‘How the hell do I monitor that?’

Denise took out a small green elastic wrist strap. ‘You wear this on your wrist and whenever you have an angry thought just give it a twang. I just want you to see how often your mind takes a walk down that particular avenue.’ She handed him the band. He took it and looked at it suspiciously.

‘You are fucking kidding me.’

‘Think of it as an investigation into your own psyche. It’s not medicine, it’s a form of information-gathering.’

Harper stood up and pocketed the elastic strap. ‘I’ll see what I can do, Doctor.’

Chapter Eighteen

Blue Team

November 18, 3.48 p.m.

Mark Garcia hurried across to Harper as he walked into the Major Investigation Room and handed him a blue manila folder. ‘Report you wanted, Harper. They just completed the walkabout. It tallies with Amy’s credit card records. Nothing unusual that we could see. But I know you wanted it soon as.’

‘Thanks, I appreciate it.’ Harper took the folder and returned to his desk. There was a little postcard sitting on his keyboard. Harper picked it up. It had a picture of Muhammad Ali in his younger days and a quotation below it.

Champions aren’t made in gyms. Champions are made from something they have deep inside them - a desire, a dream, a vision. They have to have last-minute stamina, they have to be a little faster, they have to have the skill and the will. But the will must be stronger than the skill.

Harper turned over the card. He read the scrawl of black ink. Good to have you back, champ. We know you have the will but we hope the skill will come later. Eddie.

Harper smiled and stuck the postcard on his monitor. ‘Nice to be back, Eddie,’ he said aloud.

He poured himself a coffee and caught up with the latest news coming in from the various arms of the investigation. With three kills, they had hundreds of interviews to get through, as well as a wealth of forensic data to process. Harper looked in at the office set up to deal with tip-offs from the public. A team of five men and women were sitting with headphones speaking into their mics. Harper caught one girl’s eye. ‘How’s it going?’ he mouthed. The girl pointed to the whiteboard by the door. They’d set up a tally for day one. Three columns. Confessions, Leads and Irrelevant. They had 132 irrelevants, 207 confessions and zero leads. Harper nodded. It was always the way. But still, if the cops were honest, a case like this needed a tip-off from a member of the public. Someone somewhere must’ve seen something.

Down the hallway, the press team were putting together information for the public. This would lead to a reconstruction of each murder for TV. The more people knew about each crime the more likely it was the cops would get valuable information. As yet, the public didn’t know enough, so the only people who called were geeks and freaks.

Harper took out the report on Amy Lloyd-Gardner’s last hour on earth. They had traced her through a number of shops, all expensive designer boutiques. They had her purchases down one side. She’d bought two pairs of shoes. One from Christian Louboutin, one from Prada. She had bought a handbag and a silver Versace dress. The overall bill came to $3,900. That was a hell of a shopping trip. Harper knew that the killer might keep these items so it was important to get photographs of them for the media. Someone somewhere might see them, even be wearing them. He wrote a note on the file and tried to find anything else of value, but he couldn’t. Everyone had been interviewed but no one had spotted a guy following her. Harper wanted them to go through them all again until they had a sighting. He wrote a second note and closed the file. He took it across to Kasper.

‘I need these two things, Eddie. I need shots of all the items she bought sent through to the press and I want these interviews repeated.’

‘Repeated?’

‘Yeah, repeated.’

‘You want me to square it with Williamson?’

‘Sure, if he’s around. If not, take a couple of guys and start yourself. Last two or three shops would be the best place to start.’

‘Okay, I’m on it.’

‘And thanks for the card, Eddie. It’s good to be back.’

‘How’s the shrink?’

‘She’s not as bad as I thought.’

‘High praise.’

‘You get anywhere on Erin Nash?’

‘You bet . . . I got her home address for you.’ Eddie handed him a scrap of paper. Harper read it and nodded.

‘Thanks, Eddie. That’s quick work.’

Harper arrived at Erin Nash’s apartment block still feeling wired. He hadn’t asked anyone’s permission to go talk to this upstart reporter, simply because he knew he’d be refused. Up at the top of the tree, they were doing political deals and giving Nash a midnight call wouldn’t smooth proceedings. But Harper wasn’t interested in the next mayoral elections. He wanted to meet the bright spark who’d fucked up the investigation for her own personal gain. Harper got out of his car and walked to her brownstone down near Greenwich Village feeling a mixture of emotions - or two separate feelings, rather: hungry and pissed off. He’d not had a bite to eat all day, and it wasn’t improving his mood. It was not a great combination but he wanted to know her source: a source who somehow knew too much and might be the key to unlock the case.

Harper went to the door and buzzed her apartment.

A bright, crisp voice replied. ‘How ya doing? Come on up!’ The door buzzed open.

Tom took a half-second to consider his actions. He went for dishonesty and the next moment was inside the building. This was further than he imagined he would get. But luck or something similar seemed to be on his side.

What was he going to do? He had no idea. He wanted the source but didn’t really know how he was going to get it.

He took the stairs up four storeys. The corridor was deserted. A little gold sign pointed him in the direction of her apartment. His back was sweating. He was more nervous than he should be. Why was that?

He got to her apartment and knocked on the door. Erin Nash, dressed in a big blue-flowered kimono, opened the door wide. ‘Hey, there,’ she said with a nice big smile. Then she saw it wasn’t the man she was expecting and her big smile vanished. ‘Who are you?’

‘I’m Detective Harper of NYPD North Homicide. I want to talk to you, Miss Nash.’

‘You’ve all talked to the legal team at the paper. I’m not saying anything.’

‘Well, unfortunately, that’s not possible, Miss Nash. You’re the journalist with the source and I want to know who you’ve been talking to.’

Erin smiled sweetly and tried to slam the door shut. Tom reacted immediately and pushed the door so hard it bounced off the wall and back against his outstretched hand. He was surprised by the pent-up energy. Erin stood in the doorway. She was about five foot two with jet black hair and pale skin. In her blue robe she looked scared and vulnerable.

‘Get out of here!’ she shouted, but she was moving backwards as she did.

Harper took a step across the threshold. ‘Can we speak, please, Miss Nash? Lives might depend on it.’

‘I told you! Get the fuck out of my apartment!’ Erin screamed. ‘How fucking dare you!’ Her hand rose instinctively as Harper stepped towards her. She was cat-like, good at self-preservation and good at lashing out. She hit Tom hard across the face.

That was the second thing he wasn’t expecting. This wasn’t going well. As a cop, he didn’t ever want to meet the unexpected so he thought things through. He hadn’t thought any of this through. Not a single thing.

Tom’s reaction was automatic. Eleven years of police work dealing with dangerous criminals left no room for thought. He had her wrist in a tight grip and she was on the floor. The two bones in her forearm moved one over the other and then hit the point where there was no more give.