Lafayette sat down. He was looking close to a coronary. ‘Nothing. No reports, no homicides, but we’ve been calling Kitty and there’s no reply. We’re sending someone over now. Jesus. If something’s happened to her!’

Harper was remembering Denise Levene’s words. All day, they hadn’t heard one fact directly from Winston Carlisle.

‘We’ve got to see this reporter, right now,’ he said.

‘If this is all bullshit, then she’s going to pay,’ said Eddie.

‘She’s been running this story from day one,’ said Harper. ‘Someone’s been leaking to her. We’ve interviewed everyone, but we got nothing.’

‘You sure this wasn’t a little bit of revenge?’ said Lol Edwards. ‘She maybe stopped giving her source what he wanted and he leaked her this false information?’

‘Could be,’ said Tom, ‘but I’d feel a whole lot better if we could get in touch with Kitty Hunyardi.’

‘I think someone’s playing games with Erin Nash,’ said Eddie. ‘It’s gotta be that.’

‘We got to go and see Erin Nash, Captain.’

‘That’s exactly where you’re all going, right now.’

The previous afternoon, Kitty Hunyardi had spent three hours at the precinct while her story was checked and she identified Winston Carlisle in a line-up as the man in the subway. Two officers took her back to her building. She didn’t want to spend any longer than she had to in the company of cops and dismissed them at the door. The whole dirty business was something she wanted to erase from her brain, including the acrid coffee breath that all cops seemed to have.

Inside her apartment Kitty crouched down under the hot stream of the shower and cried. It had been a hell of a couple of days. The worst she’d ever experienced. It was too much. She wanted to be strong and independent but she needed someone. It was hard, knowing a killer had been stalking you for weeks. That’s what the cops had said. That he tended to scope his victims and even take their clothes and shoes. The idea was terrifying. She felt violated and it dragged her out of the privilege and safety of her wealth and into a place she didn’t recognize.

Worse still, the killer had got close enough to her to kill her. He could have put a knife into her right there in the street. He had grabbed her crotch. All her life, she’d been safe and protected. Now she remembered his hand on her, her fear. She felt sickness starting to rise in her stomach and ran to the lavatory. Her wet blond hair flopped over the white bowl of the toilet as she retched up her guts.

Kitty walked out of the bathroom feeling weak and tired. She had promised herself that she’d never ask for her father’s help. She’d made it a point of honour that she would be able to cope in her own apartment. She wouldn’t ask for his help now, either. She had to get through this alone. It was over. She just had to sleep. She lay down on her bed and closed her eyes, feeling a little calmer. She hugged herself. In truth, she wanted to be eight years old again, far away from the present, back in a time when everything was safe and secure and men didn’t grab you on the street. The line-up had been horrible, but there he was, that face, that disturbed face. That horrible, ragged, miserable face.

Warmth. Forgetfulness. She drifted into sleep. Sleep was its own world. Soon enough, Kitty Hunyardi was finally dreaming peacefully again.

An hour ticked by. The still and regular sounds of the night slowly slipped through the apartment.

Just after 4 a.m., the door to the bedroom opened. A man stood there in the doorway, a silhouette in the darkness of a silent apartment. He was tall and wearing a black suit.

Sebastian was smiling. His plan had worked. He’d fooled the cops and now he was five steps away from girl number six. Winston had played his part like a professional. He’d get his fifteen minutes of fame, but the real fame would come to Sebastian. He was better than them all. In his hand he held the morning’s Daily Echo.

‘Kitty,’ he whispered. She didn’t stir. He looked around her room. It was very clean. There was a faint smell of perfume. It was all tastefully done. Homely. You know. In an artless and decadent way.

He shivered. He hated happiness. He had always hated it. Her arms and legs were splayed across the bed, enjoying the space. He wanted her now. Kitty Hunyardi. He took a seat and stared at her, his head tilted to one side. Nice lips, nice skin, nice low relaxed breathing.

These moments lived with him. They were the only moments of quiet he had ever known, the moments before his innocent women became his victims, when he felt a serene sense of power. He was a god now, looking down on his beautiful creations, blissfully unaware they were being watched. Blissfully unaware the devil had come to take away God’s gift.

He shook her shoulder. Her eyes opened. She screamed loud and high-pitched. Sebastian smiled and a gloved hand smacked hard against her mouth. ‘Shh, now, princess, shh and all will be well.’

He watched her eyes. He was waiting until she calmed, until reason returned. ‘I’ve just come to deliver the morning paper,’ he said. ‘But don’t scream. If you stay quiet, I’ll let you live. Do you understand?’

Kitty nodded. She didn’t understand anything at all. A newspaper was placed in front of her. The gloved hand slowly slipped from her mouth and the bedside light flicked on. ‘Read all about it,’ Sebastian said. ‘It’s not often we can see how we’re going to be remembered.’

Kitty’s eyes glanced over the headline.

AMERICAN DEVIL STILL AT LARGE

PSYCHO SLAUGHTERS BLONDE HEIRESS AS COPS CLAIM CAPTURE

She started to read but tears were streaming from her eyes and the paper was shaking so hard, she couldn’t take in the words.

Sebastian smiled as he watched her. His right hand moved to his pocket and pulled out a neat little surgical bone saw. It was only about six inches long. He snapped the handle into place as he looked down at Kitty’s shaking hands. He loved her. He always had. She had such beautiful hands.

Chapter Fifty

Blue Team

November 24, 4.38 a.m.

Forty minutes later, a buzzer screeched in the darkness. Erin Nash’s hand had reached out to stop the alarm when she realized that it was the door. She was naked in her large pale pink bed, a leathery-skinned naked body asleep at her side. She’d chosen Jed Brown after all. Shit. Her head was barely functioning. It had been a late night. She’d filed the copy and then gone back to see Jed to celebrate. She had an exclusive on the sixth victim of a multiple killer - this was going to get her everything she wanted. Every other paper was screaming about the killer’s capture, but she knew better. He had killed again: her source had said so.

The paper was paying her well for the inside track on the serial murders. Very well. But Jed Brown had offered to double her salary, then he’d offered her a ride home in a limo, then he’d offered himself.

The buzzer screeched again and didn’t stop. Erin rose and pulled on a gown and then walked to the intercom.

‘Hey, what’s so fucking important?’

‘NYPD, open up. Is that Erin Nash? You’ve just reported a murder that no one knows about but you. Open your fucking door. NOW!’

The news hit her like a wave of cold water and woke up her mind quicker than a double espresso. She buzzed the door and sat back in a lazy chair, her body fizzing with fear. Shit and fuck and fuck again! Had someone sold her a dud story? Was it her source following some weird agenda of his own? What the fuck was happening?

Tom Harper, Eddie Kasper, Lol Edwards and Mark Garcia appeared at the door of her apartment. All four faces were angry and tired.