‘No, I don’t – ’

‘No problem. It’s her case. You just tell her why you want to take it away from her.’

‘Listen up, Riker, I don’t – ’

‘Well, if it isn’t the devil in drag. Here she comes now.’

Palanski’s eyes did a little dance, and his head snapped around to see what might be coming up behind him. Mallory was indeed walking toward them and growing larger in the reflection of Palanski’s dark glasses. In place of her sheepskin jacket, a long black coat whipped around her heels. And, Riker noted, she was wearing her formal-wear black running shoes today.

What had Mallory done to Palanski? He must ask her sometime.

She was still advancing on them.

‘Never mind,’ said Palanski, turning back to Riker. ‘I’ll tell my captain you think it’s tied to one of your operations. He’ll buy that.’

And Palanski had managed to get all of that out as Mallory came abreast of them and stalked past with only a nod to Riker, leaving behind a suggestion of $80-an-ounce perfume. Palanski’s head swiveled after her. When Mallory was four steps beyond them and her back safely turned, Palanski made the sign of the cross to ward off evil which could not be killed by bullets.

Mallory stopped suddenly, as though this little act of heresy had been spoken aloud. She turned on one heel to face the man down, and Palanski’s finger froze at the last station of the cross.

Riker shook his head slowly. He had known Mallory for so long, and he knew her not at all. In her kiddy days, Markowitz had once described her as a short witch with the eyes of a mob hit man. All these years later, she still had the eyes of a killer. Innocent men, Jack Coffey among them, had stared into those eyes and thrown up their hands in surrender, assuming there must be a gun.

She only stared at Palanski for a moment before turning around and walking on, but his face paled as though she had found a way to suck the blood out of him without the necessity of sinking in her teeth.

Riker looked down at his own spread hand and wondered if a drink might stop that tremor.

Jack Coffey sat back and counted noses. Mallory was her punctual self, not a second before, nor a second after the hour, and Dr John J. Hafner was late.

‘What have you got, Mallory?’

‘Harry Kipling lied on his credit application at the bank. He’s trying to get credit in his own name. The banks keep turning him down because he keeps lying.’

‘Everybody lies to banks. That’s penny ante. What else have you got?’

‘He lies on his tax returns. He files as an individual, and not with his wife. IRS nailed him for an unreported income last year. And he has a growing stash of capital in a foreign bank.’

Coffey covered his face with one hand. ‘I hope we’re doing the background checks quietly?’ Translation – You steal the information, right? You never talk with humans, only machines, right?

‘Yeah, real quiet.’

He had to wonder whose computer she was accessing now. Had she found the back door to Internal Revenue? He would never ask. It might come in handy one day. The ghost of Markowitz was laughing at him as he framed this thought. Wasn’t corruption just awfully damned easy when Mallory was involved?

‘And the other suspects? What’ve you got now? Four altogether?’

‘I’m down to maybe three. My perp is tall. Harry Kipling is six-one.’

‘I’m afraid to ask how tall the judge is.’

‘Six-three, and he’s in the running.’

‘If you screw up with Judge Heart, you’re going to be lying under an avalanche of influence and called-in favors, you know that. What have you got on him?’

‘He beats his wife.’

‘Oh, great, just great. The President’s hand-picked champion of women’s rights. Shoot me, Mallory, shoot me now.’

‘Fits well, doesn’t it?’

‘If I may interject?’ Dr Hafner, the NYPD psychologist and the mayor’s golf buddy, walked into the office with no knock and no apologies for the lateness.

Coffey glanced up at Hafner, who went everywhere in the same insipid smile that said, I have all the answers and you don’t.

‘A wife beater fits this case better than you know,’ said Hafner, unbuttoning his suit jacket and pulling on the legs of his pants, a prelude to sitting down without creasing his expensive suit. The tailoring and material were rivaled only by Mallory’s long coat and blazer.

Hafner’s glasses were sliding down his nose; they always did that. Hafner was always pushing them up, always picking imaginary lint from his clothing and tapping his feet. And Coffey was always resisting the urge to lean across the desk and swat the man each time he had to suffer one of these appointments.

How was he going to keep Hafner from annoying Mallory? How to get Mallory to play nice as long as the mayor’s close friend was in the same room.

‘The judge is a Supreme Court candidate,’ said Coffey, smiling pleasantly. ‘I don’t want him to fit.’

You useless, pompous little twit.

Hafner adjusted his glasses. ‘You will note that Amanda Bosch carried no purse, no wallet. I don’t think it was stolen from the body. I’ve looked at the inventory of the apartment. Her credit cards and driver’s license were lying loose in a drawer, and she had no purses whatever. Women usually own a number of purses, one for dress one for – ’

‘Get to the point,’ said Mallory. It was an order.

Hafner pushed his glasses up, and the constant smile was even more patronizing, as though he thought this was an unruly child he was dealing with. ‘This lack of a purse is significant in the interpersonal dynamics of the relationship. People who don’t carry identification on their persons lack identities of their own. A woman of low self-esteem would gravitate toward a man who was habitually abusive to women.’

‘According to Mrs Farrow,’ said Mallory, leaning in for the first shot, ‘Bosch stopped carrying a purse after she was mugged three years ago. The robbery report is on the record. I sent it to you with all the rest of the paperwork. Do you read the reports we send you? And there are lots of women who prefer pockets to purses.’

Coffey watched Hafner’s eyes drop down to note that Mallory did not carry a purse. Now Hafner was scrutinizing her face, evaluating Mallory like a specimen. His eyes were gleaming, as though he had discovered a unique life form. He had.

‘Dr Hafner,’ said Coffey in his best damage-control tone, ‘do you think he’s likely to kill again?’

‘Oh, definitely. He may have killed many times. We don’t know that this is his first murder. I don’t think he’ll be able to stop himself.’

Coffey was thinking, Bullshit, and Mallory’s eyes were framing stronger language.

‘Go on, Dr Hafner,’ said Coffey.

You idiot, personal friend of the mayor or no.

‘The immaculate condition of the apartment is an example of ritualistic, compulsive behavior, the ultimate cleansing. Such compulsively neat individuals always have severe personality disorders.’

Coffey concentrated on Mallory. Her lips parted. For her, this was tantamount to an emotional outburst. And now he wondered what Hafner would make of Mallory’s compulsively neat and well-ordered environs. The computer room was spotless and kept that way by a civilian keystroker who feared for his life if dust should settle on the computer equipment.

‘So you think our man would fit the profile of a serial killer,’ said Coffey.

‘Highly probable. And I would be very interested in the formative years of all the suspects.’ Hafner was staring at Mallory as he said this. ‘Was there trauma? Abuse? Abandonment? Maybe a history as a runaway.’

Coffey sat back and studied Hafner. The man was just too damn fascinated by Mallory, openly examining her face as though gauging the effect of every word on her.

Hafner pushed his glasses up again. ‘The cleansing ritual may go hand in glove with compulsive punctuality.’