His flashlight swept the ground along the rear fence, where some sort of tarpaulin lay discarded. The tarp was not flat against the ground. It bulged in irregular places.

Parkinson could be underneath.

Draper paused, the flashlight beam picking out the tarp only for a moment before traveling on. If his quarry was there, Draper didn’t want him to know he’d been discovered.

Jennifer stood on the threshold of the alley, watching Draper’s slow advance, thinking of constables in the East End, and Hare on the prowl, and prostitutes unsexed and gutted, their throats cut as they were grabbed from behind....

From behind.

Her gaze shifted to the nearest trash bin, and she saw a rustle of oleander.

“Behind you!” she screamed.

Draper spun in a crouch as Parkinson emerged from the shrubbery.

A single gunshot slapped the alley walls in a volley of percussive echoes. She didn’t know which man had fired until Parkinson fell.

Draper approached him and kicked his gun away, then rolled Parkinson onto his back, exposing a red gash in his throat. His breath came in bubbling wheezes.

Jennifer stepped into the alley. She stared at Parkinson, his face still bloody where she had gouged him, his neck a broken stalk. She smelled the copper-penny scent of blood. Draper applied pressure to the wound, an empty gesture. Parkinson lay unmoving except for the heave of his chest and a faint fluttering motion of his right hand. He was reaching for his shoe—no, his pants leg.

Three paces, and she knelt beside him, grasping his wrist. She rolled up the trouser leg and found a knife strapped to his shin. Carefully she extracted it. The blade was dark with crusted blood. Maura’s blood.

She stood. Parkinson looked up at her. His mouth twisted in a grimace of pure malice, then relaxed. Even the effort of hating her was too much for him now.

“Evidence,” she said to Draper, handing him the knife.

“Thanks.” He set down the knife out of Parkinson’s reach, then got on the radio, requesting medical attention. When he was through, he replaced his hand on Parkinson’s neck, maintaining pressure.

“How long till an ambulance gets here?” Jennifer asked.

“Four or five minutes.”

“Will he make it that long?”

“That long? Yes.” The unspoken addendum was, But not much longer.

“I’m going to check on Sandra.”

“You may not like what you find.”

“I know.’

She retraced her steps, wending through the crowd. She still didn’t know if Parkinson had been about to enter the C.A.S.T. office or had just left. The difference was slight enough, but it was the difference between life and death for Sandra Price.

She arrived at the door, still open. She reassured herself that he hadn’t had time to do to Sandra what he’d done in Maura’s condo.

Whatever lay inside, it wouldn’t be as bad as that.

thirty-nine

“Sandra?” she called, entering.

From the rear of the building, a soft metallic creak.

She moved in the direction of the noise, navigating a narrow hall.

“It’s Jennifer. Are you okay?”

“Go away.” Sandra’s voice, weak and low, coming from the open door at the end of the corridor.

“Is everything all right?” Jennifer asked.

“Just...go away. Please.” Her voice cracked on the last word.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Jennifer said, and she stepped through the doorway and found Sandra Price seated at a small metal desk, her hands resting on a careworn blotter, a knife held against her throat.

“She told you to go away,” Richard said. “But you never would listen to anybody.”

He stood behind Sandra, his eyes staring with unfocused hostility. Eyes that hated the whole world.

Jennifer stopped inside the doorway. She spent a long moment studying those eyes. “What’s going on?”

“You tell her, Sandra. You tell my big sister what’s going on.”

Sandra shifted in her seat, and the swivel chair creaked. That was the noise Jennifer had heard. “He came in a half hour ago. Found me back here. Since then, we’ve been getting to know each other.”

“Has he...hurt you?”

“No. We’ve been having a little chat, is all. He’s quite the raconteur.” She tried to smile, couldn’t pull it off.

“What are you doing here, Richard?”

His lip curled in a sneer. “You know. If anyone knows, you do.”

She took a step closer. “Tell me.”

“You sent them after me. This bitch—and the other one.”

“What other one?”

“The one who was spying on me. Following me. He was in the library today. So were you. That’s when I knew for sure that you were in it together.”

“I had nothing to do with that man. Neither did Sandra.”

He barked a sharp laugh. “You’re so full of shit.” The knife trembled in his grasp, its blade gleaming in the glow of the desk lamp. “She put up those posters with my face on them. And you talked to her. And now you’re here.”

“I’m here because I thought Sandra was in trouble.”

“You were right. I’m going to cut her. Cut you, too.”

“Sandra and I weren’t following you. The man who did that is in police custody now. He won’t bother you again.”

“You’re lying. You always lie. You’re in league with this bitch and that other one. All three of you, in your little conspiracy. You think you had me fooled. But I know.”

His hand jerked, and Sandra winced as a thread of blood appeared on her throat.

“You’re all working against me. Just admit it, and I’ll let her go.”

She would not admit to anything. It would only reinforce his paranoia.

“You’re imagining things,” she said.

Sandra spoke in a dry whisper. “Honey, that is not what the man wants to hear.”

“No more bullshit.” His red-rimmed eyes glared at her. “You want to destroy me. You want me dead. Just say it!”

“That’s what you want to hear me say?” Jennifer asked. “That I’m your enemy?”

“Yes, God damn it!”

“I would never hurt you, Richard.”

Sandra inhaled sharply, scared by this answer.

His face was wild. “You want me to cut her throat? Is that what you want?”

Jennifer didn’t reply. She was rolling up the sleeve on her left arm. She stepped closer, letting him see the scar. “Remember this? Remember how you saved me?”

He stared at her arm, transfixed by the scar. His voice was quieter when he said, “That was a long time ago.”

“But I haven’t forgotten. Have you?”

“No.”

“I’ll always remember hearing your voice. You were calling for me, and I thought it was a dream, so I didn’t answer. You found me anyway. I never asked you how you knew I was in the utility room.”

“It was the blood.” His eyes were far away. “Spots of blood on the floor.”

She took another step, and now she was three feet from the desk.

“You picked me up and carried me to a car. I didn’t even know whose car it was. You didn’t have a license. You were only fourteen.”

“It was Jim Hobarth’s car. I borrowed it.”

“And drove three hundred fifty miles to San Francisco. You’d talked the operator into tracing the call to the pay phone in the shopping center.”

“She didn’t want to do it. I said it was life-and-death. She got her supervisor to approve....”

“You made it to the shopping center and got inside somehow.”

“Through a back window.”

“And you found me and drove me to the hospital, and later when I’d had a transfusion, I woke up and found you in the room with me. You know what you said? Remember the words?”

He shook his head.

“You said, ‘I knew you were in bad shape. You needed me.’ That’s all.”

She closed the gap with the desk, and now he was within her reach.

“I was—everything was different then.” His face hardened. “You were different. You weren’t after my money. You weren’t trying to put me away.”