“We have an arrangement,” the elf said, looking down at Bekker. “If one of us has to go out alone, we watch each other.”

“Good idea,” Bekker squeaked. The voice was the hard part. Rayon had said it would be. Bekker put a hand to his mouth and faked a cough, as though his voice might be roughed by a cold, rather than forty years of testosterone.

“This parking garage, somebody’s going to get attacked here someday,” the woman said. “It really isn’t safe . . . .”

Bekker nodded and went back to the purse. The elf looked at him, a puzzled look, something not quite right. But what? She turned away. Turn away from trouble. Bekker followed her out at the top floor, heard the Toyota’s engine start below. Brought the stun gun out, got the tank ready in the bag. Heard the hiss. Felt the action in his feet . . .

The woman saw him moving. A fraction of a second before he was on her, she took in the violence of his motion and started to turn, her eyes widening in reflex.

Then he had her. One hand over her mouth, the other pressing the stun gun against her neck. She went down, trying to scream, and he rode her, pressing the stun gun home, holding it . . . .

She flapped her arms like the wings of a tethered bird. He dropped the stun gun, groped for the tank, found it, flipped the valve and clapped the mask over her face. He had her now, his hair a bush around his head, his eyes wide, feral, like a jackal over a rabbit, breathing hard, mouth open, saliva gleaming on his teeth.

He heard the sound of the Toyota going down the ramp as the bite-sized woman’s struggles weakened and finally stopped. He stood up, listening. Nothing. Then a voice, far away. The little woman was curled at his feet. So sweet, the power . . .

Bekker worked all night. Preparing the specimen—wiring the gag, immobilizing her. Taking her eyelids; he held them in the palms of his hands, marveling; they were so . . . interesting. Fragile. He carried them to a metal tray, where he’d collected some others. The others were drying now, but kept their form, the lashes still shiny and strong . . .

Shelley Carson died just before seven o’clock, as silently as all the rest, the gag wired around her skull, her eyes permanently open. Bekker had crouched over her with the camera as she died, shooting straight into her eyes.

And now he sat in his stainless-steel chair and gazed at the proof of his passion, eight ultraviolet photos that clearly showed something—a radiance, a presence—flowing from Carson as she died. No question, he exulted. No question at all.

Dink.

The intercom bell. It cut through the sense of jubilation, brought him down. Old bitch. Mrs. Lacey got up early, but habitually slumped in front of the television until noon, watching her morning shows.

Dink.

He went to the intercom: “Yes?”

“Come quick,” she squawked. “You have to see, you’re on the television.”

What? Bekker stared at the intercom, then went quickly to the bed, picked up his robe, wrapped himself, put fluffy slippers on his feet. The old lady didn’t see very well, didn’t hear very well, he could pass . . . and he still had on his makeup. On television? As he passed the dresser he slipped two tabs off the tray, popped them, as brighteners. What could she mean?

The first floor was dark, musty, a thin orangish morning light filtering through the parchmentlike window shades. The second floor was worse, the odor of marijuana hanging in the curtains, a stench of decaying cat shit, the smell of old vegetables and carpet mold. And it was dark, except for the phosphorescent glow of the tube.

Mrs. Lacey was standing, staring at the television, a remote control in her hand. Bekker was there on the screen, all right. One of the photos that had plagued him, had kept him off the street. But in this photo, he was a woman and a blonde. The details were perfect:

“ . . . credited to Detective Barbara Fell and former Minneapolis Detective Lieutenant Lucas Davenport, who had been brought to New York as a consultant . . .”

Davenport. Bekker was struck by a sudden dizziness, a wave of nausea. Davenport was coming; Davenport would kill him.

“But . . .” said Mrs. Lacey, looking from the screen to Bekker.

Bekker steadied himself, nodded. “That’s right, it is me,” he said. He sighed. He hadn’t expected the old woman to last this long. He stepped carefully across the carpet to her.

She turned and tried to run, a shuffling struggle against age and infirmity, gargling in terror. Bekker giggled, and the cats, hissing, bounded across the overstuffed furniture to the highest shelves. Bekker caught the old woman at the edge of the parlor. He put the heel of his left hand against the back of her skull, the cup of his right under her chin.

“But . . .” she said again.

A quick snap. Her spine was like a stick of rotten wood, cracked, and she collapsed. Bekker stared down at her, swaying, the brightener tab coming on.

“It is me,” he said again.

CHAPTER

21

Most visitors came through O’Dell’s office; when the knock came at Lily’s unmarked office door, she looked over the top of her Wall Street Journal and frowned.

There was another light knock and she took off her half-moon reading glasses—she hadn’t let anyone see them yet—and said, “Yes?”

Kennett stuck his head in. “Got a minute?”

“What’re you doing down here?” she asked, folding the paper and putting it aside.

“Talking to you,” he said. He stepped inside the door, peeked through a half-open side door into O’Dell’s office, and saw an empty desk.

“He’s at staff,” Lily said. “What’s going on?”

“We’ve papered the town with the female Bekker picture,” Kennett said, dropping into her visitor’s chair. Small talk. He tried a smile, but it didn’t work. “You know Lucas got it, the cross-dressing thing. It wasn’t Fell.”

“I thought maybe he did,” Lily said. “He wants Fell to do well.”

“Nice,” he said, his voice trailing off. He was looking at her as though he were trying to see inside her head.

“Let’s have it,” she said finally.

“All right,” he said. “What do you know about this Robin Hood shit that O’Dell is peddling?”

Lily was surprised—and a small voice at the back of her head said that was good, that look of surprise. “What? What’s he peddling?”

Kennett looked at her, eyes blinking skeptically, as though he were reevaluating something. Then he said, “He’s been putting out shit about Robin Hood, the so-called vigilantes. I’ve got the feeling that the fickle finger is pointed at my ass.”

“Well, Jesus,” Lily said.

“Exactly. There aren’t any vigilantes. It’s all bullshit, this Robin Hood business. But that doesn’t mean he can’t fuck me up. If they think they’ve got a problem . . .” He pointed a thumb at the ceiling, meaning the people upstairs, “And they can’t find anybody, they might just want to hang somebody anyway, to cover their asses.”

“Boy . . .” Lily shook her head. “I’ve got a pretty good line on what O’Dell’s doing, but I don’t know anything like that. And I’m not holding out on you, Richard. I’m really not.”

“And I’m telling you, he’s behind it.”

Lily leaned forward. “Give me a few days. I’ll find out. Let me ask some questions. If he’s doing it, I’ll tell you.”

“You will?”

“Of course I will.”

“All right.” He grinned at her. “It’s, like, when you’re a lieutenant and down, you’ve got friends and lovers. When you’re a captain or above, you’ve got allies. You’re my first ally-lover.”

She didn’t smile back. She said: “Richard.”

The smile died on his face. “Mmm?”

“Before I risk my ass—you’re not Robin Hood?”

“No.”

“Swear it,” she said, looking into his eyes.