“All of them eventually come to that place,” Fedderman said. “They need for it to go one way or the other. To be over.”

Helen said, “You can count on it. The killer wants to press what he sees as his advantage. He regards himself as invulnerable at this point. Godlike. He feels a need to demonstrate that.”

“Or?” Pearl said.

“He simply wants us to know he’s no longer an art aficionado,” Quinn said.

Helen said, “There’s a possibility.” And smiled. Quinn knew that smile and didn’t like it.

The killer had followed them home from their morning jog, watching them slow to a walk that demanded an occasional little skip, and enter their apartment building on Central Park West. It didn’t take him long to narrow down their unit’s number on the third floor of the brick and marble building.

Or to learn other things about them. Details were so important.

The man was of least interest. He was in his thirties and apparently in good shape except for a roll of fat around his midsection. He invariably ran in khaki shorts, a sleeveless white T-shirt, and white jogging shoes. Ben Swift was his name, but he didn’t look so swift jogging alongside his wife, Beth. Ben had a lot of side-to-side motion that slowed him down. Beth was built for speed, with a slim body, muscular legs, and a stride that wasted no motion. It was obvious that Ben was struggling to keep up with her. He was forever a yard or two behind, staring at his wife’s blond ponytail swinging with the regularity of a metronome. Her jogging shoes were red, her T-shirt white like her husband’s, her shorts blue. That amused the killer, who saw himself as something of a patriot.

He put on speed and pulled ahead of them, then slouched on a bench with his head thrown back, as if winded and resting. They huffed and puffed past him and continued jogging as the path fell away. From where he sat on the bench in the sun, he watched them with binoculars, usually focusing on Beth’s slim hips, the rhythmic motion of her body.

A perfect running machine, he thought, wondering if she competed in the New York Marathon. She and Ben were an active, healthy couple. Apparently with plenty of spare time. Nothing else to do. So maybe she was in training. He would ask her about that.

But then, what would be the point?

He’d watched the building for several days, and now knew the security setup, and the hours kept by the doorman, Carl.

Carl worked short hours in the morning, then was replaced by another man, Arthur, who worked into the late afternoon. Carl would then show up to provide a doorman presence until midnight. Both men were in their forties and looked fit, except for a slight paunch on Carl. It was a shame they had to wear those hideous brown uniforms with the striped trousers.

However they were dressed, the killer mused, it would be simple for him to deal with whichever man was on duty. The building actually had pretty good security, especially when the street doors were locked after midnight, no doorman was present, and no one could enter without a resident’s card key and a five-number code.

The fact was, for someone like the killer, it was easier to get into the building unseen with the doors unlocked and a doorman on duty.

No problem at all, for someone willing to go to extremes. Who knew the wisdom of acting promptly and boldly when an opponent was reeling and back on his heels.

The killer cautioned himself against being overconfident. Quinn and his detectives weren’t exactly reeling.

The killer smiled.

But they will be.

He checked his wristwatch, then left the park and walked to a diner on Amsterdam, where he knew there’d be a TV tuned to Minnie Miner ASAP. It was time for a burger and a cup of coffee. And some quiet contemplation.

Maybe even some information.

People leaked things to Minnie. Sometimes anonymously. When it came to the media, she was one of his favorite people.

And occasionally useful.

58

“I see the same creep watching us whenever we go jogging,” Beth Swift said to her husband, Ben.

They were in their apartment kitchen. It was painted pale yellow and had a single window that looked out on an air shaft. The kitchen was the only thing about the apartment that wasn’t ultramodern and expensive. Rehabbing it was the next thing on their budget, starting with granite countertops.

Ben stood at a Formica counter next to the refrigerator and continued building sandwiches of cold cuts and vegetables. He was taking his time, obviously deriving some pleasure from his task.

“Most likely you’re the one he’s watching,” he said, laying on blood sausage, lettuce, pickle loaf. He didn’t have to be careful about ingredients; Beth enjoyed his monstrous health-and-energy sandwiches as much as he did.

“Am I supposed to feel complimented?”

“In a yucky kind of way.”

“Either way, I don’t like it. I’m thinking about jogging over to him and asking if we know each other. Just to see what he says.”

“You’ll probably fluster him and scare him away.” Ben added layers of cheese, and then topped off the sandwich with perhaps the most important ingredient. The second slice of Asiago bread, with cheese-flavored, toasted crust. “You can have that effect on people.”

“Only those who need scaring,” she said.

He added tomato slices and spread some mayonnaise. It took a certain touch, making a sandwich like this. A certain harmony of taste and texture. This was to be their supper. Along with a good white wine. Some of their friends thought they were crazy; doing all that exercising, then shoveling in all those calories. Beth and Ben, who kept almost hourly counts of calories in, calories out, figured they knew what they were doing. Like so many things, it was a balancing act.

It was also, in a way, economical. Because one of Ben’s custom sandwiches provided at least two meals.

Beth and Ben had what many people would consider blah jobs. She copyedited advertising, and he was an accountant at a car-rental agency. So they figured a little eccentricity in their lives was a good thing.

They talked no more about the man who might be watching one, the other, or both of them on their daily runs. Ben figured Beth had forgotten about confronting him, but if she hadn’t that was okay, too. It might be interesting to see how the man would react. Beth’s unabashed directness was a quality Ben liked in her. Adored, actually.

After eating, they put the remaining portions of their sandwiches, and what was left of the wine—half the bottle—in the yellowed refrigerator Beth so looked forward to replacing. She knew where to put the wine on the top shelf so its temperature would be just right after it sat out for fifteen minutes.

Ben settled into his chair and watched the news on TV—more about the nutcase torturing and killing women. Wasn’t there always some sicko like that operating in New York? Why couldn’t they spot those characters ahead of time and do something about them before they went around killing people?

After the news the couple walked to an art theater in the neighborhood that showed indie movies. There was a Woody Allen film playing there, about three beautiful women in Spain. After the movie, maybe they’d kill the rest of the wine, then go to bed and make love.

Sometimes Beth thought Woody Allen should make a movie about their lives. She’d mentioned that to Ben. He’d thought maybe Quentin Tarantino.

In another part of town, business was brisk at the Far Castle. When he wasn’t in the kitchen spurring on the cooks, Winston Castle, looking like a chef in a PBS special, smiled fiercely as he dashed from table to table, reassuring some diners that their food would arrive soon, making sure others were enjoying their meals. This also gave Castle a chance to get outside, since the evening was pleasantly cool and the outside tables were fully occupied. Still, he was sweating from his effort.