passed for the state’s venerated elders. The occasion was to honor returning veterans by a donation to the governor’s wife’s pet charity, which was long on rhetoric but short on any actual interaction with the nation’s fighting men. But it gave the ghastly woman something to do while her husband cut deals and did business that lined his pockets at the expense of his constituents, in the time-honored tradition of his predecessors.

Stibling donned his dress jacket and checked his appearance in the antique mirror his dearly departed wife had overpaid for – part of her collection of junk he’d just as soon dump in the river as have cluttering his house. Yet some part of him had been unable to rid himself of the artifacts, as though she exercised control over him from the grave.

He thought he looked good for his age, although nowhere nearly as young as he felt. Another unfair trick of time: that he believed himself to still be relatively young and vital, in spite of the geriatric apparition that stared back at him. His rational mind knew it was a lie, yet some part of him that still sheltered hope insisted with vigor that he’d been excluded from the laws of nature by virtue of his exceptional constitution and innate superiority.

The dichotomy amused him in a dark way, although he found himself questioning his reasoning more and more, wary of the inevitable softening of the brain that he despised in the aged, the slow slide to infantilism that he’d hated in many of his peers. That the mighty could be brought low by the failure of their shells to remain viable seemed the height of unfairness; not that he’d ever believed the universe to be anything approaching just.

“I just thought I’d get a hall pass,” he whispered at his image, and then winked, determined to whistle by that particular graveyard another night.

His driver, Monroe, was behind the wheel of the Mercedes parked in the circular driveway, its ebony paint gleaming in the moonlight. At the sight of light from the front entrance, he leapt from the driver’s side and trotted around to open Stibling’s rear door.

“Good evening, sir,” Monroe said, in his deep gravelly voice.

“Evening. I’m late.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll do my best to trim what time I can from the trip.”

“Excellent.”

The big car pulled away and the iron gates opened. The street beyond was dark, unlit by the estate homes in Stibling’s enclave, which were set far back from the road, each its own compound complete with outbuildings and servants’ quarters. Monroe gave the heavy vehicle gas, and it accelerated almost soundlessly along the smooth pavement, floating along the surface like a hovercraft.

“What the–” Monroe cried as a black van shot from behind a tree and cut off the Mercedes, forcing it to a stop on the deserted street. Two men in dark clothes, with ski masks pulled over their heads, jumped from the rear and approached the Benz, suppressed pistols in their hands.

“Get us out of here,” Stibling ordered, and Monroe was already fumbling for the transmission paddle when a second vehicle screeched to a stop behind them, blocking the car’s escape.

The nearest gunman leveled his pistol at Monroe’s head and yelled at him, “Unlock the doors. Only gonna say it once.”

Monroe stared down the barrel at certain death and swallowed a knot as he reached for the lock button. Stibling sat forward. “No.”

The gunman leaned his head away from the window so the shot wouldn’t spray glass and blood on him. Monroe read the intention in his eyes and unlocked the vehicle.

The second assailant threw open the rear door and motioned with his weapon at Stibling. “Out of the car, pops. Now.”

“You’ll never get away with this,” Stibling said, his voice soft and measured.

“You better hope we do, or you’ll be the first to eat it. Now out of the car, or I’ll blow your kneecaps off.”

Stibling climbed from the comfort of the rear seat, and the gunman pushed him roughly toward the van. “Get in. Come on, we ain’t got all night.”

“If this is a kidnapping, there’s nobody to call. But I can work it out with you…” Stibling tried.

“I’ll bet you can.” He motioned with his gun. “I said get in.”

Once in the back of the van, a third man pulled a black cloth sack over Stibling’s head, and then searched him before clasping his wrists behind his back with handcuffs. Stibling remained silent, seeing nothing to be gained by protesting – and a suspicion was growing that he knew what this was all about, in which case there was nothing to say to these men.

Forty minutes later, the van rolled through the open cargo door of a warehouse delivery bay and came to a stop. The door closed behind it and the men exited the vehicle, unceremoniously dragging Stibling with them. They manhandled him to a cinder-block chamber in the rear of the space and sat him in a wooden chair near the back wall, his hands still bound behind him. He felt his legs being tied to the legs of the chair, and then one of his captors jerked the bag from his head and stared at him for a long beat.

“Picked on the wrong guy, dipshit,” the man growled, and then he was gone. The echo of the steel door slamming behind him reverberated off the concrete walls with the finality of a gunshot, leaving Stibling alone, the only sounds those of rats scuttling in the dark corner of the vault and the drip of water on the floor from a leaking overhead pipe.

Chapter 40

Ben’s radio hissed static as he pulled to the curb outside a closed bar in Chinatown a block from where plainclothes officers were canvassing the area from which the last signal from Gunter’s phone had emanated. Ron gulped down the rest of his tepid coffee and adjusted his sunglasses against the morning light.

“He still at his flat?” Ron asked.

“Yep. Hasn’t moved since yesterday.”

“Does his gallery have hours posted?” Ron asked.

“No, it only says by appointment only. So if he wants to sleep in, he can.”

“I want to fry this guy.”

“That makes two of us.”

They got out of the car and walked past a group of loitering youths, who had the good sense to stay quiet at the sight of Ben’s expression. Ron checked the time and coughed, having spent yet another lousy night tossing and turning. Tess hadn’t answered when he’d called the prior evening. He intuited that she was angry with him, but there wasn’t much he could do about it.

Earlier he’d gotten a call from the security supervisor at Jeremy’s building, who had been out sick the day before. The man had sheepishly apologized and read him the results of Jeremy’s card key – Jeremy had indeed been working until four in the morning, but his quick trip for a snack had actually been two full hours, from eleven thirty to one thirty.

Not that it mattered now – Gunter had painted himself into a corner with his lies, and all that remained was to locate where he’d driven with his passenger. They approached a stocky man in an overcoat with a face that looked like it had been beaten with a meat hammer, who nodded a greeting as he puffed on a stub of cigar.

“Detectives,” the man said.

“Larson, got anything?” Ben asked.

“No luck. At that hour all the stores are closed here, except for a couple of bars on the next block. So far, same story from everyone we’ve asked – nobody recognizes his picture.”

“Damn. We know he was here,” Ron said, surveying the street.

“Yeah, well, hard to pull a search warrant if you aren’t sure where you need to search,” Larson said. “We’re not done yet, but it isn’t looking great.”

“You’re asking about the car, too? Anthracite Audi wagon?”

“Of course. No takers.”

Larson resumed smoking and glowering as his men worked the street. Ben ducked into a restaurant and emerged with two more cups of coffee, ensuring that Ron’s nerves would remain jarred from caffeine and sleep deprivation. He felt a definite sense of urgency – tonight would be the fifth since Dakota’s murder, which meant that if Gunter wasn’t the killer, they’d learn the hard way when a fourth tape surfaced. Ron doubted that was the case, but you never knew until you had all the evidence; and right now, promising as the situation looked, it wasn’t airtight. Ron took a sip from his steaming cup. When his phone rang, he almost spilled it down his front, and he held the coffee away from himself as he answered.

“Stanford.”

“Ron, it’s Tess. Did I get you at a bad time?”

“Tess! No, not at all. I tried to reach you yesterday…”

“I know. I was charging my phone, and I had it off. Sorry.”

“No problem. I…I just wanted to tell you that I checked on Jeremy’s alibi, and he was at work.” Ron saw no reason to trouble her with the nuance of Jeremy’s two-hour disappearance. “But we’re closing in on the perp. I can’t say anything more, but we’re really close.”

“You are?” Tess asked, sounding unsure. “That’s great, I guess. Can you tell me who it is?”

“Not yet. But hopefully in a few hours.”

“Huh. Well, crap. I thought I’d made a breakthrough yesterday.”

“Yeah? What was that?”

Tess told him about Jeremy’s apartment. Ron kept his voice steady when he responded. “I thought we agreed you wouldn’t get involved, Tess.”

“I just dug around on the web, Ron. Nothing you couldn’t have done,” she said, leaving that he hadn’t bothered to do so unsaid. “Anyhow, no harm.”

Larson called to Ron from where he was talking to an old man in coveralls who was leaning on a mop. Ron nodded and waved. “Tess, I have to go. Promise me you won’t do any more digging until we get a chance to talk.”

“Nothing else I can think of doing, so you’re safe there, Ron.” She paused. “Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

He pocketed his phone and ignored Ben’s curious look. They walked together to Larson, who introduced the old man. “This is Arnold. He’s a maintenance guy for this building. Arnold, tell Detective Stanford here what you told me.”

“I knows that guy, is all. He come in now and then. Rents one of the units in the back of the place next door,” Arnold said.

“Yeah? Can you show us which one?” Ron asked.

“Well, that ain’t my property. Don’t wanna trespass on Mrs. Finnegan’s place.”

“I’m sure she won’t mind. Just show us. That’s all.”

Arnold nodded, his expression unsure. “Got to go down this little way here. Units are down the back. It’s locked at night.”

Ron and Ben exchanged a glance. “But open now?”

“Mrs. Finnegan comes down here every day just like clockwork at eight to open it. Locks it back up at five.”

“The tenants have a key to the front gate?”

“I ’spect so, but can’t say for sure. Have to ask her.”

Arnold led them down a narrow alley to a turn-of-the-century courtyard that had seen better days. Four black steel doors looked out on the little plaza. Ron glanced up at the windows overhead, two of which were broken. “Anybody live up there?”

“No, building’s condemned. But they’s fighting in court for years.”

“Which one is our friend’s unit?” Ron asked.

Arnold pointed at the second one with a gnarled finger, the nail bed stained black with grime. “That’s the one.”

“You have Mrs. Finnegan’s phone number?” Ben asked.

“I ’spect I do back in my place.”

“Let’s go call her, shall we?” Ben suggested, and Arnold nodded.

Ron was already on the phone to headquarters to get a warrant started as they trooped back to the street. Larraby was in, and Ron could practically hear the backflip when he gave him the address and described what he wanted. “I’m going to see if we can get the landlady to open up, but put a rush on the warrant, Captain,” Ron said.

“I’ll have one within the hour.”

Mrs. Finnegan’s phone went straight to voice mail, leaving Ron and his team waiting for Larraby to make good on his promise. An hour and a half later, a squad car braked in front of the building and a uniform handed Ron a warrant. Ron read it and nodded in satisfaction, and then he, Ben, Larson, and a pair of heavily muscled cops returned to the storage units, with bolt cutters for the industrial padlock securing the door.

The lock’s hasp gave way with a loud pop, and Ron slid the bolt open, latex gloves on his hands. Ben took photos as he pulled the steel barrier up and their eyes adjusted to the darkness inside. Ron moved to the side and flipped a light switch mounted on the wall, and they found themselves facing a ten-foot-wide by twenty-foot-deep space with a bare concrete floor and mildewing walls.

“You getting this?” Ron asked as he pointed to the items neatly stacked in one corner. “Garbage bags, a tripod, lights, a stereo, duct tape…”

“Seems like our boy, huh?” Ben said.

“Depends on what forensics can find, but I’d say it doesn’t look good for him, does it?”

“I’ll call forensics,” Ben agreed.

“And I’ll string the crime scene tape,” Larson said, his voice even grittier than earlier.

Ron nodded and took in the space. If they were lucky, there would be trace evidence – hair, blood residue, something definite. Now it was up to the techs. Ron turned to Larson. “Not a word of this to anyone. Talk to your men. Any reporters show up, they’re all going to be up on charges. The perp is still out there.”

“I’ll shoot ’em myself if they so much as whisper about it,” Larson agreed, and Ron believed the man.

Ben murmured to Ron in a low voice, “Too bad they did away with the chair, huh? I see shit like this, and I want to let the victim’s family chop the bastard up as payback.”

Tess’s face popped into Ron’s mind, and he nodded. “Too bad indeed. Let’s hope the techs strike gold.”

Chapter 41

The light from the overhead fluorescent bulb flickered sporadically as Stibling considered his escape options. The chair was wood, which meant that if he was able to exert enough pressure on its joints, he might be able to break it apart. He could then free his legs, and using one of the bent nails that held the chair together, open the cuffs. From there, he would be able to open the door, which as far as he could tell wasn’t locked, and slip to safety.

It was a good plan and an appealing narrative, other than for the fact he’d never done anything of the kind in his life. But he’d built a fortune from nothing, using only his wits, and if he could do that, something this simple had to be within his power.

His rumination was interrupted by the opening of the door. His face froze when Paulo entered, accompanied by an older man with the dour countenance of a mortician.

“You…” Stibling hissed.

“You seem surprised to see me. There’s an old expression: don’t send a boy to do a man’s job. Next time, hire someone competent if you want to kill me.”

Stibling remained silent. Paulo took several steps toward him and spit on the cement floor before speaking again. “That’s right. The Russians gave you up. They told me about the contract. You really thought you could flip my switch? And worse, that there wouldn’t be repercussions? You have no idea who you’re dealing with, do you?”

“You’re blackmailing me. I had you followed. You brought all this on yourself.”

“Very clever of you. But here’s the problem: you come after me, you come after my entire organization. Which means you now need to make amends to my people.” Paulo looked to the older man by his side. “What do you think?”

“I think he’s put us through a lot of grief,” the man growled.

“I haven’t done anything but defend myself,” Stibling insisted. “He’s extorting me. What was I supposed to do?”

The man nodded slowly. “How much were you paying him?”

“Hundred grand a month.”

The man looked to Paulo. “Nice piece of change.”

Paulo shrugged. “You get your slice.”

“Well, today’s your lucky day,” the man said, returning to Stibling. “I’m feeling generous, and it’s obvious that this is all a misunderstanding.”

“That’s right,” Stibling agreed. “He started it. I would have no fight with your group if not for his actions.”

“Fine. The payment’s now double. Two hundred grand a month.” The man eyed Paulo. “One for us, one for you. That work?”

“I can make it on that,” Paulo agreed.

“What! Are you mad? That’s two and a half million a year!” Stibling exclaimed. “For what?”

“For us to remain silent about your depraved lifestyle, you old pervert,” Paulo snarled. “And to make up for the trouble you’ve caused.”

“Never,” Stibling declared.

The older man took a slow step forward and fixed Stibling with a glacial stare. “You’re a rich man. It’s not the money, is it?”

“I don’t bend over for anyone,” Stibling said.

“I respect a man with principles,” the older man agreed. “It’s good to have standards. But those come at a cost. You don’t agree to pay, this is out of my hands – and then Paulo here has to even the score in a more…permanent way. I should warn you, I’ve seen him break a man’s legs, hobble him so he never walked right again, over a lot less. You’re a little long in the tooth to be pushed around in a chair for the rest of your life, aren’t you?”

“Or pissing blood in a bag,” Paulo added with a grin.

The older man nodded. “Tell you what, tough guy. You think about it a little. What I’ve proposed is just some numbers on a spreadsheet. What he’ll do to you is real-world, pipe-hitting ugly. If it was me, I’d be asking who to make the check out to. But you want to walk around on sticks the rest of your life – and still have to pay him – that’s your call.” He paused, looking Stibling up and down. “What’s the point of being rich if you can’t buy yourself a little safety and comfort? Think it over. You’re not going to get a second chance. Me, I could use a little beer money, so I hope you choose wisely, but even if you don’t, I’ve decided you’re still gonna pay the two hundred jings. So get that through. Only question is whether you do it in one piece or broken into splinters.”

Paulo chuckled. “And another thing. You get any more bright ideas like taking out a contract on me, you’re going down. I can get to you anywhere, at any time. Want to try me? It’ll be the last thing you ever do. After this, I’ll know about it before you even make the call. You read me?”

Stibling scowled at the pair as they returned to the door. The older man turned to him as he pulled it wide, enabling Stibling to confirm that it had no bolt or lock he could see. “Don’t be a dumbass. You’ve been handed a miracle. Shouldn’t take that lightly.”

The door slammed, leaving Stibling seething with fury. How dare those goombahs try to play their dockworker games with him! He could have them wiped from the face of the earth and leave nothing more than a skid mark where they’d stood, while he spent a year in the Mediterranean with a pair of lovelies to soothe his spirits. Of course it wasn’t about the money. Nothing in life ever was. It was about power, and Stibling bowed to nobody.

He strained his legs against the bindings and felt the chair creak beneath him. That was promising. The dolts had underestimated him, which they would come to regret. He shifted and pushed against the chair back with his upper body and felt it shift slightly, which encouraged him further. He repeated the process until he could rock the chair back and forth, and after doing so twice in a row, kicked his right leg as hard as he could, ignoring the cord cutting into his ankle.

The chair leg gave with a snap, and Stibling went over, falling sideways. His head struck the cinder-block wall and his neck snapped with a crack. He landed on his side, unable to breathe as a stain spread on his hand-tailored Italian suit trousers. The light faded until it was a tiny glow at the end of a long, dark tunnel, and a sound like rushing wind was the last thing he heard.

Paulo and his boss threw open the door at the sound of the crash, and froze on the threshold at the sight of Stibling on the ground, his head twisted at an impossible angle, his face cyanotic from lack of oxygen. The old man glared at Paulo and shook his head.

“Get this mess cleaned up and get rid of the body. So much for that. Stupid bastard could have walked away.”

“What about the driver? He won’t have reported anything, but that can only last so long.”

The old man nodded thoughtfully. “Take him out. We can’t afford that kind of heat. Guy like this is way too connected. They’ll move mountains to find him.”

Paulo grunted assent and called out behind him, “Gino. Tony. Got another one for the meat grinder.”

Chapter 42

Gunter peered through his blinds at the pair of men sitting in a brown sedan a dozen yards from his building, taking care to stand back so they couldn’t make out his silhouette in the window. They’d been there the better part of the afternoon, which Gunter had spent indoors, fortifying himself with Vicodin and meth, his three-day bender still exacting a terrible vengeance in aches and pains.

He hadn’t heard from Paulo for a couple of days, for which he was grateful, but now he was worried. Paulo had warned him of the consequences of late payment, and Gunter had been unable to make this week’s. Gunter had called and left a message, explaining that business had been lousy but that he had several huge prospects for this week, and had hoped that would be the end of it. But now, with a pair keeping him under surveillance, he wondered whether he’d underestimated the threat.

The drugs had him on edge, and he felt paranoid from the speed, which the pain meds usually tempered. He padded to his medicine cabinet and swallowed a Xanax and, after assessing his mood, took another. A coil of anxiety threatened to strangle him, and he knew from experience that the only way out of the trap was with tranquilizers.

Gunter debated making another call to Paulo, but dismissed it when his hands began shaking uncontrollably at the thought. He was in no shape to do anything, which was why he was staying indoors, trying to stair-step himself down from his binge with vodka and drugs – always a delicate balance, and one he might have misjudged this time. He stumbled to his bedroom, and it was all he could do to crawl into bed and pull the covers over his head, his temples pounding, throat burning with sour bile.

He’d promised himself that he wouldn’t overdo his chemical fortification after the last few weeks of excess, but his resolve had been insufficient to overcome the compulsive drive to alter his state. He’d gone through periods like this in the past, but never as intense as the latest one, and if he had been capable of regret, he would have been genuinely remorseful. Part of the problem was that he suffered from disassociation, where it seemed like he was viewing himself from outside his body – and the only way he could feel real, immediate, was when he was stoned or engaging in high-risk behavior or, usually, both. Only the intensity of the rush could ground him, and he wondered what it must be like to be normal – to feel things on an everyday basis, to be capable of emotions other than anger or fear.

Ron and Ben approached the front entrance of Gunter’s building with six other plainclothes detectives for backup. They’d discussed bringing in a SWAT team to take Gunter down, but Ron had pushed for a low-profile approach. The forensics techs had dusted his storage facility, and one of them had come up with a grisly piece of memorabilia when checking the toilet for an apparent blockage: part of the first victim’s dental plate, stuck in the pipe.

That had cinched the deal, and Ron had organized Gunter’s apprehension. After verifying that he hadn’t left the flat, Ben had summoned his most dependable colleagues, and they’d gathered for the arrest, grateful that the area was sparsely trafficked in the late afternoon, most of the residents still at work.

An ingress specialist made short work of the front door lock, and they crept up the stairs, weapons drawn, Ron in the lead. At Gunter’s door he stepped aside, and two of the detectives, who were carrying a handheld battering ram, took the door off its hinges with a single blow of the heavy device. Ben and Ron rushed inside, followed by the others, to find Gunter staring at them from the bed as he reached toward his bedside table.

“Police. Freeze,” Ron called out. Gunter’s eyes widened at the sight of the Glock pointed at his head, and he did as instructed.

Ben moved toward the bedroom doorway, pistol trained on him. “Nice and easy. Hold still,” he said.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Gunter demanded. His words were slurred, his gaze blurry and unfocused, and Ben continued his approach while the others covered him.

“Hands up. Slowly,” Ron ordered when they were all inside the room, and Gunter held them high. Ben had him turn over, face down, and then cuffed him, flipped him onto his back, and read him his Miranda rights. When he was done, Gunter stared at Ron with a blank expression. “Get him out of here,” Ron said.

“You’re making a terrible mistake,” Gunter said, but Ron waved him away.

“Sure I am.”

A detective called to Ron from the front room. “Stanford, check this out. Man’s a regular pharmacy,” he said, pointing to a small glass pipe beside several baggies of methamphetamine.

Ron nodded. “Don’t touch anything. Secure the area, and let’s get the techs in here and do a room by room search after the warrant comes through.”

Ben nodded. “You got it.”

Ron accompanied Gunter to the precinct and supervised his processing. When he was printed and photographed and searched, Ron had him brought to an interview room. Ben had returned from the flat, a senior detective now in charge of the minutiae of the search, and the two of them sat across from Gunter, who looked out of it, still stoned from the powerful cocktail he’d taken.

“We found a dental plate down the toilet at your place in Chinatown,” Ron said, by way of opening.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Gunter managed.

“I’m sure your plentiful prints inside will convince a jury otherwise. That’s enough to guarantee you get burned.”

“I have nothing to say.”

“No sweat. Notice I’m not asking you any questions? Because we have you dead to rights.”

“Then what are you doing here?” Gunter asked.

“Giving you a chance to make a statement.”

“Why would I do anything but ask for an attorney?”

Ron glanced at Ben. “Come on. He’s out of it.”

They stood and Ben reached for the knob.

“Detective,” Gunter said as he was opening the door.

“What?” Ron asked.

“I have an alibi.”

“Yeah, we heard it.”

“No. For the last one.”

“Sure you do.”

Gunter shrugged. “Think what you like. But you’ve got the wrong man. I couldn’t have done it.”

“Do you not understand that we found half a jaw stuck in your toilet? How dumb are you, anyway?” Ben snarled.

Gunter eyed Ron. “For the sake of conversation, what would I gain by making a statement?”

Ron walked back to the table. “Besides clearing your conscience? For starters, there’s no death penalty in New York, so if you’re charged by the state, you’re looking at life. But if this is changed to federal murder charges, that can get the chair. I decide which way that goes.”

“Why would this be federal?” Gunter asked.

“If the victim’s related to a police officer, that upgrades it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The first victim. Connie Vance. Her father is a New Jersey cop. You just hit the jackpot, Gunter.”

Gunter digested the news. “They’ll find me insane, you know.”

“I don’t care, buddy. I’ve done my job. You want to roll those dice, you really are nuts.”

Gunter nodded. “How did you find the storage facility? It’s not in my name.”

“Your attorney will tell you when the evidence is turned over to him.”

Gunter pursed his lips. “You’re not being very forthcoming. Hardly a way to solicit cooperation.”

“We have the camera. Remains of at least one of the victims. You’re cooked, Gunter. You have nothing to offer me, and I can decide whether this is state or federal. I don’t have to be forthcoming. You want something from me, not the other way around.”

“Then I think I want my attorney.”

Ron frowned. “Why am I not surprised?”

When Ron exited the room, Larraby was waiting, a smile on his face. “Stanford, you did it! You’re a hero again. The mayor wants to talk to you – he’s on his way down.”

“Great. Captain, we should discuss this before we make any announcements…”

“Too late. Somebody leaked to the media. We’ve got a press conference in an hour.”

Ron took the captain by the arm and led him down the hall. Ben lingered behind, leaving the two men to themselves. When Ron spoke, his voice was soft.

“He’s not going to confess, and he claims he didn’t kill the last girl. Making any kind of a statement is premature. We need more time.”

“I appreciate that, but we don’t have any more. Like I said, things are in motion.” Larraby studied his face. “You look like shit. When was the last time you slept?”

“A while ago.”

“Borrow a razor from someone, and some Visine. I need you on your game.”

“He’s calling his lawyer.”

“Doesn’t matter. He’s guilty, and we can prove it. Thanks to your excellent work, Detective.”

“We should wait until we have more evidence.”

“Don’t worry. It’s out of your hands now. You and the task force did an admirable job. This has to be some kind of a record for a complex case like this getting solved.”

“It’s a mistake to say anything other than that an arrest has been made.”

“I appreciate your sentiment. It’s duly noted. But you’ve been outvoted.” Larraby cleared his throat. “Let’s reconvene in my office in twenty minutes. The mayor will be here by then, and we can hash out the details of my statement.”

“Captain…”

Larraby frowned. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep it vague. This isn’t my first rodeo.”

“It’s not you I’m worried about. It’s the mayor.”

“At least we see eye to eye on that. Twenty minutes, my office.” Larraby eyed him again. “And for God’s sake, borrow a tie.”

Chapter 43

The press conference was excruciating for Ron, who was paraded out like a trained chimp on cue as Larraby and the mayor doled out praise. Ron remained silent throughout the proceeding, as he and the captain had agreed he would, and tried not to visibly cringe when the mayor declared victory over crime in his typically overblown manner.

During the question-and-answer session after the prepared statements, virtually all the interrogatives were directed at Ron, who offered nothing but his stock “no comment.” The journalists, sensing no blood in the air, quickly tired of his noncommittal stonewalling and packed up shop.

When Ron left the room, Ben was waiting for him. The younger man eyed the mayor and Larraby, who were congratulating each other for a job well done, and spoke softly to Ron.

“Gunter wants to deal.”

Ron’s left eyebrow rose. “Really? What about his lawyer?”

Ben shrugged. “He asked for another meeting.”

“Then let’s get to it.”

Fifteen minutes later, Gunter was back at the steel table, staring at Ron and Ben with eyes the color of molten lead. Ron switched on his voice recorder and announced the date and time before looking to Gunter.

“Well?”

“I’m prepared to answer questions about your first two killings, presuming you agree that all the crimes will be prosecuted as state crimes, not federal,” Gunter said.

“What about your attorney?”

“I’ve reconsidered. So what about state versus federal?”

“Assuming you confess to the murders, that’s how we’ll play it.”

“Fine. Ask away.”

Ron cleared his throat. “Did you murder Connie Vance?”

“That’s the first girl, correct?”

“Yes.”

Gunter nodded. “Yes, I did.”

“Why?”

“I wanted to make a statement about the society we live in, and that is the medium I chose to make it with.”

“By torturing and butchering an innocent woman?”

“When tens of thousands of innocents are killed by American bombs, is that not much the same thing? Or do you make a distinction between those innocents and this one? If so, why?”

“It’s not the same at all, and we both know it.”

“If you believe that, you’re part of the problem. I had given you more credit than that,” Gunter said.

“Describe the video,” Ron demanded, holding his temper.

Gunter spent the next three minutes describing the footage in excruciating detail. When he was done, Ron nodded again. “Did you murder the second victim, Cindy Kerrick?”

“Was that her name? Huh. I knew her as Dusty. A particularly unctuous bit of work.”

“Did you kill her?”

“Of course I did. Good Lord, you’re dim. Is this really necessary? I’m quite sure you’ll find enough evidence for even your kind to piece it together.”

“Then you admit it.”

“I just did, didn’t I?”

“Why the church? Describe the scene,” Ron instructed.

Gunter rolled his eyes. “I put her corpse on the altar. Drew a pentagram with her blood. Positioned her head in the rafters so it was staring down at her in judgment.” Gunter smiled, and the effect was ghastly. “Rather nice composition, if I say so myself.”

“What’s the significance? Are you a Satan worshiper?”

“Haven’t you ever heard of ironic juxtaposition? The power of symbolism?”

“Why don’t you tell me about it?”

Gunter launched into a long, rambling monologue on the brutalizing effect of groupthink and consensus belief, and finished with a tirade against the mainstream media and the deadening effect of postmodernism and moral relativism.

When he was done, Ron sat back. “Sounds like you’ve given this a lot of thought,” he said.

“Somebody has to.”

“Been mulling it over for a long time, have you?” Ron asked. “You were never tempted to make a film before these?”

Gunter laughed. “Why, Detective, if I didn’t know you better, I’d say you were trying to trick me into confessing to more crimes. Tsk-tsk. Don’t be greedy, sweetie. Eat your pudding like a good little boy and say thank you.”

Ron’s expression didn’t change. “Let’s talk about the third victim. Dakota Reed.”

“I already told you, that wasn’t my work. I’ve never met the woman, much less seen the vid.”

“It was identical to your other pieces.”

“Derivative tripe by a poseur. Life imitates real art.” Gunter shrugged. “Believe what you like. If you were stupid enough to be taken in by a faker, that’s not my fault.”

Ron swallowed back a sharp retort. “Do you have an alibi?”

“What night was it again?”

Ron took a deep breath. “Wednesday.”

“Ah, well, yes, I do. That night I was out on the town, and I met a positively gorgeous fellow who wanted a walk on my wild side. We were together until the sun came up, among other things.”

“You have a name for this Adonis, I presume?” Ben asked.

Gunter waved the question away. “Names are unimportant when romance is in the air. But I seem to remember it was Tom. Real straightlaced, nothing a bit girly about him.”

“You can probably appreciate that a mystery man named Tom isn’t an alibi. Where did you meet him? What’s his contact info?” Ben pressed.

“At a watering hole where like-minded boys get into trouble. The End Up. Down in the Village, near Hudson and Charles. As to his contact info, I’m afraid I don’t have it on me.” Gunter rattled his cuffs.

“Last name?” Ron asked.

Gunter shook his head. “Don’t ask, don’t tell.” He thought for a moment. “I do recall I might have snuck one of his cards out of his wallet, though. It’s all a little foggy. We were pretty wrecked that night.”

“And where would that card be?”

“Somewhere in my flat, of course.” Gunter shrugged. “Does it really matter?”

“Not at this point,” Ron agreed, and stood. “Anything more to add?”

“I could use some moisturizing cream for my hands.” Gunter giggled. “It puts the lotion…”

Ron and Ben exited the room, leaving Gunter for the uniforms to escort back to a holding cell. Ron’s expression was stormy, and Ben elbowed him lightly.

“Relax. Sick bastard’s just F-ing with you, trying to get under your skin,” the younger man said.

“I don’t know. Why concoct that entire story?”

“Because he’s bored, and he’s pissed you caught him. Remember he considers himself to be a big brain, and all of us, peons. You can see he’s still puzzled about how the likes of us peasants could have possibly found him out. So he decides to send you on a wild-goose chase for his private amusement.”

Ron’s brow furrowed. “Maybe. But it deserves a follow-up.”

“Techs are still at his apartment. Want me to call over there?”

Ron shook his head. “No, that’s okay. I was going to swing by anyway.”

Larraby turned the corner. “There you are!”

“Captain?” Ron said.

“The desk told me you’re interrogating the prisoner?”

Ron nodded. “It’s my case, isn’t it?”

“Why? I thought we had enough to hang him.”

“I got a confession out of him, that’s why.”

Larraby’s mouth dropped open. “You did?”

“For the first two, anyway. He denies he killed the third victim. I’m going to follow up on his alibi.”

Larraby frowned. “We’ve got him cold. Doesn’t matter whether he admits to the last one or not. He’s toast.”

“Yes, but there’s a slim chance he’s telling the truth.”

Ben cleared his throat. “Not much of one. I think he’s messing with Ron’s head.”

Ron shot Ben a glare. “If you gentlemen are done, I was just leaving.”

Ron walked away. The captain and Ben watched him depart, the only sound in the empty corridor the thump of his heels on the linoleum floor as he made his way to the security desk.

Chapter 44

Ron called Tess on the cab ride to Gunter’s flat and was happy when she answered her cell.

“Hi, Tess. Ron. Sorry I’ve been so swamped.”

“I just saw a news report – you captured the Rose Killer?”

“Yes. Which is why I’ve been out of pocket. Sometimes a case heats up unexpectedly like this one did, and you have to hit the afterburners and drop everything else.”

“Oh, I understand. It said it’s some guy named Gunter?”

“Yes. Connected to the sex parties. He’s an art dealer down by the Bowery.” Ron paused. “Did Dakota have any connection to the art scene?”

“Not that I know of.”

“No friends who were involved? I’d think that would be a natural for a dancer. Traveling in the same circles…”

“Nope. I mean, anything’s possible. It’s obvious I knew less than I thought about her, based on the drugs and the pregnancy.” Tess hesitated. “I guess congratulations are in order.”

“Well, I’m still following up on a few loose ends.” Ron pointed to the right and the taxi driver pulled over. “What are you up to this evening? You eaten dinner yet?” Ron tried.

“No.”

“Want to hook up and grab a bite? My schedule’s abruptly opened up…”

“What time were you thinking?”

“Couple of hours or so.”

“That would work,” Tess said.

Ron wondered why her tone was so distant. “Is everything okay?”

“I guess so. I’m just…I’m confused. I don’t know how to feel. I mean, you caught him, which is wonderful, but that he’s a complete stranger…I was so sure Jeremy was involved.”

“Why don’t I pour booze down your throat, force you to eat some fancy food, and I can tell you all about it?”

Her voice softened. “That’s the best offer I’ve had in a long time, Ron. You’re on.”

“I’ll call you when I’m done, okay?”

“Perfect.”

Ron disconnected, paid the driver, and made his way to Gunter’s building, where the forensics van and two police cars were parked at the curb. Ron nodded to one of the cops standing on the stoop drinking coffee and climbed the stairs to the second floor. Two more uniforms bookended Gunter’s door, and their conversation hushed as he drew near.

“Evening, gentlemen,” Ron said as he brushed past them.

“Detective.”

The techs were in the bedroom, and the film of dust on the living room surfaces told him that they were done in that area. He called to them as he neared. “You happen to see a business card lying around?”

A woman in her late twenties glanced up from where she was working with a camera, documenting the bedroom’s contents while her partner dusted for prints. “A few. Anything specific you’re looking for?”

“Someone named Tom.”

The tech gave him an odd look and then snapped her fingers. “That actually rings a bell. There’s one in a small bundle on the desk out there, by the phone. Top one, I believe.”

“Mind if I look it over?”

“We’re finished in there. Knock yourself out.”

Ron moved to the desk and found the cards bundled with a rubber band. The top one was Tom Jenkowitz, an insurance executive who worked for one of the largest companies in the country. Ron checked the time and then dialed the cell number. A male voice answered a moment later.

“Hello?”

“Tom Jenkowitz?”

“Who’s speaking?”

“My name’s Detective Ron Stanford, with NYPD.”

“Okay…”

“I need to ask you a few questions about a case I’m working, but I need to do it in person. Are you available for a few minutes?”

“I’m still at my office. Do you know where it is?”

“I have the address. I’m about fifteen minutes away.”

“I’ll leave your name with security. Ron Stanford, was that right?”

“Correct.”

Ron hung up and waved at the techs. “Thank you, ladies. I’m out of here.”

“We’ll be working for another four hours or so. Call if you need anything else.”

“You got it.”

Tom’s building was a steel and glass tower that jutted into the darkening sky like a moneyed phallus. Ron showed his badge to security, who called to notify Tom of Ron’s arrival, and rode the elevator up to his floor, where a cleaning crew was working, its vacuum howling from between cubicles that stretched from one end of the space to another. A tall man in blue suit trousers and a blindingly white dress shirt greeted him with a professional smile.

“Detective Stanford? Tom,” he announced, extending his hand. Ron shook and flipped out his badge so Tom could see it.

“Is there anyplace quiet we can chat?” Ron asked.

“Sure. One of the meeting rooms. This way.”

Ron followed him back to a conference room with an oblong table and twelve chairs. Tom sat down and waited until Ron had joined him before leaning forward. “You mentioned you’re investigating a case?”

“Yes. That’s correct. A homicide.”

The color drained from Tom’s tanned face. “A homicide?”

“Yes. Oh, don’t worry. You’re not a suspect. I’m just tying up some loose ends.”

Tom looked relieved. “How can I help you?”

Ron studied Tom for a long beat. “There’s no delicate way to ask this, so I’ll just ask. Wednesday night, a week ago. Where were you?”

“Wednesday?” Tom’s eyes searched the empty tabletop. “I…I have to think about that. I think I was at home, or maybe out with clients.”

“Take your time.”

Tom folded his hands, and the glint of a gold band on his ring finger caught the light. “I honestly don’t…oh, wait. I was out drinking with friends. Of course. Why?”

“Where?”

“Oh, we hit a lot of places. What time?”

“Until closing time.”

“Hmm. It’s a little bit fuzzy…I’m sorry, Detective, we drank a lot.”

“Let’s cut to the chase. A man, Gunter Ausberg, said he was with you until dawn.” Ron watched Tom’s face for a reaction. “Having sex.”

“That’s preposterous!” Tom said, his expression a combination of indignation and surprise. “He’s lying. I don’t know any Gunter.”

“He’s blond. Thirty-seven. His place is in the West Village. Second floor…”

“Detective, there’s obviously been a mistake. I’m married. I have a daughter.”

“It’s possible that I grabbed the wrong card,” Ron conceded.

“I’m not sure what this is all about, but you’ve got the wrong guy.” Tom looked at his watch. “Does that do it for us?”

Ron nodded. “So for the record, you were not with this Gunter at his apartment until dawn last Wednesday?”

“I was not.”

“Have you ever been to the End Up?”

“Is that a punch line to a bad joke?”

Ron shifted gears. “Would you like to see a photo of him, just to make sure?”

“I’d remember something like that, wouldn’t you?” Tom snapped.

“Look, Tom. It’s none of my business what people do in the privacy of their bedrooms, you know? And anything you say to me is confidential.”

“That’s reassuring to know, but it doesn’t change anything.”

Ron stood. “Of course. Thanks for taking the time.” Ron paused. “I wonder how he got your card?”

Tom’s professional smile snapped back into place. “I hand them out like candy. In the insurance game, it’s all about numbers. He could have gotten it anywhere.”

Ron made his way back downstairs and called Larraby on the way out of the building. “I’m headed home. I checked Gunter’s alibi, and it doesn’t hold water.”

“So Ben was right. Who knew psychos lie? Listen, Ron, you did a great job. Go have a celebratory drink. You more than deserve it.”

“I was going to come back in and grill Gunter again, hang him with his story.”

“That can wait. You’re running on empty. Do it tomorrow. He’s not going anywhere.”

Ron agreed and signed off. His next call was to Tess. “I’m on my way home. Give me some time to clean up, okay?”

“An hour?”

“That would be great.”

“I’ll ride over.”

“Great. See you then.”

Chapter 45

Tess toted her bike to the lobby and smiled at the doorman, who swung the door wide and held it open for her. On the sidewalk, she adjusted the backpack into which she’d put a one-piece black dress and pair of heels so she would be presentable at any restaurant, and looked up and down the sidewalk, which was thick with humanity. She pushed the bicycle to the curb and snapped her left shoe into its pedal clip, and then pushed into the stream of cars jockeying for advantage on the crowded street.

Other bicyclists were riding in both directions, New York a city where in most weather thousands would bike, day or night. As a messenger she’d endured the harsh winters, with their biting cold and the treacherous black ice on slick pavement, and she was glad that part of her existence was over. One thing she wouldn’t miss about no longer being a bike messenger was the winter.

She twisted to look over her shoulder so she could cut over and hook a left, and registered a hulking black shape barreling down on her. Its headlights nearly blinded her as she veered away. She sensed rather than saw the car swerve toward her, and when she could hear the big motor only feet behind her, she unclipped from the pedals and threw herself to her right, into a delivery zone where a van signaling it was going to pull out would provide cover. Tess landed hard and tried to roll, and winced as the crash of her Trek hybrid smashing against the grill of the vehicle sounded from behind her.

A glimpse of her bike flipping through the air ended with horns honking and people yelling, and then the car was past her and roaring off. She looked up from the street and spied it as it turned the corner – a seventies sedan, boxy and square, black or dark blue.

“You okay?” a male voice with a Spanish accent called to her. She turned to where a man in his forties, a red scarf around his neck and round steel spectacles perched on his nose, stood a few steps away with a look of shock, eyeing her with concern.

“Huh? Yeah. I’m fine,” she said, and struggled to stand, her clip shoes not cooperating. The man helped her to her feet.

“I saw the whole thing. He almost killed you. Completely his fault,” the man said.

“No doubt.”

“Can you walk?” he asked.

She nodded.

He looked down the street at where her bike was lying, mangled into a metal pretzel. “That doesn’t look so good.”

“Yeah, I think it’s seen its last days,” she agreed.

The man moved to the bike and lifted it. The wheels were bent, and the frame was squashed and fractured in one spot. He carried it back to Tess, who was avoiding the rush of traffic, and stopped in front of her with it. “You want me to call someone?”

Tess took the bike remains and shook her head. “No, I’m fine.”

“Your arm’s bleeding.”

“Crap. I scraped it,” she said, glancing down at her elbow, where a thin red stream was running down her forearm.

“Maybe you should go to a doctor.”

She shook her head. “No, honest, it’s just a scratch. Listen, thanks for helping. That was sweet of you.”

“No problem.”

Tess considered asking for his contact information, but shrugged it off. When messengers were involved in hit-and-run accidents, it was common knowledge that filing a police report accomplished nothing, especially if there was no license plate to search for. Her description of an old black car would earn her chuckles from the police. It was just the way things worked in a city with so many people – there were an endless number of minor crimes every day, and unless serious injury was involved, the report would be filed in a drawer, never to see light again.

The bystander hurried away and Tess took stock. A bandage and a shower would take care of the abrasion and the grit stuck to her. She hoisted the wreckage of her bike and strode back to the hotel, where the doorman’s face changed to surprise when she came into view.

“Let me help with that,” he said, reaching for the bicycle.

“Do you have a dumpster where you can chuck it?” she asked. “It’s no good to me anymore.”

He eyed the frame and nodded. “Sure. You want me to call a doctor?”

“No, I’m not injured. But thanks.”

Tess rode the elevator back to her floor, studying herself in the mirror as it ascended. The gash on her elbow would heal, as would her dignity, and the soot would rinse off. She was lucky she was in one piece – the idiot in the car had been out of control, which was the worst nightmare of a rider. She could maneuver around most threats, but a driver who was drunk or stoned – or worse yet, out for a joyride that might involve collisions with defenseless bicyclists for sport – was a catastrophe from which there was no protection.

Once inside her room, she moved to the bathroom and stripped, grimacing at the sting of her top rubbing against her scrape, and twisted on the shower. When the water was hot enough, she stepped beneath the stream and soaped up, ignoring the burn of her wound as the suds hit.

Five minutes later she was out of the shower and toweled dry, hair dripping as she unwrapped two Band-Aids and affixed them over the gash. The bleeding had stopped, but her arm throbbed, as did her ribs from the hard landing. She walked to the bedroom and called Ron.

“Stanford.”

“Ron? It’s Tess. I’m running a little late.”

“No problem. Take your time.”

“I can be there in maybe twenty minutes or so.”

“We don’t have a reservation or anything. I thought we could just play it by ear.”

“Sounds good to me.” She paused. “I hope you weren’t thinking of anything too fancy. I just took a tumble on my bike, and I’m a little banged up.”

“What happened?”

She described the accident, finishing with her decision not to file a report. Ron was silent for a second. “I wish I could argue that it would be treated seriously, but it sounds like you know better,” he said.

“Yeah, and I’d be here all night. I’d rather torture you.”

Tess could almost hear the smile in his voice. “You have a way with words.” He grew serious. “You want me to come to your hotel and pick you up?”

“You have a car?”

“I meant in a taxi.”

“No point. I can still flag one down, even with a broken wing.”

“How bad is it? Seriously?”

“Nothing a bottle of Goose won’t numb.”

“Sounds like a plan. Although I have to work tomorrow.”

“Fortunately, I don’t.”

Tess removed her little black dress and heels from the backpack and pulled them on, and then checked her reflection. Her sweatpants had protected her legs, which were long, tanned, and lean, and the heels showcased them nicely. If asked, she would have said they were her best feature, and she smiled at herself with a flash of white teeth.

Satisfied with her ensemble, she tossed a few things into her purse, removed her watch from the room safe and slipped it on, and made for the door. The sound of a relaxed dinner and a few too many drinks was as appealing as anything she could think of. Now that Dakota’s killer had been caught, she felt like things could normalize; and maybe Ron would have more time to spend with her. Whether that was a good or a bad idea remained to be seen, but Tess had never shied away from challenges, and if she wanted something, she generally found a way to get it.

After three months of no romantic life, she was feeling a familiar stirring she’d been afraid might have vanished for good after the trauma with her father. But there was no mistaking the anticipation, the flutter of excitement in her stomach, and as she entered the elevator and caught another glimpse of her dress clinging to her in all the right ways, she nodded to herself. Near miss with a car or not, she was going to spend some quality time with Ron.

She just hoped he wasn’t as tired as he sounded.

The elevator opened and she stepped into the lobby, earning several appreciative stares from the staff as she moved to the entrance. The doorman nodded to her and opened the door, averting his eyes so he wasn’t gaping at her. “Get you a cab?” he asked.

Tess smiled, pleased with the effect her outfit was obviously having on the males in the vicinity. Some things were as reliable as the phases of the moon.

“Please.”

Chapter 46

Ron opened his apartment door and invited Tess in.

“You made it. I’ll have you know I actually went out and bought some vodka for you. Cocktail?”

“Nice to see you again. What do you have the ingredients to make?” Tess asked, and then tiptoed to kiss his cheek before pushing past him.

Ron closed the door and grinned. “Beats me. I picked up a little drink recipe book at the store, but I haven’t read it. Anything that includes vodka and ice. The rest is a question mark.”

“Cosmo?”

He followed her to his living room. “That’s with cranberry juice? I think I have that.”

“There’s something else, but vodka and cran works, too.”

“You want to make it so I don’t screw it up?” Ron stopped at the sight of her bandages. “How bad’s the arm?”

“I’ll live. And sure, I’ll make the drinks.”

“Tell me what happened,” he said, motioning to the kitchen, where a bottle of Gray Goose stood on the counter. He led her into the small space and removed two glasses from the cabinet as she opened the refrigerator and peered inside. She removed a half-full bottle of cranberry juice, and then rooted around in the freezer until she broke an ice tray free from where it had frozen to the bottom.

“I see you haven’t spent a lot of time at home,” she noted, eyeing the freezer contents.

“That never changes. But seriously – what about the accident?”

“Car came out of left field, swung at me, and accelerated. I bailed on the bike, which wound up getting totaled, so good thing.”

“You believe it was deliberate?” Ron asked, alarmed. “That’s not how you made it sound on the phone.”

“I had some time to think it over on the way here. It might have been. I mean, it seemed that way to me; but it all happened so fast, it’s hard to be sure. A witness said it was totally the driver’s fault, but I knew that. Question is whether he wanted to hit me. I think so, but why?”

“You piss anyone off?”

“Not that I know of.” She dropped a few ice cubes into the glasses and poured two inches of vodka.

“Recognize the car?”

“Nope.”

Tess topped the drinks with cranberry juice and stirred them with her finger. Ron accepted one from her and toasted with a clink. He took a swallow and made a face. “Wow. You could run a generator on that.”

“Put hair on your chest,” she agreed, and they moved to his sofa.

Ron took another cautious sip and set the glass on the coffee table. “There are all kinds of nuts on the road. Could have been a drunk. That’s the most likely. What was the intersection? Maybe I can pull the traffic footage tomorrow and see if I can find the car.”

“Same block as my hotel.” She named the cross street. “You can do that?”

“I have no active cases, so I don’t see why not.”

“Which brings us to the killer.”

He nodded. “Yeah. He confessed after we found his butcher shop.” Ron gave her a sanitized version of the trail that had led to Gunter’s storage unit.

“The girl’s jaw was in the toilet?” Tess asked, her face suddenly pale.

Ron shook his head. “Not on purpose. He was trying to dispose of it.”

“What about the hands and feet?”

“He says he threw them into the river.”

Tess studied his face. “What is it, Ron? What aren’t you telling me?”

“Nothing. You hungry?”

“Are you trying to distract me with food? Because it’s working.”

“Good. I need to get something in my stomach after this drink, or I’m going to face plant.”

“What are you thinking? Chinese? Italian?”

“There’s a new Persian place down the block that’s really good. Can I interest you in some saffron chicken kabob?”

“I’m actually famished, so that sounds awesome.”

They finished their drinks, and Tess took Ron’s arm. The restaurant was full, but the proprietor made a show of giving them the next table, and they settled in for a comfortable meal with a bottle of white wine. By the time they finished, Tess had edged closer to Ron in the booth, and it was obvious to them both that the chemistry between them was overpowering.

They barely made it through his apartment door with their clothes on, lips locked together, the hunger in Tess like a wildfire raging out of control. Ron cupped one of her buttocks and pulled her toward him as they kissed, and she felt his excitement pressing against her as they staggered to the bedroom.

He pulled her dress over her head and marveled at her body, her skin glowing in the dim light from the window, her tattoos standing out in high contrast to her tan, and then they were falling together onto the bed, lost in passion, the intensity building to fever pitch. She tore his shirt off, buttons flying, and he gasped when she took him in her mouth, her touch urgent, wanting him as much as he needed her.

When they finished, they lay spent on the confusion of sheets. Tess traced an imaginary design on Ron’s chest, her eyes closed. He turned toward her and kissed her again. She smiled.

“Not too bad for your age,” she whispered, eyes slits, her voice teasing.

“I was going to say the exact same thing about you.”

“Maybe you can teach me a trick or two? I am a humble grasshopper before your wisdom.”

“Humble?” Ron asked.

She shifted and placed one leg over his. “Trying to lull you into complacency. That’s when I pounce. Like a black widow.”

He flattened her hair with his hand and brushed his lips against hers. “It would be worth it. You’re amazing.”

“That’s the booze talking. Which reminds me – what does a girl have to do to get a drink in this joint?”

“I’m pretty sure you just did it.”

She stood, and he reveled in the sight of her naked body, sleek as an athlete’s. She shrugged on his dress shirt and grinned as she buttoned the bottom three buttons. “You want a double?”

“They should put you in the ad for that shirt. They’d sell a million of ’em.”

“I take that as a yes?”

“You know me like the beating of your own heart.”

Tess reappeared moments later with their glasses and handed him one. “Are you a hundred percent positive that Gunter killed Dakota?” she asked.

Ron closed his eyes. “Do we have to talk about that now?”

“Sorry. It’s just been on my mind since you told me. I mean, not the entire time, obviously.”

Ron sighed. “He claims he didn’t, but I checked his alibi and it fell apart.”

“How?”

Ron’s eyes opened and he recounted his meeting with Tom. When he was done, Tess looked at him strangely. “And you believed him? He’s married, and if he’s having sex with a man on the side, you really think he’ll admit it? What universe do you live in?”

“Tess, we have Gunter dead to rights on the other two. He confessed.”

“Then why didn’t he admit to Dakota’s?”

“Maybe because he’s playing with us. There’s no predicting why one of these sick bastards does anything.”

“That’s more likely to you than that it’s because he didn’t actually do it?”

“Tess, we’ve been through this already. The footage had a number of elements that only the killer could have known. The same killer. Or the same killer with an accomplice.”

“I’ve been digging some. Jeremy has an apartment over a café in the Flatiron district. I went and scoped it out.”

“So what? That doesn’t prove anything. And why are you still hung up on Jeremy? He’s clean.”

“His alibi is a hundred percent? No chance of it being fake?”

“He was at work.”

“And he didn’t leave?”

Ron took a big gulp of his drink. “Just to grab something to eat.”

Ron could see Tess’s eyes glitter in the dark. “How long was he gone?”

“Couple of hours.”

“What! And that doesn’t strike you as suspicious? That’s plenty of time.” Her voice hardened. “I knew it.”

“Tess, think about it. He’d have had to get Dakota, film the killing, clean up, and dump the body in the pond, all in two hours. It seems physically impossible.”

“Are you sure, Ron? If he was motivated and had planned everything perfectly? He could have made it.”

Ron nodded. “We’re not positive about anything at this point. The investigation is still ongoing. I’m going to see if I can get a glimpse of Tom’s cell records, in case they contradict his statement. If they do, fine, then it couldn’t have been Gunter; at which point I’ll go on the hunt again. But I have to tell you, it’s more likely, if that’s the case, that Gunter had a partner he hasn’t given up than that it was Jeremy. You can’t get all the elements in the video right unless you’re the perp. But we’re still going to check Jeremy’s story out. There are loose ends to tie up, for sure. That’s how it always is with this sort of investigation.”

She moved to him and kissed him hard. “You’re not the kind of man who’ll give up if you think there’s a killer out there. I have faith in you.”

Ron sighed again. He wished he had as much confidence in himself as Tess did.

Chapter 47

Ron was light-headed as he made his way down the sidewalk to the precinct, intoxicated as much by Tess as by the residual effects of the prior evening’s alcohol. It had been forever since he’d had as memorable a night, and it still felt surreal to have woken up next to a goddess who seemed to be as enamored by him as he was with her. He’d slept too late and then scrambled to get ready in a few minutes – at least that had been the plan until Tess had joined him in the shower, at which point schedules had seemed arbitrary and unimportant.

He looked at his watch as he mounted the stairs, his muscles sore, and hurried to the elevators. Two plainclothes detectives joined him in his wait, and one of them smiled and offered his hand.

“Congratulations on another one, Stanford. Nicely done,” the man said.

Ron returned the smile and shook. “It was a team effort.”

“Amazing how many times your team makes it across the finish line, though, huh?”

The ride up to his floor was mercifully swift, and Ron felt relief when the elevator doors slid apart and he entered the homicide offices, his head pounding from a hangover. Applause broke out from the cubicles at the sight of him, and he winced at the noise as a few cheers and shouts of his name greeted his arrival.

Ken Pruett, one of the lead homicide investigators, approached and clapped him on the back with a hand the size of a baked ham. “Congrats, big guy. Took him down like the bitch he was.”

“Thanks, Ken,” Ron said, continuing to his cubicle, where Ben was waiting for him.

“You’ve got an easy day of it,” Ben said, his voice low. “Gunter confessed to the third one, too.”

Ron stopped in his tracks. “He what?”

“I know. I just heard.”

Ron’s eyes became slits. “Who did he confess to?”

Ben understood the angry tone of the question. This was Ron’s case. Anyone who’d questioned his collar had been breaking protocol.

“I don’t know. The captain told me.”

“Larraby, huh? So he’s already in?”

“Sure. I mean, it’s ten, Ron.” Ben studied his face. “Had a few last night?”

“Not too many to know bullshit when I smell it.”

Ron tossed his briefcase on his chair, ignored the flashing of his phone’s message light, and pushed past Ben to return to the elevators. Ben watched his departure with a frown – Ron angry could be volatile, although it happened rarely.

At Larraby’s floor, Ron stalked out of the elevator and marched to the captain’s office. His secretary was at her desk in the outer reception area, speaking to someone on the telephone, when he entered. One look at his face convinced her to put the call on hold.

“Yes, Detective. May I help you?”

“Is he in?”

“Yes, but he’s on a call…”

Ron nodded as he moved to Larraby’s door and opened it. The captain was laughing, his phone pressed to his ear, and looked up at Ron as he crossed the room and sat in front of his desk.

“I have to call you back, buddy,” he said, and then hung up. “Well, Stanford, you’re the man of the hour. How does it feel?”

“I heard Gunter confessed to the third murder last night?”

“Great news, isn’t it?”

“Who questioned him?”

Larraby fixed him with a steady stare. “I authorized it, Stanford. I was receiving a lot of pressure. We didn’t have time to wait for you to get back in the saddle.”

“That’s awfully convenient. I mean, he swears he didn’t do it and then turns around and confesses. Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”

“Not really. He’s crazy as a shithouse rat. Why sweat it?”

“How do you know he was telling the truth?”

“Do you have any reason to believe he wasn’t? You checked his alibi. It didn’t pan out.”

“I was coming in to interrogate him.”

Larraby nodded. “And I saved you the trouble. What’s your beef?”

“A confession under duress is about as worthless as if you waterboarded him.”

“There was no duress. He played ball. Sometimes the white hats win. Congratulations.”

Ron shook his head. “I’ve been thinking about it more. He told me he had nothing to do with it.” Ron frowned. “I’m not convinced he did it.”

“You don’t have to be. The case is now officially closed.”

Ron leaned forward. “Captain, that’s not how I roll. You know that. I’m not going to go along with a confession if I think it’s fraudulent, and neither should you, regardless of how much pressure is put on you. That’s not our job. It’s to get to the truth.”

Larraby matched his glare and tone. “I appreciate the lesson on professional ethics, Detective, but unless you’ve got some evidence that the confession is fraudulent, you’re coming dangerously close to insubordination. I like you, Stanford, and you’re a valued member of the force, but nobody comes into my office and tears me a new one without cause. Do you read me?”

“Loud and clear. But I’m still going to investigate his alibi. I don’t buy the witness’s story.”

Larraby’s voice softened. “Ron, these cases put you under tremendous pressure. Take the day off. You don’t look so hot, and frankly, your behavior is out of character.”

Ron ignored his comment. “Where’s Gunter? I want to talk to him.”

“Did you hear me?”

“Yes, and I still want to talk to my prisoner.”

“He’s been transferred to Rikers. He’s no longer here.”

Ron and Larraby stared daggers at each other, and Ron had to muster all his resolve to keep from jumping across the table and throttling him. Ron understood that he had been set up. The captain had sent him on his way and, the moment the alibi had fallen apart, worked behind his back to get the mayor the confession they were both after.

“The whole thing stinks,” Ron spat.

“Sometimes that’s how life is. But it’s over. Let it go.”

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir. Thank you for hearing me out, sir,” Ron said as he stood.

“Stanford, don’t be that way. You won this one. Enjoy it.”

“I didn’t win anything if a killer’s still walking the streets. And neither did you. There was a time when I didn’t have to explain that to my superior officer.”

“Bring me evidence and I’ll go to the wall for you, Detective. Until then, back the hell off and get out of my office.”

Ron stormed from Larraby’s suite, his mind racing. Why was the mayor in such a rush to close the case? Other than the obvious, which was that it was an election year; could it have to do with pressure he’d received from Stibling? Ron had smelled a rat with the banker from the beginning. Could the videos have been shot with the hedge-fund magnate’s participation?

The possibility was an unpleasant one to consider, but Ron wasn’t paid for wishful thinking. The bile in his stomach churned with every step as he tried to envision how Stibling might have been involved. Could that have been the ultimate forbidden kick? To have someone tortured and killed while he watched?

Ron took the stairs back to his office, wanting to move, the thought of riding the elevator again filling him with claustrophobic anxiety. He knew that it was probably a byproduct of too much wine and Grey Goose, but with all the unpleasant surprises so far, he wasn’t feeling lucky.

If Stibling was a part of the killings, Ron would learn the truth; and then no amount of money or influence would save him.

Chapter 48

Back at his desk, Ron endured more congratulations, feeling increasingly sucker punched by Larraby with each high five. Ben stopped by and asked how his meeting went, but Ron’s glare sent him scurrying away in search of coffee. Ron reviewed his discussion with Tom the prior night and tried not to think about Tess’s accusation that he’d been too quick to buy his story. She was right – the only reason he’d been so lax was because he wanted Gunter to be guilty, and had already convinced himself that he was, right down to congratulating himself that another body hadn’t turned up – proof he’d nailed the murderer.

Which, of course, violated his first rule, which was to allow the evidence to guide him, not his sentiment. He’d disliked Gunter on sight and wanted the killing to be over so badly that he’d dropped his guard. Now he would make amends. If Tom’s story held up, then he was flagellating himself for nothing, but he wouldn’t take anything about the case for granted from this point on.

Ron powered on his computer and logged into the central database. After a few moments of consideration, he entered Tom’s name to see if he had a record. Ron doubted it, but he’d been surprised before. As the system churned with typically sluggish speed, he called his contact in technology and gave him Tom’s cell phone so he could verify its location on the night in question.

“Just that night?” his contact asked.

“Yes.”

“You got a court order?”

“I was hoping you could just sort of glance at it.”

“You know that’s bending the rules, Ron.”

“The NSA does it all the time. Cut me some slack, would you?”

“It’ll be inadmissible.”

“I just need a verbal. A peek behind the curtain is all.”

“Let me see what I can do.”

“Thanks.”

“You owe me lunch.”

“Guy’s gotta eat,” Ron agreed.

The blinking message light’s accusing flash convinced him to check his voice mail, but the calls were mainly celebratory – except for Amy. Hers was terse.

“Ron, heard about Gunter this morning. We putting this one to bed?”

He held off on calling her until he knew more and focused on his screen, which was pulsing to indicate his record search was completed. Ron tapped in a request and a scanned copy of a police report filled the screen, dated six years ago.

Ron read it with growing anger at himself, and with Tom. Of course people lied about their sex lives. In a conservative position with a conservative company, and married with a child, there was little chance Tom would admit to doing the nasty with Gunter, or anyone else.

His tech contact called back and gave him the bad news. “Last ping was at ten p.m.,” he said, and identified a tower near Union Square.

“Nothing after that?”

“No. He must have turned his phone off.”

“Why would he do that if he was out drinking?”

“Low battery? Beats me.”

“I still owe you a sandwich.”

“That’s it? A lousy sandwich? You said lunch. I was thinking a T-bone.”

“I was thinking a vending-machine burrito. Let’s split the difference.”

“See how much help you get next time you need it.”

“Okay, steak it is. Philly cheese steak.”

“What a rip-off.”

Ron disconnected and considered how to confront Tom. After a long moment, he dialed his work number and was put through.

“Tom? Detective Ron Stanford. Do you have a few minutes? I have a couple more questions for you.”

“It’s pretty busy here today, Detective. Can it wait?”

“Afraid not. If you like, I can mention to your employer that you’re helping us with a case. That should free you up enough time so we can meet.”

“No, that’s okay. I was going to take a break and hit the Starbucks around the corner from my building. When were you thinking?”

“Twenty minutes?”

“I’ll see you then.”

Tom was sitting at a table at the side of the café, his suit and pricey tie impeccable. Ron ordered a cup of drip and carried it to the table, a neutral expression in place.

“Mr. Jenkowitz,” Ron said.

“Detective, you mentioned you had some questions? I’m afraid I’m in a bit of a rush today…”

“This shouldn’t take much time.” Ron sipped his coffee. “Do you know the penalty for lying to a homicide detective in the course of an investigation?”

Tom blinked, but aside from that, remained calm. “I have no idea.”

“It’s hindering a felony investigation, at the very least – a felony. The courts come down hard when it can result in a miscarriage of justice – an innocent man going to jail or a guilty man going free.”

“I see.”

“Would you like to reconsider your testimony?”

Tom’s hand was steady when he took a gulp of his drink. “Why would I? I told you what I recall.”

Ron set his voice recorder on the table. “So you are asserting that you provided a true and correct statement to me? It’s important to get that clear, if a felony charge is to be filed.”

Tom stared at the device like it was a live scorpion. “What are you playing at, Detective?”

“Answer the question.”

“I…it’s what I remember.”

Ron sat forward. “Mr. Jenkowitz, there are two ways to do anything – the easy way or the hard way. I can go to the bar where Gunter claims he met you, show your picture around, and if you were there, maybe get someone who recognizes you. I can pull traffic-camera footage in the area and see if you appear. If I have to go to that level, I can guarantee you that I’ll be pretty annoyed at all the work I had to do, and will come down on you like a ton of bricks if you’re lying.”

“Sounds like I need an attorney. You’re becoming rather abusive, Detective. I’ve committed no crime.”

“I’m waiting for the results of the fingerprinting at his flat, Tom. If your prints show up there, you’re history.”

Tom glared at Ron but didn’t say anything. Ron went in for the knockout punch. “While you’re searching your memory, care to discuss your arrest and plea bargain six years ago? The one where you solicited a male vice cop in a gay bar? Patronizing a prostitute, third degree, pled down to disturbing the peace due to no priors.”

The blood leached from Tom’s face. “I…”

“Take your time.”

Tom swallowed hard. “Detective, I might not have been entirely complete in my response.”

“It happens. No harm done if you recall more.”

Tom nodded and averted his gaze. “It’s true. I spent the night at a man’s home in the West Village. His name was Gunter. That’s all I remember. A lot of alcohol was involved. I’m sorry I…didn’t remember sooner. I was scared and embarrassed. If my family or my employer were to find out…”

Ron removed Gunter’s booking photo from his jacket pocket and showed it to Tom. “Is this the man?”

Tom glanced at it and nodded. “What did he do?”

“That’s not material.” Ron switched on his voice recorder and announced the date, time, and Tom’s name. “Tell me everything, Mr. Jenkowitz. Start from the beginning, and leave nothing out. I’m particularly interested in times – what time you hooked up with the suspect, what time you left his place.”

“It was around ten on Wednesday night…”

Ron mentioned the date, and Tom nodded. Ron pointed at the recorder. “A verbal response is required for the recording.”

Fifteen minutes later Ron was rushing to the subway, face flushed, cursing with every other step.

Chapter 49

Captain Larraby looked up from a report he was reading when Ron burst through his door, voice recorder in hand.

“Is this going to be a repeat performance, Stanford?” Larraby growled. “Because I’m in no frigging mood…”

“The alibi is genuine. The confession’s bogus,” Ron declared.

Larraby’s shoulders slumped. “What have you got?”

Ron pressed play on the recorder and set it on Larraby’s desk. He took a seat and stared holes through his superior, whose face could have been cast from wax by the time the recording finished. Ron switched the device off and pocketed it.

“I told you,” Ron said softly.

“And I told you that if you came up with evidence, I’d back you. Which I will.”

“The killer’s still walking free, Captain.”

“I put two and two together on that, Stanford.”

“You going to call the mayor?”

“Let’s wait until you do some more digging, shall we? I don’t want to give him a heart attack.”

Ron pushed back from the desk and stood. “I’m going to investigate the likely perps for the last murder. One of whom is Stibling. And I don’t want any flak.”

“I won’t try to micromanage you, Stanford. Do what you have to do.” Larraby tossed the report aside. “I’m sorry to have gone along with this.”

“Let me get to work,” Ron said. He wasn’t going to let the captain off the hook that easily. The way the NYPD worked was like a bank, where favors were the currency. Having a big credit from Larraby in Ron’s account was meaningful, and both men knew it.

“Keep me posted.”

“Will do.” Ron gave Larraby a final hard stare. “I expect no interference from the mayor or anyone else. He’s already done enough damage with the fake confession.”

“Nobody will get in your way.”

Ron nodded and left, leaving the captain to stare at his desk, his afternoon prospects having just turned ugly.

Back in his cubicle, Ron ferreted through his file drawer until he located the background he’d compiled on Stibling. He placed it on his desk and pulled up the dossier on Jeremy, reading it critically for any hint of psychopathic behavior – other than going to work on Wall Street.

He more than understood Tess’s perspective: that Jeremy had killed Dakota after learning about her pregnancy, using the cover of a serial killer to deflect suspicion. It was plausible, if extreme; but the problem remained that the detail in the video couldn’t have been faked, which had him leaning toward Stibling, although neither Paulo nor Sato were in the clear either on Dakota’s murder. He would have to re-question them and see whether they had alibis, he knew, and added that to his list of diligence now that he was treating Dakota’s killing as a separate case – which, of course, Tess had argued for all along.

He passed his afternoon on the computer, searching for anything he’d missed, and he was engrossed in a newspaper account of the Japanese snuff films when his office line blared at him. One of the junior detectives’ nasal whine emanated from the speaker.

“I have a Sheriff Delon on the line, Ron.”

“Who?” The name didn’t ring any bells.

“You asked me to call the local cops in Virginia to see if there were any juvenile records for Jeremy Glass the other day? Well, the sheriff finally returned the call. Wants to talk to you.”

“Put him through,” Ron said. The call was a routine part of detective work, but one he’d had success with in the past.

A gruff male voice came on the line, and Ron immediately visualized a chain-smoking man with a cowboy hat and skin the texture of saddle leather. “Detective Stanford? Sheriff Delon. What can I do you for?”

“Thanks for returning the call. I’m looking for any background on a former resident of yours.”

“Sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner. It was the weekend, and I’ve been down with the flu. It’s going around.” The sheriff coughed. “Who you checking on?”

“No problem. A guy named Jeremy Glass.”

A silence hung on the line. When Delon finally spoke, his voice was more guarded. “You pull his record?”

“Yes. There’s nothing.”

“What kind of investigation are you working, Detective?”

“Homicide.”

Another pause. “You say there’s nothing in the record? Damn. They must have sealed ’em.”

“Sealed?”

“Juvenile.”

“What did he do?”

Delon sighed. “Detective, you know I can’t answer that without violating the law. But what I can say…what I will say is it doesn’t surprise me a bit.”

“Could you be more specific?”

“No, Detective, I can’t be. I’m already treading on some thin ice, and we both know that. I wish I could tell you something that could help you out, but I’m hamstrung. Good luck with him. If I recall, he’s a smart one. Those are the worst kind.”

“Sheriff…”

“Might want to check in with the local paper and see if there are any articles that catch your eye from the years he lived here. Never know,” the sheriff said.

The line went dead with a click, and Ron found himself listening to the hum of a dial tone. “Shit,” he said, and slammed the handset into the cradle. The sheriff’s response had told him enough. There was something in Jeremy’s childhood that had made an indelible mark on the old lawman, and it wasn’t good. That he wasn’t surprised Jeremy was part of a murder investigation cinched that it must be dark. Due to the way the law was written, crimes committed by juveniles could be sealed if they weren’t tried and convicted as adults, and it sounded like that was the case with Jeremy.

Ron devoted a half hour to an in-depth search of all newspaper records from the town during Jeremy’s life there, but came up empty – it was before most publications had computerized their archives, so he was left with the unappetizing prospect of begging research librarians in that area to go through their microfiches for any articles in which Jeremy was mentioned, or grilling him in person. Ron checked the time and made his decision: he would question Jeremy one more time, this time with more skepticism, get more specifics on his story, and verify as much as he could.

He started by calling his friend in tech again, who was less than thrilled to hear from him, judging by his tone.

“What is it now?” his contact asked.

Ron told him he needed another unofficial glance at the cell records. “Jeremy Glass. I need to know where he was Wednesday night, two weeks ago.”

“Try asking him.”

Ron groaned. “Come on. What’s the cost? Dinner?”

“At McDees? No thanks.”

“Name a place,” Ron said, and gave the tech Jeremy’s cell number. The tech mentioned a mid-priced steak restaurant. Ron sighed. “You’re killing me here.”

“You wanna play, you gotta pay. I’ll get back to you later. Maybe tomorrow. It’s almost quitting time, and I’ve got a backlog.”

“No hurry. I’m only tracking a murderer who could kill again at any moment.”

“I can almost taste the steak now. But my boss is here, so I’ve got to go. I’ll call when I have something.”

“If you can tell me where he is right now, that would also be great. I’d throw in a bottle of red for that, if you can get back to me in the next half hour.”

“Cheapo chianti or upscale cab?”

“Your choice.”

“Give me ten minutes.”

Ron’s next call was to Jeremy’s office to ask whether he was in.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Glass has already left for the day,” the receptionist said.

Ron checked his watch. It was already almost six and would be dark in an hour, tops.

Ben poked his head around the corner. “You still here?” he asked.

Ron hung up and nodded. “The Dakota case is reopened.” He told Ben about the call from the sheriff and Gunter’s alibi.

“So what are you going to do?”

“I want to have a chitty chat with Jeremy.”

“You going to call his cell?”

“Not if I can help it.”

Ron’s desk phone rang. It was his tech buddy. “He’s in the Upper East Side right now.”

“That’s his home. I’ve got the address. And Wednesday?”

“His phone was stationary from two o’clock that afternoon until five the next morning. Wall Street tower.”

“Crap. He must have left it in his office,” Ron said. “Thanks. I owe you dinner. I don’t suppose there’s any way you could keep an eye on it and call me if he moves in the next hour, is there?”

“I’ll throw that in, free of charge.”

“You’re a real mensch.”

“Don’t be a hatah.”

Ron turned to Ben. “Let’s go pay Jeremy a visit.”

“You going to fill me in on why?”

“On the way uptown. Let’s go.”

“Traffic’s going to be a snarl. Can it wait an hour?”

“No.”

“Okay. I’ll get a car. But we could probably walk there faster than we’ll get there on surface streets during rush hour.”

An image of Tess, on her bike, wending her way through stalled traffic sprang to Ron’s mind, and he smiled in spite of himself.

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

Chapter 50

Tess looked down on the city from her window, lost in thought, replaying her night with Ron, sleepy but satiated. It had been too long, and she’d been like a woman lost in the desert who’d stumbled across an oasis, drinking greedily until her thirst was slaked. He was an unexpectedly good lover – unexpected because he seemed so conservative and polite in his bad jacket and sensible slacks. But in bed…in bed he revealed a different side, and she’d marveled at how well they fit together and matched each other’s intensity.

She ran her fingers through her mane and closed her eyes, remembering Ron’s touch. He’d pulled the hair at the back of her head and bitten her shoulder as he’d climaxed the first time, triggering her own spasm in a rush – something she hadn’t believed would happen until it had taken her by surprise.

The sex was a departure from the rough sort she’d enjoyed with Nick, her last boyfriend, which had been satisfying and dangerous, but ultimately emotionally empty. The difference between sex and making love had never been more obvious than in the hours she’d spent with Ron, and the experience had rocked her world.

Why him? It was just so weird. But she wasn’t in a mood to question it. That the night had been magical was enough. Tess had learned to live in the present rather than making plans in a futile attempt to control the future, and she wasn’t about to deconstruct her time with Ron to figure out exactly what was special about it. That it was, she felt in her core. The why was ultimately unimportant.

Her cell rang. It was Claire, about her father’s apartment.

“Sweetie, we’ve got an offer.”

“We do?”

“Yes, and it’s for your asking price! How’s that for an early Christmas?”

“Wow, really? That’s awesome. What do I have to do?”

“We should meet as soon as possible so you can read the terms over and sign it. Pretty straightforward, though. No surprises. A nice couple from Hong Kong, looking for a vacation home in the city.”

“How long will it take to close?”

“Assuming there are no hitches, thirty days or so.”

Tess sighed. “My sister will be happy.”

“You too, I hope.”

They made arrangements to meet the following morning, and Tess returned to her window as daylight faded. The news about the apartment was bittersweet. On the one hand it signaled the end of an era, and on the other, the last of her obligations fulfilled, so she could be completely free of her past – and her sister, Chrissy.

She hadn’t heard from Ron yet but was confident she would. He was no doubt buried with cleaning up his big case. That he was married to his job was obvious, but she didn’t mind. Tess had the feeling that he was so consumed by it for lack of anything more meaningful in his life. Perhaps that was about to change.

She debated calling him and decided against it, and as she was placing her cell on the bedside table, was startled by the hotel phone’s jangle. She reached for it and heard a series of clicks, and then a woman’s voice.

“Tess Gideon?”

“Yes?”

“Oh, thank God. Tess, my name’s Rachel. I was a friend of Dakota’s.”

Tess sat up straighter. “You were?”

“Yes. It’s awful what happened to her. I’m with the company too.”

“It’s been a huge shock.”

“To all of us, but especially you, I imagine.”

“It has.” Tess wondered where this was going.

There was a brief pause before Rachel spoke again. “I don’t know how to start. I’m sorry.”

“Start what?”

“Were you close to Dakota?”

“Reasonably. Why?”

“She told you about…her boyfriend? Jeremy?”

Tess frowned. “Yes. Of course.”

A longer pause this time. “I knew him too.”

“Knew him?”

“We…we were involved for a while.”

Tess waited for Rachel to continue.

“How much did she tell you about him?” Rachel asked.

“What are you driving at, Rachel? I don’t mean to be rude, but this call…”

“I know.”

“Where did you get my number, anyway?”

“One of the other girls said you were staying at the hotel.”

“Dianne?” Tess asked.

“Right. Listen, Tess, whatever you’ve heard about Jeremy…he’s not what he seems to be. I…I think he might have had something to do with Dakota’s death.”

Tess absorbed the bombshell in silence. She could hear Rachel’s breathing on the line. “Why do you think so?” Tess finally asked.

“He…I broke it off with him when he started hitting me. He’s seriously twisted. Into some really weird stuff.”

“Why didn’t you warn her?”

“Jeremy said he’d kill me if I told anyone.” Rachel paused. “I believed him. I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to get mixed up with the police, but if he…if he’s involved, they need to know everything.”

“Fine. Why call me?”

“I…damn. I can’t talk much longer. Hang on a second.”

Tess could hear a hand placed over the phone, and a muffled discussion on the other end. When Rachel came back on the line, she sounded out of breath.

“Can you meet me tonight? Before the show? We have a performance at Lincoln Center – the Met. Curtain’s at eight, but I could meet you at the backstage door. I’ve got some pretty incriminating stuff on him. If you could get it to the police, it would probably put him away for life.”

Tess glanced at her watch. It would take her twenty minutes to get to the theater, maybe a bit more. “I could make it by seven thirty.”

“You know where the backstage door is?”

“Yeah. I’ve been there.”

“I’ll be waiting. Just knock.”

“I know. I remember.”

Rachel hung up, and Tess nodded to herself. Jeremy was a creep, and probably a killer. She’d known it all along – and now someone had been brave enough to come forward. She considered calling Ron, but waffled. He’d told her to stay out of the case. But if she could get evidence that would help him…Rachel had made it clear that she didn’t want to deal with the cops, and that she was scared. She had certainly sounded afraid. Tess knew the feeling – all she had to do was remember what it felt like to be stalked by the crazy who’d been after the bike messengers.

She shivered even though it was warm in the room. So old Jeremy had a thing for ballerinas. That made sense – he probably staked out the watering holes where he knew they hung out, looking for new meat. And Dakota would have been perfect. Clueless, young, new to the city, naive, her douchebag alarm insufficiently developed to trigger over a smooth Wall Street type who oozed charm. The ideal target for a sexual predator who’d gone off the deep end and wasn’t content with only hitting his women any longer.

The thought made her stomach tighten into a knot. She remembered Ron’s description of the sex parties, and she wondered if that could have been the connection. Jeremy traveled in a similar crowd. Perhaps he was part of the inner circle of rich lowlife deviates whose mission in life seemed to be debasing their fellow humans for their own amusement? The possibility hadn’t occurred to her, but now it all fell into place. The killer Ron had nailed was only one of a group. And Jeremy, when told Dakota was pregnant, had seen a way out that wouldn’t be traced to him.

If her suspicion was correct, Ron needed to know.

She dialed his cell as she collected her things and made for the door, but his phone went to voice mail. Tess waited for the tone and left a message.

“Ron. Tess. Jeremy’s your guy. I just talked to one of the dancers who also used to date him. She says he beat her up and threatened to kill her. Call me as soon as you can.”

Tess disconnected and stepped into the elevator, her jaw set and her emerald eyes flashing with determination.

There was no way the bastard would get away with it.

Chapter 51

Ron was fuming, impatiently checking his watch every block as the sedan inched toward the Upper East Side through a gridlock of growling steel. Homeless beggars worked the procession at each stoplight, and Ron had the uneasy feeling that his town was slowly slipping into a Neverland, a purgatory somewhere between the capital of the first world and a Calcutta free-for-all.

Ben stood on his horn and whooped the siren with a jab of his finger, but there was nowhere for the vehicles in front of him to go. He’d driven half on the sidewalk when he could, his emergency light strobing on the roof, but there was a practical limit, and he’d reached it.

“This is a nightmare,” Ron said, glaring at the airport limousine in front of them. “We should have taken the subway.”

“Hindsight.”

“Screw it. Park where you can and let’s do it. It’s going to take two hours at this rate.”

Ben glanced at him. “You serious?”

“Do I look like I’m joking?”

Ben nodded and began scouting for a spot. There was an emergency zone ahead, painted dull red, where a chestnut cart was blocking half the area with a small crowd around it. Ben hit the siren again and eased into the space, and the old vendor glared at him with enough intensity to melt steel.

“What the hell are you doin’? I got my permit,” he said as they got out of the car.

“Ease off, old-timer. We aren’t rousting you. Watch the ride, will you?” Ben asked. The old man rolled rheumy eyes and gave them the finger as they walked toward the subway.

“Think it’ll still have hubcaps when we get back?” Ron asked.

“Better question is whether it will even be there. That guy’s already calling his Guido nephews to boost it.”

Ron shook his head. “Such a racist. Don’t make me report you to internal affairs for sensitivity training.”

“I’m half Italian. It’s okay.”

“Which half?”

“Mom. Makes the meanest cannelloni this side of Sicily.”

They descended into the subway and stood on the platform, waiting for the uptown train among a throng of weary workers, their faces the unhealthy gray of city dwellers who rarely saw the sun. Ron wondered whether he was starting to look like that and flashed again on Tess, who radiated animal magnetism and tanned, tawny appeal. Had he really awaked to her taste and smell that morning? Had it truly only been a few short hours ago?

“What?” Ben asked.

“What do you mean, what?”

“You look like you just had a moment. Like you were maybe passing a kidney stone or stroking out or something.”

“That’s reassuring. That it would show on my face.”

Ben regarded him with a serious expression. “I think one side’s sagging a little.”

“Symmetry’s way overrated.”

The train arrived with a screech of steel on steel. They crammed on with the rest of the unfortunates and swayed their way north in fits and starts, everyone studiously avoiding eye contact with the other passengers – a survival skill acquired early in New York. Engaging could invite danger, so you learned to tune others out in the hopes that you could create a force field of indifference around you for protection.

At their stop, the station was appreciably cleaner, lacking the lingering perfume of hobo urine and desperation the midtown station had. Even the workers going home after a long day’s toil were better dressed, evidence of at least a modicum of trickle-down effect. It was dark when they emerged from the station and walked the three blocks to Jeremy’s brownstone, and Ron fished his cell from his pocket and called his tech friend as they neared.

“You still tracking the phone?” Ron asked when the man answered.

“Yes. No movement.”

“You earned the vino, my friend.”

“I’ll say. And now I’m clocking unpaid overtime for it.”

“Your sacrifice is noted.”

Bob sat in the brownstone living room, his evening’s supply of malt liquor and vodka spread on the coffee table before him and the video game of his current fascination on the screen of the television. He’d been living with his sister for three weeks now, and hated her husband and his smugly superior attitude. Bob’s way of exacting his petty, passive-aggressive revenge was to render the downstairs his domain, secure that his sister would protect him.

She’d told Jeremy that he had gotten out of jail and needed a hand, but the truth was that he was wanted in New Jersey, where he’d robbed a liquor store at gunpoint while high on crack, and been ID’d as a suspect from the security camera footage. Because New Jersey was a three-strikes state, and because he had two prior convictions, one for battery, one for a robbery where he’d used a knife, that would mean prison for life.

Fortunately for him, the system had holes you could drive a truck through, and unless he screwed up in New York, the warrant out on him should cause no problems. He could work under the table, staying off the official radar, and eventually hightail it to Mexico for a new start. For now, living off his sibling in the lap of luxury appealed to him, and he was waiting for her to cut him loose with a hundred grand so he could start his new life south of the border, maybe operating a small beachfront bar, like in that movie, Shawshank. He’d researched Mexico – the dope was cheap and the living easy. An enterprising man could recreate himself there and achieve anything he wanted, within reason.

He’d extracted a promise from Elizabeth for the hundred, and once he settled, occasional chunks of cash here and there as was practical. Her husband was a frigging millionaire and wiped his bottom with ten grand, Bob was sure, so he’d never miss slivers wired via Western Union. For now, though, collecting that amount of cash without raising Jeremy’s or the bank’s eyebrows was proving tedious, and she’d been withdrawing every few days, accumulating it slowly.

Bob understood the universe to be unfair, and nowhere was that more apparent than with his sister and himself. She’d fallen into riches by virtue of her gender and a willingness to put up with a guy like Jeremy, whereas he’d had the odds stacked against him from the beginning. Older than Elizabeth by five years, he’d first done time at eighteen and then again at twenty-two, his appetite for drugs and alcohol and reluctance to work a recipe for disaster. But his sister breezed through life with the casual indifference of the blessed, and he figured that she owed him at some cosmic level – she had so much it meant nothing to share the wealth with him.

A squeak from the front gate drew his attention, and he rose and moved to the window to see who was there. Two men – and to Bob’s eye, trained by a lifetime of crime and incarceration, cops.

Bob swallowed hard and looked wildly around the room. How had they found him? Had Elizabeth given him up?

He cursed. Might have been the car he’d stolen in Jersey and parked nearby. He should have known better.

The sound of pounding on the front door galvanized him into action. He couldn’t be captured – it was certain imprisonment. And with Jeremy and him the only ones in the house, he would be. There was no way Jeremy would lie to the cops and claim he had no idea what they were talking about. He’d probably dance a celebratory jig to see Bob hauled away in cuffs.

Bob crossed the room to his rucksack and dug inside as knocking sounded from the entrance again. He dug out the revolver he’d used on the store robbery, a snub-nosed .38 with its serial number filed off and electrician’s tape wound around its grip, and spun at the clomping of Jeremy’s shoes on the stairs.

“Who’s at the front door?” Jeremy demanded angrily. He froze at the sight of Bob holding the gun. “What the hell are you doing? Have you lost your mind?”

“Shut up. They’re not going to take me, dickhead.” Bob’s eyes narrowed. “Was it you? Did you call them?”

“Who? What are you talking about?”

“Cops.”

Jeremy frowned. “Cops?”

“Like you don’t know, you prick.”

“That’s probably about an investigation from my work, moron,” Jeremy said, and continued down the stairs toward the front door.

Bob cocked the hammer on the revolver. “You’re not opening that door,” he hissed, taking a step toward Jeremy.

“You’re wasted, idiot. Give me the gun and shut your piehole,” Jeremy said, approaching Bob, his face twisting in anger.

“Back off. You’re not taking my gun.”

“Like hell I’m not,” Jeremy said, and grabbed Bob’s arm. The two men struggled, and then the living room exploded with a gunshot.

“Crap,” Ben said at the explosion from the house. Ron drew his Glock as Ben was freeing his piece, and delivered a jarring kick to the door. The heavy wood held, and he and Ben threw their full weight against it. It gave on the third try, and they spilled into the foyer.

“Police. Freeze,” Ron screamed, his gun barrel roaming the room for a target.

Another shot rang out and a divot of mortar exploded from the wall near Ron’s head. He ducked as Ben threw himself to the side, and then they were squeezing off shots into the living room, where the gunman was crouched beside a coffee table laden with cans and bottles.

A round caught the shooter in the chest, and then another slammed into his abdomen, and he tumbled backward. The gunman’s revolver fired again, but the bullet whined harmlessly into the dining room, and then the pistol clattered against the hardwood floor as he hit the planks hard.

Ron kept his weapon on the downed man as Ben scrambled to his feet and approached him, gun trained on his form. The man labored for breath as crimson spread across his yellow T-shirt, the chest wound gurgling with each inhalation like a faulty bellows. Ben kicked the revolver further away and Ron moved forward, never dropping his aim as he entered the living room.

The two detectives stared at the prone figures, Jeremy’s dress shirt a red mess from a shot at the center of his ribcage, the gunman gasping nearby. Jeremy’s eyes were wide from shock, and he was trying to say something in a hoarse rasp.

“Search him and secure the scene,” Ron said, indicating the gunman. “I’ll take Jeremy. Call this in. Paramedics, stat, shots fired, officers need assistance.”

Ben moved like a cat to where the gunman was straining for air. After frisking him, he placed a call on his cell, his weapon still pointed at the downed man, his ears ringing from the shots in the enclosed space.

Ron knelt beside Jeremy and quickly searched him. Finding nothing, he holstered his weapon and withdrew cuffs. Jeremy’s voice burbled, thick with blood, and Ron leaned his head close to the man’s mouth, trying to make out what he was saying. Jeremy’s eyes saucered and he groaned, and then a rattle emanated from deep within his chest, and he spasmed and lay still.

“This one’s history,” Ron said, and turned to where Ben was finishing with dispatch.

“Backup and medics are on the way. They said ten minutes, max,” Ben growled, and shook his head. “What did we walk into?”

“I honestly have no idea.”

“Let’s check the upper floors,” Ron said, and Ben moved next to him with a nod.

They crept up the stairs, leading with their weapons, and methodically searched the two upper levels, which were empty. Ron stopped on the way back down, at the children’s room, and took a long look inside at tiny clothes laid out on the chairs.

“Lucky thing they weren’t home, huh?” Ben asked from behind him.

“That’s about the only break we got.”

They returned to the living room, where the shooter was convulsing as his face gradually turned blue.

“Who is he?” Ben asked, gesturing at the downed man.

“Beats me,” Ron said with a nod at Jeremy. “That’s the perp. Maybe an accomplice?”

Ben nodded. “Innocent men rarely shoot at cops.”

“Think he’ll make it?” Ron asked.

“Doubt it. He’s bleeding out.”

“Let’s try a pressure dressing. Could work.”

Ben moved toward the kitchen as the sound of distant sirens drifted from the splintered entryway. “I’ll get some towels.”

Chapter 52

Tess had the taxi drop her off on Amsterdam Avenue in order to avoid the traffic in front of the Lincoln Center complex, where a snarl of cars was disgorging theatergoers for the evening performance. She walked the remaining half block to West Sixty-Third and made a right toward the stage door, which was barely visible from the stage-setting shipping containers stacked outside in rows.

As she hurried to the backstage entrance, her mind was racing over her discussion with Rachel and the implications. Here was a witness – no, a victim – of Jeremy’s, in possession of evidence that could bury him. Ron would probably be annoyed that she’d played intermediary, but Tess figured it was worth the friction it might cause.

She realized with a start that he still hadn’t returned her call, and then a rustle and a scrape from a dark gap between two piles of pallets caught her attention. She slowed and peered into the gloom.

“Tess?” a voice called from the shadows.

Tess stopped. “Rachel!”

A woman stepped from the gloom, and Tess’s breath caught in her throat at the sight of the chrome-plated semiautomatic pistol in her right hand. “I wish I could say it’s nice to meet you, but it’s anything but,” the woman said, her voice soft.

“What is this?” Tess demanded.

“This is where you learn that poking your nose where it doesn’t belong gets it cut off,” the woman said as she took measured steps toward Tess, closing the distance until she was only a few yards away. Tess realized too late she was guaranteeing that she could hit her with the pistol, and tried to turn to present a smaller target, but the woman spotted her gambit and shook her head.

“That’s far enough,” she said, waving the gun at Tess.

“Why are you doing this?” Tess asked. “Who are you?”

“Who am I? Your worst nightmare. As to why, because you’ve been bird-dogging Jeremy. Making a nuisance of yourself.”

“But you said you had evidence–”

“Which you believed. And now here you are.”

“Who are you?” Tess repeated. “Did you…did you have something to do with Dakota’s murder?”

The woman’s face twisted into a sneer. “If you’re asking whether I killed your filthy whore cousin, figure it out, you dumb bi–”

Tess’s cell phone rang, the sound loud in the narrow byway between the containers. The woman dropped her gaze to Tess’s purse for a split second. Tess seized the opening and flung it as hard as she could at her head and rushed her.

The gun went off. Tess felt a burn in her right side, and then she was on the woman, pounding her face with her elbows as they went down together. The woman landed on the concrete with a crack of ribs, Tess on top of her. She cried out but was silenced by a brutal elbow slam to the jaw, all of Tess’s strength driving it. Her eyes lost focus for a moment, and then she was struggling to bring the gun toward her to finish the job.

Tess grappled with the woman for the gun, continuing to pound at her face as she fought for control of the weapon. The woman tried to roll away and twist the gun at Tess, but Tess saw what she was attempting and brought her head down in a head butt, knocking the woman’s skull against the pavement with a thump.

The gun discharged again, and Tess repeated the head butt. This time the woman released her grip on the pistol with a moan, and then Tess was rolling away from her unconscious form, blood streaming from the wound in her side as pounding footfalls approached from the theater.

A whistle split the night. The area began spinning as Tess tried to stand. She made it to one knee before the ground beneath her tilted like an amusement park ride. Tess saw a running policeman, his gun drawn, and then she collapsed and reality receded into darkness.

Chapter 53

Tess’s head swam as she regained consciousness. Something hissed and beeped beside her, and the air had the astringent odor of antiseptic that was unique to hospitals. She tried to open her eyes, but her lids were too heavy, and the attempt drained her of what little energy she had. The beeping increased in tempo and everything faded, and then she was floating, weightless and ethereal, along a long dark tunnel, a faint light glimmering at the far end.

When she next came to, her first impression was that her skull had been split open and every nerve in her face set on fire. She moaned and sensed a presence by her side, and after pressure on her arm, a euphoric rush spread through her veins until the pain receded to a dull ache. She again tried to open her eyes and nearly cracked one open when her awareness drifted off and she fell into a deep narcotic slumber.

~ ~ ~

“Tess.”

Her name reached her as though she was at the bottom of a deep well. The voice calling to her from high above was recognizable but indistinct. And yet…familiar.

“Tess,” the voice repeated.

This time she succeeded in forcing her eyes open and found herself looking at Ron, who was seated by her side, his face etched with concern. “Can you hear me?” he asked.

She tried to clear her throat and winced at the effort. “Yeah,” she managed.

“Are you in pain?”

“N-no.” She paused. “Just…out of it.”

“They’ve got you loaded up on morphine. That’s probably it. That, and you’d lost a lot of blood by the time they got you to the hospital.”

“Where…when did…?”

“Yesterday evening. You were in surgery for a couple of hours. Thank God the bullet didn’t do more damage. As it is, the doctor says you’ll make a full recovery.”

“She…shot…me…”

“Yes. And you beat her to a pulp.”

“She killed…Dakota.”

Ron nodded. “I know.”

Tess couldn’t keep her eyes open and allowed them to close. “Sleep…now…”

She felt his hand on hers, a gentle squeeze, and then his fingers withdrew.

“I’ll be right here.”

~ ~ ~

This time when she awoke, Tess’s head felt clearer, although with the clarity came discomfort. But her eyes opened on the first try. Ron was still beside her, dozing in the chair. The lights were down, and she realized it had to be night.

“Ron?” Her voice sounded like a stranger’s, dry, tentative, and weak. She tried again. “Ron.”

He bolted awake, his hair askew, and leaned toward her. “I’m here. How you feeling?”

“Better.”

“They tapered off most of the dope.”

She made a face. “I can tell. Feels like a horse kicked me in the ribs.”

“How’s your head?”

“Sore.”

He smiled. “You should have seen the other guy.”

She tried to nod. Bad idea. Her neck protested with a sharp spike of pain. “Ow.”

“You’ll be tender for a few days.”

“The woman. Who was she?”

“Elizabeth Glass. Jeremy’s wife.” Ron hesitated. “He’s dead.”

“What? He is? How?”

“It’s a long story, but the short version is he got shot.”

“By you?”

“No. By her brother.”

“Why?”

“The brother was wanted for armed robbery. We think he freaked when Ben and I knocked on the front door of the house, and went for his gun. Jeremy probably tried to stop him. Jeremy lost.”

Tess took a deep breath. “She killed Dakota because of him?”

“Apparently so.”

“But the video. You said it couldn’t be…a copycat.”

“I didn’t factor in what a twisted bastard he was or what money could buy. We got a warrant for his apartment above the café. He had DVDs of the prior killings there. Bought from a contact at one of the media outlets, obviously. We also found a bunch of other seriously sick crap on his computer. He had a thing for snuff flicks.”

“How did she know?”

“Her prints were on the disks and his computer. She’d installed spyware and had all his passwords. We believe that’s how she discovered the affair with Dakota. They had exchanged some pretty explicit emails.” He hesitated. “The last one between them was arguing over her having an abortion. He was pushing for it – talking about her career, the effect on her body, blah, blah, blah. Totally manipulative. Dakota wasn’t having any of it and wanted to know when his divorce was going to be finalized.”

“He lied to her.”

“Looks that way. ‘We’re estranged, I’m leaving her, you and I will live together with love to nourish us.’ What he didn’t realize was that his wife was reading it all.”

“Did she confess?”

“No, she lawyered up. But it doesn’t matter. Between her statement to you and the evidence, she’s going down. I mean, she shot you. Her prints are all over the gun. Regardless of what she claims, that’s pretty damaging. And once we found her prints on the disks, it was obvious what she’d done.” He paused. “We also found traces of blood in the apartment. Dakota’s.”

“You think Jeremy was in on it?”

“That’s a question mark. But my gut says no. Although…I found some articles about a killing in his old hometown, back when he was fourteen. Long story short, he was charged with murder, the family exerted pressure and paid a fortune, and it was pled down to manslaughter. So he was probably a sociopath.”

“You don’t sound certain.”

“Because she was also from his hometown. They were teen lovers. It’s entirely possible that she had something to do with that murder too, and he covered for her. That’s what the FBI is thinking now. The other murder was a girl his age. It fits.”

“God. What a monster.”

“Yes,” Ron agreed. “She’s demonstrated zero remorse for shooting you, by the way. I questioned her. She lawyered up immediately after claiming you tried to mug her, and saying that it was your gun. When I told her that was impossible, she went silent and demanded her attorney.”

“Any chance she’ll weasel out of it?”

“Zero. I’m taking a personal interest, obviously.”

“How did she recognize me?”

“Social media. Photo of you and Dakota on the web.”

“How did she know I was digging about Jeremy?”

“I pulled the traffic camera footage from the intersection by Jeremy’s apartment the day you went there. She was in the apartment. She must have seen you.” He studied her face. “I think she planned to shoot you and make it look like a robbery. She had no way of knowing that I was back on Jeremy’s case – so in her logic, no more Tess, all her problems go away and she gets to continue with her nice little nuclear family.”

Tess closed her eyes. “Damn. And it’s possible the housekeeper said something.”

“Housekeeper?”

Tess sighed and fixed Ron with a contrite look. “I tried staking out the brownstone. I know. Stupid. I ran into the housekeeper and struck up a conversation. Not too slick.”

“Didn’t I tell you to stay out of it?” Ron asked, and then sat back. “It doesn’t matter. What does is that you’re okay.”

A thought occurred to Tess. “You think she was the one who tried to run me down?”

“No. We found the car. The brother had the keys in his pocket, so we knew it had to be somewhere close. We dusted it, and only his prints were found.”

“So he was in on it?”

“She probably convinced him to help get rid of you. If so, you can thank the universe that he was a complete screwup.”

“What about Dakota? You think he helped with that?”

“We’ll never know. He died in the ER. There was a shoot-out. He took two bullets,” Ron said, his voice flat.

“With you?”

Ron nodded.

“You weren’t hurt?”

He smiled. “You have to be bulletproof and invisible for my job. Part of the description.”

“So the hedge-fund guy, and the performance artist, the sex parties, all that…was a red herring?”

“Not at all. They were germane to the two Gunter killed. But not your cousin.”

Tess managed a painful nod. “I told you so.”

“You absolutely earned the right to say that.” Ron shifted on the seat. “Hedge-fund guy disappeared, by the way. Hasn’t been seen for a week.”

“You think that has to do with Gunter getting caught?”

“Could be. At this point I don’t care. Gunter was the killer. You don’t always get to tie up every little loose end. If Stibling was involved, he got away with it, at least for now – we’ll track his money and see where he shows up.” He hesitated. “Elizabeth might have gotten away with it, too, if it hadn’t been for you.”

“Sounds like you would have nabbed her eventually.”

“I’m not so sure. If Jeremy’s alibi held up, we would have been back at square one.”

“How could it?”

“A million ways. A vendor remembers selling him a hot dog. He bought coffee or soda at a market and the clerk corroborates that he was there. He would have been vindicated, so we’d have had no reason to look further.”

“Nah. You would have gotten her. Bulletproof and invisible, remember?”

“Until proven otherwise. So far, so good.”

She tried a smile, and it didn’t feel that bad. “How long am I going to be in here?”

“Couple more days. Up to the doctors, but they said that you’re young, and you’ll heal fast. You can stay at my place. I’ll take a week off to wait on you hand and foot. Your personal private servant.”

“I should get shot more often.”

He grew serious. “Let’s not make a habit of it.”

She looked around. “What time is it?”

Ron glanced at his watch. “About three a.m.”

“Wow. So I’ve been out of it – thirty hours?”

“Getting your beauty rest.”

She blinked rapidly. “I was supposed to meet with a realtor…yesterday…to sign a purchase offer on my dad’s apartment.”

“Don’t sweat it. You’ve got a hell of an excuse. I can write you a note if you want.” He squeezed her hand. “You’ll need to make a statement when you’re up to it.”

“Sure. I mean, there’s not a lot to tell.”

“For starters, you can explain what you were doing at Lincoln Center.”

“She called my hotel and pretended to be a dancer with dirt on Jeremy. I agreed to meet her. It was an ambush.”

“How did you get the gun away from her?”

“My phone rang. It startled her, so I went for it.”

“That was me calling.” He inched closer. “You’re lucky to be alive, Tess.”

“I’ve always thought so.” She smiled again, and this time her eyes crinkled in pain. “I must look like hell.”

He reached over and smoothed her hair, his face close to hers. His lips brushed hers and he pulled away to look at her. “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

“Now featuring a bullet scar.”

“I’m willing to overlook minor dings and scratches.”

She regarded him with feigned indignation and managed a small nod. “We’re going to have to get you some new clothes and a reasonable haircut. No offense.”

He grinned. “None taken. I don’t mind you dressing me.” A pause. “Or undressing me, for that matter.”

“I’m a good negotiator.”

He kissed her again, this time his lips lingering on hers. When he sat back, he was smiling ear-to-ear.

“We’ll work it out.”

<<<<>>>>

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Turn the page to read an excerpt from Ramsey’s Gold

Excerpt from
Ramsey’s Gold

†

Russell Blake

Copyright © 2015 by Russell Blake. All rights reserved.

Chapter One

Southwest of Cajamarca, Peru, A.D. 1532

Lightning flashed through the anthracite clouds that roiled over the jungle canopy as an explosion of thunder shook the earth. A long line of llamas, their matted fur drenched from the constant downpour, shambled along a trail deep in the rainforest. The animals staggered under heavy loads strapped to their backs, hooves slipping in the mud and pulling free with a sucking sound.

Thousands of the unfortunate beasts had been conscripted into duty on the far side of the Andes Mountains, their drovers trudging beside them to see to it that none wandered off with precious cargo. Inkarri, the head of the expedition, had made it clear that this was a sacred mission, with the destiny and survival of the Inca Empire at stake.

Only two months earlier the Spanish conquistadors had betrayed Atahualpa, the Inca emperor, whom they’d captured through trickery. After hundreds of loads of ransom had been delivered to the Spanish leader in the Inca city of Cajamarca, the conquistadores had broken their promise and executed Atahualpa. Word had spread through the Inca world of the treachery, and an edict had gone out: the prosperous Inca nation’s treasure was to be safeguarded, far away from the invaders.

Inkarri had traveled for many weeks, first crossing the Andes and then tackling the western jungle’s swollen rivers. He’d braved impossible terrain to put as many natural barriers between his people and the invaders as possible. Now, hundreds of miles from home, the procession was running short of resources. Many of the animals had perished along the way, and every surviving beast now bore an insupportable burden.

Inkarri knew his trek couldn’t continue. The latest attack on his group by the hostile Amazon natives had taken its toll – hundreds of his men had died repelling the assaults. He slowed at the head of the column and cocked his head, his bronze features haggard from the trip’s demands, and listened intently.

From the thick underbrush ahead came Lomu, his second in command, who’d been scouting with an advance party for possible new routes. Inkarri held his hand over his head to signal a stop.

Lomu wiped rain from his face before leaning in close. “I found a promising site an hour away. It has streams – tributaries to the big river that winds through the area, so there will be plentiful fish,” he said in a quiet voice. “And I saw an auspicious omen. A jaguar, standing in the center of a small clearing. It’s what we’ve been waiting for. As clear as the gods could make it.”

Inkarri looked to the sky. “An hour, you say? Very well. We have another few left before it gets dark. How difficult does it look to defend?”

“If attacked we would have the high ground. And there’s a narrow river that runs along the northernmost section, which will serve as a natural barrier.”

Inkarri nodded. “Pass the word down the line. We’re headed to our new home.”

Lomu rushed to share the news with the men. They were close to their journey’s end, and the beginning of a new, secret life in an inhospitable wilderness. Their mission was clear – to establish a new city away from the Spanish where the wealth of the nation would be safe, a cradle for the fresh start of the civilization. When they had done so, Inkarri would return to the empire with news, leaving a trail of false clues and deceptive directions to confound any would-be pursuers. He’d seen the avarice of the conquistadores, and witnessed their duplicity, and knew their lust for gold and emeralds would never die – that he and his kind would never be safe.

It would take months to create a habitable enclave, but when he’d done so, he would set up small camps along the trail to help new arrivals find the city. Once he was back among his people, he would recruit women and more able-bodied men to colonize the area and build a new capital.

Inkarri watched Lomu disappear down the column of tired llamas, communicating the tidings to men who had been through an ordeal unlike any in their people’s history. The jungles east of the mountains had been the limit of the Inca world, and it was only a compulsion to survive that had driven Inkarri’s group into its reaches.

At last they arrived at the site. The sun broke through the clouds – the first pause in the rain in three days. Inkarri eyed the trees, taking the measure of the area. After several moments of silence, he moved to the center of the clearing and stood, his arms spread, the sun’s dimming rays warming him as he offered a quiet prayer of gratitude for bringing them safely to this spot. When he faced his warrior brethren, gathered in a large ring around him, he beamed confidence and conviction.

“Our quest is over. Remove the treasure from the animals and let them rest. Organize patrols to ensure our safety this night, for tomorrow we begin building a new future in this place.” Inkarri paused, taking in the men’s expressions. “Oh, Inti, god of sun and light, and Apocatequil, god of thunder, thank you for leading us to this blessed spot. We shall honor you with a city the likes of which has never been seen. It shall be called Paititi, after the jaguar father you sent as a sign. Its riches shall be legendary – the stuff of which dreams are made.”

Lomu gazed at the hundreds of bags the men were placing on the wet ground, brimming with gold and jewels, and his eyes came to rest on the pride of the Incas: a massive chain crafted from thousands of pounds of gold, its gemstone-crusted serpentine links glowing orange in the waning light, so heavy that it had taken a hundred men to carry it. Even with all the other riches in the clearing, it was breathtaking to behold, and Lomu felt justifiable satisfaction in spiriting it away to safety.

The road ahead would be hard. But they would do it, and survive as a people until the Spanish were driven from the shores. Temples would be built, babies would be born, trade routes established, the empire would flourish, and their deeds would be spoken of in hushed tones of awe and respect.

They would achieve the impossible and be remembered in their culture until the end of time. Stories would be told around fires, and the name of their city would be known far and wide as the crowning jewel in the Inca crown – the great promise of its future, the legendary new center of the noble and ancient civilization’s universe: Paititi, the City of Gold.

Chapter Two

Patricia hurried from her flower shop to the car. Night had fallen hours ago and traffic had dwindled to nothing, leaving the downtown deserted. She normally didn’t stay at the store after dark, but it was the end of the month and there were accounts to be balanced. Times were hard now, and she’d been handling the bookkeeping herself. She considered herself lucky that she still had a business.

Her sensible heels clicked on the sidewalk, her breath steaming in the frigid night air, and then she heard the sound again – something or someone was gaining on her. She struggled to stay calm as she reached into her purse for the can of pepper spray she’d hidden there years ago, praying that it still worked.

Patricia’s hand fumbled in the bag, a knock-off Coach she’d gotten on a Mexican cruise in better days, and her trembling fingers felt the distinctive cylinder. She tried to remember the effective range, but all she could think of was that she should run. Run as fast as her feet would carry her, run to safety, to her waiting car.

She hesitated at the junction of two gloomy streets, ears straining for any hint of a pursuer. A scrape from behind her, no more than twenty yards, reaffirmed her worst fears before she forced them away and slowed her breathing. That could have been anything. A cat. One of the heaping garbage bags she’d passed rustling in the breeze. Something shifting inside them, or a rat burrowing for buried treasure. Anything at all.

When she rounded the corner she sprinted for the parking lot, all pretense of calm gone as she ran on tiptoes to avoid the sound of her heels alerting whoever was behind her that she was in full flight. Because now, in spite of her inner dialogue, she was sure someone was tailing her.

Visions of serial killers played through her imagination as she reached the waist-high concrete wall that encircled the lot. She pushed through the gate, wincing at the groan of its corroded hinges, and made her way to her car as she fished in her overcoat for her key ring. God, she hoped it would start on the first try. She cursed silently at how she’d been putting off taking the old Buick to the dealership for months.

A decision she prayed wouldn’t prove her undoing.

Patricia fumbled with her keys and got the door open. She wasted no time sliding behind the wheel and throwing her purse on the seat beside her before twisting the ignition. The doors locked automatically as the starter ground.

“No. Oh, God, no. Come on. Come on!” she murmured.

Two black-gloved hands slammed against the driver’s side window. Patricia screamed and wrenched the ignition again. With a phlegmy roar, the engine coughed a cloud of black exhaust. She shifted into gear and floored the accelerator just as she registered the unmistakable shape of a pistol in her side mirror. Patricia swerved toward the street, ducking in panic as she saw the orange blossom of a muzzle flash and her rear window blew out in a shower of safety-glass fragments.

The old vehicle bounced over the curb with a jolt as she cut the driveway too tight, and then she was speeding down the empty street. Behind her, a pair of headlights blazed to life and grew frighteningly large. She gazed in spellbound horror in her rear view mirror as the shooter’s vehicle pulled after her, and she spun the wheel, hurtling toward the highway that led to the safety of her modest home ten minutes outside town.

Patricia blew through the red light at the base of the onramp. Panic replaced her momentary relief when the glare of headlights reappeared behind her, gaining on her even as she strained to drive the gas pedal through the floorboard, pulse pounding in her ears, a band of pressure tightening around her chest.

“Come on. Come on…” she hissed, willing the aging Buick to greater speed as she raced by the old gas station that marked the town periphery, the arched windows of its fifties-era building as dark as the night sky.

A cold wind tore at the trees along the highway as the speedometer needle inched past eighty, faster than she’d ever forced it, but insufficient to pull away from the vehicle closing on her. Her gaze darted to the mirror again, where she could see the other car a hundred yards behind.

Patricia was doing ninety-six miles per hour when she missed the curve just before the river bridge. Her tires screeched like a wounded animal, and then she was sailing through space in a graceless arc.

The sedan chasing her slowed until it rolled to a stop halfway across the bridge’s span. The passenger reached up with a gloved hand and flipped the interior light off, and then opened his door and stepped out into the freezing gloom. His head swiveled right, then left, verifying that he was alone. He approached the edge of the bridge and peered into the darkness at the inky rushing water of the river hundreds of feet below. There, at the base of the gorge, was the Buick, partially submerged, mangled beyond recognition.

He shook his head and pulled his overcoat around him, slim protection against the chill wind as he returned to the waiting car.

“Nobody could have survived that,” he said, swinging the door open.

“Now what?” the driver asked, hands loose on the wheel.

The passenger glanced at the moon grinning crookedly from between the clouds.

“Now it gets hard.”

Chapter Three

Drake Simmons peered over the dashboard of his Honda Accord at the row of clapboard homes across the street and took another sip from his lukewarm can of cola.

He hated stakeouts. Endless hours watching and waiting for the perp to appear, which often never happened, rendering for naught his patient vigil living off caffeine and peeing into a Gatorade bottle. He ran a hand over the dusting of dark beard on his lean face and wondered again how he’d wound up in this business rather than using his journalism degree.

The job market had gone from bad to worse since he’d graduated five years ago. Finding criminals who’d skipped out on their bond wasn’t quite in the same league as being an investigative reporter, but it required many of the same attributes: patience, dogged determination, research skills, and a certain crazy recklessness that had defined his character since childhood. It was just a lower-rent version of how he’d imagined himself, playing out his Woodward and Bernstein fantasies as the star of a major newspaper.

The door to one of the squalid houses opened and a tall man with the jaundiced pallor of an addict sauntered down the stairs, eyes scanning the street. Drake slumped down behind the steering wheel and pushed a long lock of dark brown hair off his forehead, and then adjusted his Oakley sunglasses before sliding up just enough to see.

No question that was his boy. Alan Cranford, two-time B&E loser up for his third count, a junkie, a thief, a cheat, and now a fugitive after he failed to appear at his arraignment last week. But most importantly, Cranford meant five thousand dollars in Drake’s pocket as his fee – ten percent of the bond’s value, which the scumbag had allowed his aging mother to post before kicking her, and the bail bondsman, to the curb.

Cranford had a rep for being violent, Drake knew from Harry Rivera, his sometimes employer and longtime friend.

“Be careful, kid. He’s mean as a reservoir dog and twice as dangerous,” Harry had warned in his distinctive gravelly voice, tempered by two packs a day of unfiltered Pall Malls and an affinity for Jack Daniels. “Last time he was in the joint he almost killed his cell mate. You don’t wanna play him wrong.”

“Sounds like my kind of fella,” Drake had said as he’d studied the photographs Harry handed him. “A sweetheart, really. I’ll just ask him politely to come in with me – that should do the trick.”

“Drake, don’t go overboard. I can’t afford any more complaints. Do you read me?”

“Complaints? Of course they’re going to complain. I drag their asses back to justice. What do you expect?”

“No unnecessary force. I’m still taking heat over Jarvis.” Mel Jarvis had been a drug dealer who’d skipped on an eighty-grand bond. He’d tried to remove most of the top of Drake’s skull with a two-by-four when Drake had caught up with him after a three-day meth binge at one of his girlfriends’ houses. Drake had tackled him and Jarvis had hit his head on the sidewalk when he’d fallen, resulting in a concussion and more than a few stitches. Of course the girlfriend had lied and said Drake had beaten her boyfriend unconscious. The police were still looking into the matter, although no charges had been filed – they had slim patience for dope dealers who skipped on bail.

“Jarvis was a fecal spec. He tried to brain me. What was I supposed to do? Frown? Give him one of my scary looks? Guy was trying to kill me.”

“That’s not what his squeeze said.”

“I love it when you use that old time talk. I think they call ’em ‘shorties’ now.”

“Just bring him in without any broken bones. All right? You don’t want the contract, I got guys knee deep begging for work.”

“I’ll bring him in soft. I promise. Maybe I’ll use passive aggression. Perps looking at their third strike respond well to that. If he gets snotty, I’ll scowl disapprovingly or something.”

“Okay, smartass. Just go find him and stop breathing my air.”

Drake was pulled back to the present as he watched Cranford return to the door. Someone inside handed him a backpack. Cranford threw the street another predatory glare and began walking toward the main boulevard two blocks away.

Drake reached over the passenger seat and grabbed the bulky pistol grip of his stun gun, and then exited the car, the weapon’s bulk hidden in the oversized gray hoodie he favored for stakeouts. Patting the steel handcuffs in his pocket, he locked his doors with a chirp and sauntered across the street, pretending to talk on his cell phone as he bee-lined for Cranford.

It was looking like an easy takedown until some part of Cranford’s reptilian brain sensed he was being followed. He broke hard right across a ramshackle house’s brown lawn, accelerating with surprising agility for a dope fiend. Drake gave chase, his Converse Chuck Taylors pounding the ground as he turned on the speed. Cranford vaulted over a four-foot-high chain link fence and into the home’s yard, and Drake hesitated, but only for a second, any worries about trespassing overshadowed by the five grand Cranford represented.

He landed on the far side of the fence in time to see his quarry darting across the back lawn, which was littered with dog droppings and trash. Cranford threw his hands over the top of a wooden fence at the rear of the lot and pulled himself up and over. Drake was just about to follow him when the back door of the house creaked open and an old woman’s sandpaper voice called out.

“You. What are you doing in my yard? Filthy punk. Brutus! Get him!”

Drake gripped the fence and cursed under his breath at Cranford for making this hard. He was scrambling up, feet trying for a grip as he hoisted himself, when Brutus made all hundred and ten pounds of his Rottweiler presence known with a chomp on Drake’s left leg. Drake screamed and kicked at the monster as he boosted himself over the fence, his ankle radiating pain.

He tumbled into another yard and winced. After confirming that the dog’s teeth hadn’t penetrated his skin, Drake took off after Cranford, who was fumbling with a tall iron gate at the side of the house. He reached him just as Cranford was turning toward him, a sneer on his face, the metal trash can by his side emanating the telltale stink of a recent fishing expedition on the bay.

Drake pulled the stun gun from his pocket and held it aloft.

“It’s over. Only question is if you want to do this the easy way, or the way that zaps the crap out of you. All the same to me.”

Cranford responded by ducking to the side and lifting the garbage can in front of him to block Drake’s shot. Then he charged him, using the can for cover. Drake dodged to the left, but not enough to completely avoid the container, and found himself covered in fish guts and beer dregs as it struck his ribcage, knocking him backward. He landed on the ground with a grunt, and by the time he’d rolled and gotten the stun gun aimed, Cranford was swinging a leg at him, trying to kick his teeth in.

Cranford’s work boot struck him a glancing blow on the side of his head. A starburst exploded behind his eyes, and then he had the punk’s foot in his grip and the gun pointed at his crotch. He fired and heard a howl of agony as he shocked Cranford, who dropped like a sack of twitching rocks. Drake sat up and shook his head, trying to clear it, and zapped Cranford again, just for good measure.

“There. You like that? That what you had in mind?” Drake stood unsteadily and tossed the cuffs at Cranford. “Put those on. Try anything and you get another dose.”

A man’s voice boomed from the rear of the house. “What’s going on? I’ve got a gun.”

Great. Just what he needed. Drake looked over his shoulder.

“I’m apprehending a criminal, sir. Please don’t shoot me.” Drake returned his attention to Cranford. “Put the cuffs on or I push the button. Now.”

All the fight had gone out of Cranford, and he grudgingly snapped the cuffs in place. The man approached carrying a shotgun and stood a safe distance away.

“Why are you in my yard?” he demanded.

“This scumbag jumped the fence and was trying to get your gate open. I followed him over.”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “You a cop?”

Drake shook his head. “No, he’s a bail skip.”

“So you’re a bounty hunter?”

“I much prefer fugitive recovery agent.”

“Well, Mister Fugitive Recovery Agent, my brother’s in the joint doing hard time, and I don’t like the law. Especially bounty hunters. So I’m gonna call the cops while you two wait, and then I’m filing trespassing charges. Now don’t you move,” he ordered, and pulled a phone from his pocket. Drake swore under his breath. He wasn’t supposed to trespass. That was one of the cardinal rules of his trade and a very real legal issue. Harry would be livid, and worse, the charge was likely to stick, if the man couldn’t be dissuaded from pushing it.

“Yes, sir. Of course, I wouldn’t have had to enter your property if this dangerous felon hadn’t been there first.”

“Shut your pie hole. You play this way for a living, you take the hits.”

A small voice called out from the open doorway. “Ew. You got fish guts on you, mister.”

Drake sighed, trying not to gag at the reminder of the rotting leavings soaked into his hoodie.

“I know, kid.”

The man snarled over his shoulder. “Shut up. Bailey, go back into the house. Git. Now.”

“I ain’t outta the house.”

“You want a strapping? Talkin’ back like that? Get back inside. Now.”

“You gonna shoot ’em?”

The man grinned, an ugly display of marginal dental work that chilled Drake’s marrow. “Never know, son. Now git.”

Sirens greeted them several minutes later, and Drake stood by patiently while the disgruntled homeowner insisted on swearing out a complaint. A second squad car arrived and carted Cranford back to jail as the officer finished filling out the form and had the owner sign it.

“All right, Simmons. You know the drill. We gotta take you in and book you.”

Drake shook his head. “Tell me this is a joke.”

“Wish it was. Sorry. Let’s go. Oh, and I need your Taser.”

Drake handed it over as the homeowner watched, a smirk on his face, and Drake got another waft of fish stink rising from his shirt.

“Christ. What is that? Smells like an open sewer,” the cop complained as they walked together to the car.

“You ever have one of those days?” Drake asked.

The cop stopped by his cruiser, opened the back door, and nodded. “All the time, man. Watch your head.”

Chapter Four

The afternoon light faded to amber as dusk approached. Harry paced in the small area behind his desk, gazing through the window at a copse of trees behind the office, the stub of an unlit cigar clenched between his teeth. Obviously agitated, he finally stopped and faced Drake, who was sitting in one of two dilapidated chairs in front of the desk.

“I’m sorry, man, but I warned you. I can’t have this kind of crap associated with my company.”

“What crap? I nailed him. Dead to rights,” Drake protested.

“While trespassing on private property. You’re lucky the old lady didn’t jump into it and file, too.”

“She’s lucky I don’t sue her for the dog bite.”

Harry shook his head and sat in his worn executive chair, his nervous energy finally dissipated, and leaned over to open his bottom desk drawer. He extracted a locking metal box and lifted the lid.

Drake caught the bundle of rubber-band-wrapped hundreds in midair.

Harry smiled. “Good catch.”

“Thanks. This the five?”

“Yup. Listen. Drake. We go back a ways, so let me make a suggestion. Lay low. Take some time off. Go find a girl or get drunk or something. Take a vacation. And consider a different line of work. This isn’t for you. You’re too smart to be a bounty hunter. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you, a degree…you’re wasting your time with this.”

Drake’s eyes fixed on Harry’s face. “You firing me? For real?”

“You don’t work for me. You’re a free agent. So I can’t fire you. But if you’re asking, I’m not going to hand you any more jobs, at least not for a while. I don’t need the grief. You know better than to chase a perp through private property like that. And Cranford’s complaining that you used cruel and unusual subjugation techniques. He may press charges, too.”

“What? I Tasered him.”

“You got him in his family jewels.”

“While he was trying to kick my face in.”

“Still. It looks bad.” Harry’s gaze wandered to his message pad. “Dude, you’re the best I’ve ever seen at figuring out where these mugs are hiding. It’s eerie – like a sixth sense. But you don’t follow the rules, and that’s a big problem. So even though you’re great at the tracking part of the job, you suck at the obeying the law part, and I can’t have that reputation associated with me.” He squinted at the writing on the pad. “Oh. Hey. I almost forgot. This came in earlier. Some guy looking for you. An attorney, he said.” Harry tore off the message slip and handed it to Drake, who read it with a puzzled expression.

“Did he say what he wanted?”

“Nope. Maybe somebody else wants file charges against you. Been a full day even by your standards, hasn’t it?”

“Very funny. Can I use the phone?”

“Sure. And then make yourself scarce. If you still want work, call me in a month. But for now, you’re off my approved list. Nothing personal, of course.”

“Of course.” Drake stood and walked to the office door. “I’ll use Betty’s phone, okay?”

“Mi casa, baby. Sorry to cut you off at the knees.”

“No sweat. Maybe you’re right. Time for some sightseeing someplace warm and sunny. Maybe Mexico. You can live pretty cheap there, I hear.”

“That’s the spirit. Get a tan. Have too many beers. Find a señorita to lie to. You’re a young man. Live a little.”

“Not that young.”

“What are you, twenty-five? I got stuff in my freezer older than that.”

“Twenty-six. Not that I’m counting.”

“Course not.”

Drake sat behind Betty’s receptionist desk and dialed the number. Washington State, judging from the area code. It rang three times and then a musical female voice answered.

“Baily, Crane, and Lynch. May I help you?”

“I think so. I’m returning a call from a Michael Lynch?”

“Certainly, sir. And who may I say is calling?”

“Drake Simmons.”

Music on hold waltzed in his ear for thirty seconds and then a refined baritone boomed over the line. “Michael Lynch.”

“Mr. Lynch, this is Drake Simmons. You called today?”

“Oh, yes, of course. First of all, let me extend my sincere condolences.”

“Condolences?”

“Yes. Your aunt, Patricia Marshall, passed away the day before yesterday.”

“I’m sorry. Patricia Marshall? You say she was my aunt?”

“That’s correct. I gather you weren’t close?”

“There must be some mistake. I’ve never heard of Patricia Marshall.”

“Mmm. Apparently she was your father’s sister.”

“My father didn’t have a sister, as far as I know.”

“Well, be that as it may, as executor of her will, her instructions were very clear. I have a package here that I’m to hand to Drake Simmons, currently of San Antonio Road in Mountain View, California, in person. Your employer was kind enough to confirm that’s you. I’ve also been authorized to purchase a plane ticket to get you to Seattle, as well as pay for accommodations for two days. And of course, compensate you for your time.”

“Compensate me?” Drake echoed, his ears perking up.

“Yes. A thousand dollars a day. Apart from what she left you, of course.”

“She left me something besides the…package?”

“Correct. Twenty-five thousand dollars. All the money she had in the world.”

“Mr. Lynch, I’m afraid there’s been some sort of mistake. I don’t know this woman, and as sorry as I am to hear she passed away, I’m not sure what to make of this. How do I know you’re legit?”

“You called the firm’s offices. If you like, go online and check us out – verify that I’m a member of the bar, that we’ve been here for over twenty years, whatever you like. You should be able to do that quickly.” Lynch paused. “Mr. Simmons, there’s twenty-five thousand dollars with your name on it in my account, and a package that requires you to sign for it in my office. Do you have something so pressing that you can’t make it here to claim your inheritance?”

“See, that’s the problem. It’s an inheritance from an aunt I didn’t even know I had.”

“If you say so. That’s not my concern. But it’s your money, assuming you show up to claim it.”

Drake thought about the odd set of circumstances. “And there are no strings attached?”

“Correct. Show up, confirm your identity, sign, collect your cashier’s check and the package, and you’re done.”

Drake picked up one of Betty’s pens. “Fine. I can fly in tomorrow. I’ll verify your bona fides, and if it all checks out, I’ll be on the first plane out tomorrow. How do I get a ticket paid for, and will you be there around lunchtime?”

~ ~ ~

When Drake arrived at Lynch’s building the following afternoon, he was impressed by the baroque décor and wood paneled offices on the firm’s floor. The suite smelled like prosperity, of weighty matters and important men. The receptionist was a perfectly manicured Chinese woman not much older than Drake, who peered over the rims of designer glasses at him with the glacial composure of a surgeon. One glance at her severe suit made him feel instantly underdressed in his dark gray cargo pants and blue polo shirt, his North Face jacket clenched in one hand as he waited for her to alert Lynch of his arrival.

A tall bearded man in a charcoal suit with a leonine head of graying hair approached from the back offices with an outstretched hand and a somber expression.

“Drake Simmons? Michael Lynch. Good of you to come. I trust your trip was uneventful?”

“Yes. It wasn’t bad.”

“Excellent. Would you be kind enough to follow me to the conference room?”

“Sure.”

They moved through the hushed suite to a large room with a rectangular table. A bookcase filled with legal tomes occupied one entire wall, with a panoramic view of the Seattle skyline through the picture windows that ran its length the main attraction. Lynch offered Drake a seat by the window.

Lynch moved to the head of the table, where a small package wrapped in brown paper sat next to a check and a heavy green leather-bound signature book.

“Let’s dispense with formalities. Do you have identification?” Lynch asked.

“Of course. Driver’s license okay?”

“Certainly.”

Drake slid it across the table to the attorney, who pressed a button on the intercom box mounted on the corner of the table. “Would you please come in and make a copy?”

Twenty seconds later a blonde in a black business suit entered and wordlessly took Drake’s license. She offered a polite smile and departed as quietly as she came, exuding high-priced professional discretion.

Lynch made small talk until she returned with a photocopy and deposited it in front of him. He studied the license like it held nuclear launch codes and then opened the big ledger and slid it, and the ID, to Drake.

“Sign there, by the X, if you would,” Lynch instructed. Drake did so and pocketed his license.

“Well. There we have it. All done. This, young man, is yours,” Lynch said, presenting him with the cashier’s check. “And this is also yours.” He handed him the package. “Oh, and I’m afraid there’s one tiny caveat. It’s nothing, really.”

“A caveat?” Drake repeated, instantly suspicious.

“Yes. You’re to open the package while seated in this room, and read the note inside. After that, if you choose to do nothing else, I will return with another check for your two thousand dollars of expense money, and you may leave the contents of the package with me. I’ve been instructed, if that’s your choice, to forward it on to the largest museum in New York, and you may leave, your part in the matter finished.”

“Wait. All I have to do is read a note from some lady I never heard of?”

“Your aunt. Recently departed.”

“Sure. Okay, go get the check. This won’t take long.”

“As you wish. I’d suggest you be careful with the wrapping. You don’t want to tear the note,” Lynch said with a frown, and then stood. “I’ll be back shortly.”

Drake waited until the heavy door had closed and smiled to himself. Fine. He’d humor the old codger. Play along, pretend interest, and then take the money and run. Twenty-five big ones. No, counting the extra two, twenty-seven. Added to the five he’d just gotten for Cranford, that was enough to lounge around on the beaches of Baja for a good year, if not longer.

He leaned forward and began tearing at the brown paper, which to his eye was an old sandwich bag hurriedly sliced up and used for wrapping, and then remembered Lynch’s warning about going easy. He folded back the flaps, the cheap tape yellowed from age, and found a single creased sheet of binder paper sitting atop a five-by-seven battered brown leather book, held closed with a grimy piece of twine. Drake gave it a cursory glance and opened the note. A flowing, clearly feminine hand filled the ruled page in blue ballpoint ink.

Dear Drake:

If you’re reading this, I’m dead. How or why isn’t important. What is important is that you know some things about your past. Important things. About your father.

My brother.

After his death, I moved from Portland, leaving everything behind. I did so because the men who killed him would be looking for me. As they would for your mother, who was a saint. By the way, I’m sorry she passed away. She’ll be missed.

Where do I start? Best at the beginning.

I was at your baptism. At your first four birthdays. At countless outings, picnics, dinners. Then everything changed. Your father went away and never returned. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Do you know the story of your name? You’re named after one of the greatest adventurers of all time: Sir Francis Drake. Your father admired his courage no end, which was probably his undoing. And your real last name is Ramsey. Drake Ramsey. Your mother and I changed our names after your father died, and yours, too. Why you don’t use the Ramsey name is one of the topics of this letter.

Your father loved you more than life itself. Words can’t describe his joy when you came into the world. It breaks my heart that you never really knew him.

Your father, Ford Ramsey, was an adventurer. A treasure hunter. He was a good man, but with a wild streak that couldn’t be tamed. Your mother knew it when she married him, and she did so willingly.

He was killed searching for a lost Inca city said to contain the greatest treasure ever known. The journal contains his notes and his reasoning, up until he left for South America. Word arrived later that he’d died in the jungles there. Murdered, although the details are muddled. I know this because his trusted friend, who also changed his last name and is now using the name Jack Brody, returned from that trip with the news of his death.

I have left you whatever money I’ve managed to cobble together in my new life. And the most precious gift I can offer – the words of your father, in his own hand, chronicling his thinking, and ultimately, his journey to his fate. Read it and guard it well. Its value is substantial.

Your loving aunt,

Patricia Ramsey

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Go back to Contents

Table of Contents

Books by Russell Blake

About the Author

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Excerpt from Ramsey’s Gold