The heavy heat from outside seemed to have invaded the shop now. The back of Beam’s neck was perspiring.

“I want understanding,” Beam said. “Harry was a fence, Nola, and the truth is, so were you. There was enough evidence to bring charges against both of you.”

“Now you want thanks?”

“No. I want you to put away your grief and anger and live in the present.” He waved his arms. “Not with all this stuff from a past that’ll keep dragging you back.”

“My. How concerned you are for me.”

“Damn it, I am!”

“Why?”

“You’re Harry’s widow. And believe it or not, Harry was my friend.”

“You’re lying. Harry was your snitch. Friends and snitches are mutually exclusive.”

That wasn’t true, but in another way, it was. That was why Harry was dead.

Beam knew he’d feel at least somewhat better if she’d show some righteous rage, if she’d shout and throw something at him, instead of being so damned focused and reasonable. So damned…right.

“I want forgiveness,” he admitted.

She didn’t seem surprised that he’d blurted it out. Nothing would shake her composure. Warm as the stifling, cluttered shop full of yesterday was, she wasn’t perspiring. “Do you think you deserve forgiveness?”

“Yes. Maybe we all do.”

“This killer you’re hunting—does he deserve forgiveness?”

“No,” Beam said. “He’s different.”

“From you?”

Perspiration zigzagged down Beam’s back beneath his damp shirt, a persistent tickle that stopped when it reached his belt. “Yes.”

“So he doesn’t deserve forgiveness and you do?”

“Yes. And you need to forgive.”

Nola understood what he needed, and what she herself needed, but for now she wasn’t capable of giving or receiving. He should be able to see that in her, to stay away. He was making things worse.

“Captain Beam, you go to hell.”

In the face of her unwavering stare, he moved toward the front of the shop and opened the door. The bell above tinkled, as if announcing another round with the heat. Beam didn’t say goodbye to Nola. He went outside.

It was something like hell.

Tina drove the white Saab sedan out of the apartment building’s garage and stopped at the curb so Martin could get in on the passenger side. He’d been standing talking to Jerry the doorman about God knew what, and even before the car came to a complete stop, he was climbing in.

Taking it slow, not attracting attention, Tina leaned forward and waved to Jerry before pulling out into traffic. She’d wheeled Martin’s large black suitcase into the elevator and across the garage’s concrete floor, then wrestled it into the car’s trunk. If anybody was watching the building, she didn’t want them to know Martin was leaving for any extended time. They might be followed to the airport. The killer might want to strike before Martin could leave New York. The psycho might have some kind of fixation about that—about all his victims dying in New York. Serial killers were compulsive.

Yet in many ways they were unpredictable; their thought processes weren’t like ours.

What Tina did know was that such killers were moved by forces even they might not understand, making them to do some things over and over and in the same way. Like killing the same type of victim. Like jury forepersons. Like Martin. Repetition was the narcotic that lulled and then tripped them up, and eventually it should lead to the capture of the Justice Killer. But maybe not in time, if he had his sights set on Martin as his next victim. The killer had the edge. It took the police a while to catch on to repetition.

Tina goosed the Saab to merge with heavier traffic and headed for the tunnel. It wasn’t the only way to LaGuardia, but it was the route she always took without even thinking about it.

Repetition.

22

It was getting dark, and headlights and streetlamps were gradually joining the battle against the night, when the doorman gave Nell the okay, twisted his key in the elevator control panel, and she rose fifty-five stories, to the penthouse of J. K. Selig.

Amazingly, it seemed only a few seconds before the elevator adjusted itself smoothly to floor level and its door slid open to an anteroom of Selig’s apartment.

The first thing she noticed was how refreshingly cool it was. Not like her crummy little apartment where she had to spend time in the bedroom because it was the only room with an air conditioner that worked. If that Terry guy didn’t return her phone calls and repair the living room unit, she’d have to give up on him and pass the word that he wasn’t as reliable as she’d heard.

No one seemed to be about. There was a comfortable-looking loveseat in the anteroom, a Persian carpet over gleaming hardwood floor, and a colorful tapestry on the north wall. Beyond the anteroom’s ornately paneled arch was a vast room containing a long, L-shaped white leather sofa, flower patterned chairs, and glass-topped tables with bulky gray lamps with square shades. All on a stretch of pale blue carpet as vast as a sea gone flat. Nell saw no wall hangings; what she saw was the city laid out for miles and coming alive with light. The view was stunning.

She’d stopped two steps out of the elevator and was taking all this in with awe, when a tall, slender man with a lean face beneath a full head of coarse white hair approached. His features had an ax-like sharpness but were symmetrical and handsome. He was wearing a white shirt, gray slacks, black loafers, and a perfect tan. In his early or mid sixties, Nell thought, as he smiled at her with even white teeth. The smile creased his bold features as his blue eyes appraised Nell.

She was appraising him right back. Money. Lots of it. The East Side penthouse might be just the tip of his wealth.

He held out his right hand. “Jack Selig.”

Nell shook the hand, noticing a diamond ring. “I’m Detective Nell Corey.” She reached toward her blazer pocket for her shield.

Selig gave a dismissive, backhanded wave. “Don’t bother. Eddie, downstairs in the lobby, checked you out.” His inquisitive eyes very obviously continuing the checking out process.

Nell liked it. Knock it off! This character’s in his sixties. An old man.

She flashed him the shield anyway before returning it to her pocket. Still with the smile, Selig motioned with his right hand for Nell to enter all the way. He invited her to sit on the leather sofa and asked if she wanted some water or a glass of wine. She accepted the sofa but declined the drink.

“I’m sorry about your wife,” Nell began awkwardly. This guy threw her, old as he was. A rich widower. Vulnerable? Was she some kind of money grubber at heart?

Selig nodded. “It’s been two years. I still miss her a great deal.”

“You know why we’re putting you through this again?”

Another nod. “I read in the papers that the police think Iris was an early victim of the Justice Killer.”

“What do you think?” Nell asked.

“That she was. As soon as I became aware of the Justice Killer, I assumed the police saw her that way. Two years isn’t that long ago, and this being the age of the computer, it was likely the circumstances of Iris’s death would already have been linked with what was happening now…the other Justice Killer murders.” He shook his head and frowned. “I don’t understand this killer. Iris was only doing her duty. She didn’t ask to serve on a jury. Why doesn’t he go after defendants he thinks were mistakenly released back into society?”

“We think it’s the system itself he’s raging against,” Nell said.

Selig considered, blue gaze turned momentarily inward. “I see.”

“Unfortunately, your wife became an integral part of that system.”