This was the point where movement translated into pain. In less than a half-second Erin Nash was on her knees, her right arm held firmly above her by Tom, her chest cavity heaving. It was a basic arrest technique, but she wasn’t under arrest and he had no right to be in her apartment.

Tom released her arm and stepped back. ‘You hit a cop, he’ll disarm you. Sorry, Miss Nash.’

She looked up at him and rubbed her wrist. ‘Get the fuck out of here! How the hell do I know who you are? You haven’t even shown me your shield.’

‘Who were you expecting, Erin? Your source? Look, there’s a killer out there and we need to know everything you got.’

‘Do you think I’d give up access to my exclusive stories because some thug came calling? Grow up, Detective. People got a right to know what you’re not telling them. It’s a big bad world out there, and we all gotta get by. This is my moment.’

‘This isn’t some game. Real women are getting killed. Your source knows something. If you stand in the way of this investigation, we’ll throw everything at you.’

‘Can I get my notebook, so that I can write down what you say when you’re intimidating, harassing and threatening me? It’s going to make a great sub-story. What was your name again?’

‘Fuck you,’ said Tom. ‘I just want a name. Who is it? Is it a cop? Someone from the coroner’s office? Some wife of one of the team? Give it up.’

‘I’ll tell you who it is, it’s my fairy godmother and she’s just sealed my reputation. What are you offering me? Moral satisfaction? Get real, Detective.’

Erin Nash was still not afraid. She had a reporter’s lack of fear and, deeper still, the sense of a story. It was even half forming in her mind. ‘Hero Cop Knocked Me to the Floor and Threatened Me.’

Tom had nowhere else to go. He saw the glint in her eye and knew this was a battle he couldn’t win. ‘If you get a change of heart, call me. My name is Tom Harper.’ He backed away from her.

‘What? Lost your balls?’ she called out.

‘You don’t mind that your story just kicked a house-sized hole in our investigation? We had a means to find out who was telling us the truth and who was lying. Now we got to spend double the time on every witness and confession. You’ve just given this killer a two-week lead.’

‘If a few hundred words can do that to your investigation, I’d question your approach. Sounds like it’s already full of holes.’

Tom knew there was nothing to say. She had out-thought him. Beaten him. But that last line was too much. He took a step towards her, his face intense with emotion. ‘You aren’t worth the trouble,’ he said. ‘You’ve fucked things up enough. But we’ll be back with a warrant and we’ll tear this place to pieces.’

‘You know that won’t work. What I reported is a matter of record, isn’t it? It’s in your reports. What you going to get a warrant for? Telling the truth?’

‘You need to think about what you’re doing and why you’re doing it.’

‘Nice little speech. Now get the hell out of here.’

Tom turned and walked out. He’d just have to hope there was some part of her that was still human, but he doubted it.

Chapter Nineteen

Yorkville

November 18, 8.48 p.m.

Jessica Pascal nodded and sipped slowly from her vodka and cranberry juice. Her eyes were calm but her heart was racing - she had just realized that the man sitting across from her was going to kill her.

From the outset, Jessica had known that there was something not quite right about her date, but she’d only just realized why. He was too good to be true. She felt caught in a way that she’d never experienced before and all she could do was watch him and hope. When would he realize that she knew? Did he know already? What if she got up to go to the bathroom and made a run for it?

What did he want from her? She had liked him anyway. If it was about sex, why force it? She’d made it clear that she liked him, hadn’t she? She hadn’t ever felt that before. Never.

The ice in her glass had long ago melted. Jessica was now scared deep inside - a white fear that shut out everything else. She felt it somewhere so primal that she didn’t even recognize what it was at first.

He was talking and talking, though. His ideas getting crazier and crazier.

Jessica listened and nodded attentively. Her hands clasped the cold glass. It was hard to concentrate on exactly what he was saying.

The man in the black suit and white shirt had been charming and funny too. She had had the best time. There was no way, otherwise, that she’d have invited him up to her apartment. And anyway, he’d been reluctant, hadn’t he? She’d had to ask him if he wanted to come in for a cup of coffee. That’s how you did it, right? Didn’t mean she was promising anything. She just wanted his company a little longer. Life should be happy, right? We should trust people, right?

‘Right!’ he’d said, flashing a knowing look.

They’d gone in. He locked the apartment door. Yes, she’d thought that was odd. He turned and locked all three locks - the double cylinder deadbolt, the vertical deadbolt and the sliding bolt.

‘It’s a rough neighbourhood,’ he said.

Was she just feeling too distracted to notice? She’d made the vodka cranberries, lowered the lights, put Philip Glass on the stereo and for good measure even put on the ambi-light- which glowed in various seductive shades and gradually moved across the spectrum.

He was now bathed in green. She was definitely scared.

When did it hit her? He didn’t make a move on her at all. He could’ve sat next to her on the long red sofa her parents had bought her as a leaving home present, but he chose the black fake-leather armchair. Maybe he was just trying not to be presumptuous. He’s shy, she thought. I like that. Just like me.

She was drinking and they were chatting about . . . what was it? Art. That was it. He looked at her print of Giorgione’s Sleeping Venus - a painting she just absolutely loved - and was telling her about the artist. She knew next to nothing about the artist. She just loved the erotically charged nude lying seductive and self-assured in a mystical landscape.

‘He was an enigma,’ her date had said. ‘His name was Giorgio Barbarelli da Castelfranco. Only six works are fully attributed to him.’

She had flip-flopped at that one. Speaking Italian! A sudden shudder of electric pulses had shot up and down her spine. ‘What you say his name is again?’

He’d smiled. He was dark-eyed with dark eyebrows and dark hair streaked with grey. Glamorous looks, great smile and confident. He looked at her directly. ‘Giorgio Barbarelli da Castelfranco.’

Yeah, that was it all right! That hit the spot. Now ravish me, she was thinking. She couldn’t help herself. Maybe it was him. Maybe it was the vodka. She was thinking: Castelfranco me right up against the wall. It must’ve been the vodka speaking. Something was getting her giddy.

But he didn’t move. He continued to stare at her. She laughed, but he just stared. Suddenly it was disconcerting.

‘You can stop looking now,’ she said. ‘I’m a shy girl at heart. You might not believe it, but I am.’

‘Why? Does it make you feel uncomfortable being looked at?’

She looked back at him in silence. Her knees pressed together.

That was it, wasn’t it? Where it changed? He had changed. The Prince Charming had somehow evaporated in that stubborn, intense stare. She could see his eyes. But his eyes weren’t full of lust. They were quite cold. He was observing her second by second as her simple open-eyed horniness slowly faded to incomprehension and then, as he still wouldn’t avert his gaze, to fear.

That’s what he wanted all along. He wanted to see fear in her eyes, not lust.