He could feel the familiar stirring in the very core of his being when he thought about Weaver. Questioning her would be such a pleasure! He simply had to learn a little more about her, so he’d know when she was most vulnerable. Then he’d do what he was best at, and she’d respond as they all did. She’d know who he was, what he was, and resistance would run out of her. They all came to a certain point—and early in the process—when they understood that they were already dead. This time he’d be the victor. Fate couldn’t be resisted, so why try? Fate was the trickster and the sly ally of their inquisitor.

That was what Quinn didn’t understand, that fate was the killer’s coconspirator. Fate had brought the killer, his pursuer Quinn, the family that was on its possibly quixotic search, and Bellezza, together. Fate and the killer, who were as one.

The killer had signaled to Quinn more than once that since Grace Geyer’s death, the missing art treasure and the murders were intertwined. The killer had seen to that. He’d even taken two victims, a married couple, to make his point. A subtle but unmistakable message as increasing pressure was applied to Quinn; even as Quinn would sense the intensifying needs of his quarry.

There was little doubt that Helen Iman, the profiler working for Q&A, would be telling Quinn that he, Quinn, was winning, that the killer was becoming more and more desperate and irrational. But what did the big, gawky profiler know about what was rational?

What did she know about fate?

As the killer mused about the events that had led him to where he sat in his parked car, observing his next victim, he marveled again at fate. Fate was responsible for everything that had happened since his return to New York. Fate was the architect of it all.

Maybe Helen the profiler would figure that out using the process of elimination.

If not fate, it had to have been Michelangelo.

Yes! Michelangelo!

Surely he was on the cops’ suspect list!

The killer laughed so hard he began pounding the steering wheel.

Then he stopped and glanced about. He didn’t want people to notice and wonder.

Not that they’d believe the truths that he’d been told.

65

If there was anyone on this earth Helen the profiler felt contempt for, it was the actively curious, self-serving, double-crossing, viciously ambitious, aggressively charming Minnie Miner. So Helen wasn’t crazy about Quinn and Renz suggesting that she should be a guest on Minnie Miner ASAP and discuss the D.O.A. murders.

But here she was.

Not only that, but a certain part of her had actually warmed to the task.

They’d consulted with Helen on what she should say that would increase the pressure on the killer. And they listened closely to her opinions and suggestions. Both men, to their credit, deferred to her expertise.

Helen was sure the killer felt that he was near the precipice. If she could contribute pushing him over into the void, she’d be glad to do so. Even if it meant dealing again with Minnie Miner.

So Helen found herself seated in one of the two comfortable chairs that were angled toward a small table and microphone. The chairs were much more worn and stained than they appeared on TV. Some of it was wear. Some of it was perspiration created when Minnie put her guests on the spot. Minnie was a clever and insistent verbal predator.

A camera moved smoothly closer to Helen, its bulging eye aimed at her face. Another camera glided in for a three-quarter shot of Minnie. Figures moved in the background. The light became brighter, warmer, as Minnie was introduced. The applause from the audience was mildly enthusiastic rather than deafening. It was mostly comprised of people Minnie’s minions had managed to drag in from the street. They fell silent while the applause sign was still held high by a Levi’s-clad girl who appeared to be in her teens.

Minnie, smiling broadly, quickly held up her hands as if she had signaled for quiet.

When the studio was silent, she said, “My guest today is a famous profiler. When I say that, I don’t mean she’s a painter or photographer. For those of you left on this planet who don’t know what a police profiler does, it’s very interesting and necessary work. She’s more interested in what goes on in a criminal’s mind than in what he looks like. She’s a psychological profiler for law enforcement agencies, and she, maybe more than anybody other than his mother—if she’s still alive—knows how the D.O.A. killer thinks. She’s trained to know what goes on in his sick mind, how to walk with him along the corridors of his madness. What he feels. Why he does what he does. What he might do in the future.” Minnie smiled widely and motioned toward Helen. “This is Helen Iman, and she’s here to tell us all about the D.O.A. killer.”

The applause was loud, and genuinely enthusiastic this time. Helen had to admit that it made her feel good. Though she’d thought she was immune to the disease of celebrity, so many hands clapping for her brought a smile to her face. She wondered now if she should have worn something more formal than her blue sweats and joggers.

Helen waited for Minnie to open the conversation. Minnie had a reputation for ambushing her guests.

But Minnie also knew how to keep her viewers in suspense.

That was okay. Helen knew how to wait.

“So if Quinn failed to apprehend this killer the first time around,” Minnie finally said, “why was he chosen by the commissioner to head the investigation into these latest murders?” That one oughta knock the profiler off balance.

“He wasn’t chosen by the commissioner. He was chosen by the killer.”

Uh-oh! This one is dangerous. Instead of being knocked off balance by the opening question, she had counterpunched.

Minnie decided to ask something safe. “So tell me why you’re a police profiler, Helen.”

Small talk. “Corny as it sounds,” Helen said, “I want to fight crime. The way I can best contribute is to bring my knowledge of psychology and irredeemable criminal behavior to bear.”

Minnie put on a wide smile. “You catch killers.”

“Among other sorts of criminals, yes.”

Minnie raised an eyebrow and wore a look of puzzlement. “You said ‘irredeemable.’ So you don’t think a killer like D.O.A. can find God and be rehabilitated?”

Helen almost choked. “I think such a killer is evil, and cannot be brought back from the hell where he’s put himself and his victims.”

“Surely this isn’t true of all killers,” Minnie said.

“Not much is true of all of anything.”

Minnie thought about that. Brightened her all-purpose perky smile. “But you think D.O.A. is evil.”

“Of course I do. He might well have another side that he shows people, but the killer in him is always just below the surface.”

“Satan?” Just a hint of a smile at the corners of her lips.

“If you like,” Helen said. Let the sick creep think he might be Beelzebub. She leaned closer to her microphone, not taking over the conversation, but nudging it the way she wanted it to go. “I also think there’s something about those killers who are genuinely evil. The pressure of what they’ve done builds and builds in them. Every one of them eventually breaks.”

“So you think this killer is feeling the pressure?”

“Yes. And he’s about to break.”

“Break?”

“Come unglued.”

“You sound certain.”

“I am. I’ve seen this kind of killer before. He’s in the powerful grip of a mental illness, and he’s wrestling with himself.”

“But hasn’t he been from the beginning? What makes you think the killer is about to break now?” Minnie asked.

“Because now he wants to break,” Helen said. “He needs to be stopped. He knows that, and in an odd kind of way, he’ll cooperate in his downfall.”