“And he would do that because . . . ?”

“He knows he’s evil. If D.O.A. is who we think he is, he’s thirty-five years old, and his parents were murdered when he was fourteen. Every year that passes becomes more of a burden. Denial has become impossible.”

Minnie clasped her hands as if fascinated. And maybe she really was. “What are some of the signs you see pointing to that?”

“Before I answer that question, you should know some things about D.O.A. Things in general that might not be precise but make up the standard profile of such a killer. He’s a male, between eighteen and forty-five years of age . . .” Helen went on to give Minnie and her fans the usual profile of a TV-show serial killer. As she spoke, she could see by Minnie’s frozen smile that she wanted Helen to get on to something her audience hadn’t already heard dozens of times.

That was okay with Helen; she was talking specifically to the killer, not the audience.

Finally Minnie interrupted, to keep the show rolling. “But what makes you think this particular killer is about to break at this particular time? What are the signs?”

“He’s getting sloppy. And he’s killing more often and with increasing violence, the way serial killers do when they sense they’re nearing the end. They become desperate. They begin making small mistakes. They unconsciously attempt to move closer to whatever kind of death awaits them.”

“Can you give our audience an example of the D.O.A. killer’s mistakes?”

“Not in the way of clues. That information is closely held by the police.”

“But otherwise?”

“Sure,” Helen said. “Our D.O.A. killer is obviously becoming desperate. He’s raised the ante by torturing and murdering a married couple. He’s unconsciously signaling that he’s ready to surrender to his fate. His mind has become a jungle of conflicts.”

“You make him sound like a hopeless whacko.”

“He is. But one who understands his weakness, and that he’s nearing the end.”

“And his weakness is?”

“Himself, of course.”

As she said that, something cold moved in Helen’s mind. Somehow—she wasn’t sure how—she knew the killer was watching. On his own TV, or on one in a bar or restaurant, somewhere, he was watching.

Mental case? Nearing the end? His weakness is himself? The D.O.A. killer felt like throwing his glass through the TV screen.

He put down the glass and sat back in his sofa, his hands flexing, flexing. He glanced down and noticed them. Knew what he wanted to do with them.

Mental case.

He glanced around at the art on his walls, the artists whose work he favored. Bosch, with his visions of horror; Van Gough, who spread madness with his brushes; Manet, who was sexually addicted and died of syphilis. As if anchoring these prints of terror were several large Picassos, nude women observed from different, severed angles simultaneously, as if they’d been butchered by a madman with surgical skills, then reassembled like mismatched puzzles pieces and placed on display. Prints of madness.

Possessed and cherished by a mental case?

A vulnerable mental case?

Then he realized that this was precisely how they wanted him to feel. To act. Out of weakness and vulnerability.

They’d find out how weak he was.

He understood his nemesis, Quinn, and what the strategy here was. He, the killer, was supposed to “up the ante” by going after somebody close to Quinn. Like Pearl or her daughter Jody.

Or he might go after Helen the profiler. Seeking revenge for what she’d said. A temptation, for sure.

But that kind of revenge wasn’t in his plans. Helen wasn’t his type at all. And she might put up the kind of a struggle that could get out of hand.

No, he had a better idea.

And it was the same idea.

Weaver.

Weaver would be next.

Weaver, who was also Eileen the food server and undercover cop at the Far Castle. Weaver, who had drawn attention to herself through her clumsiness at table, who held supposedly clandestine brief conversations with Quinn. Weaver, who knew both sides of the story. Weaver, who had eluded him before.

Who knew what Quinn and the police knew. Who was the nexus of the D.O.A. killer investigation and the Bellezza search.

The killer sipped his cold beer and licked foam from his upper lip.

Weaver.

Who would tell him everything.

66

After the dinner rush, only about half the tables in the Far Castle were occupied, and some of their occupants were already enjoying dessert. Nancy Weaver, aka Eileen, had reached the end of her shift. She said good night to another waitress and to the cashier, then left the Far Castle, and walked toward her subway stop.

Fedderman fell in behind her, half a block back. When she reached home and was tucked away, radio cars would do frequent drive-bys, and two NYPD undercover cops would alternate keeping watch on Weaver’s building. Once Fedderman delivered her to her apartment, he could rest knowing she was safe. And so could she.

Not that Weaver was particularly frightened now, as she crossed the street and continued on her way. She didn’t look back, but she knew Fedderman was there. Even if he wasn’t, Weaver herself knew how to ward off or capture an attacker, and on dark streets she walked with her right hand in her purse, resting on her nine-millimeter Glock handgun.

Between Weaver herself and her guardian angels, she might be the safest woman in New York.

Though that wasn’t exactly the plan.

On dark stretches, like the one they were approaching, Fedderman, too, walked with his hand resting on his gun. He was vigilant but unworried. D.O.A. was heavily into torture, and for that he needed solitude. His victim’s were tortured, raped, and killed in their apartments, usually in their beds. What better place for lovers and murderers to suffer their private agonies?

It was in her apartment when Weaver was at her most vulnerable.

If she was vulnerable at all.

Fedderman slowed his pace. He could make out the dark, shadowed form of Weaver up ahead, hear the staccato clacking of her high heels on the sidewalk. Fedderman keyed on that repetitious clacking. As long as there was no change in its rhythm or volume, everything up ahead was all right.

He found himself thinking about Penny. When they’d met earlier for lunch they’d again renewed their determination to make their marriage work. What it took, Fedderman had decided, was his understanding and concern. Penny had to be reassured that he empathized with her feeling that their lives were always on edge. His was a dangerous profession, and they had to work together on living with grim possibilities. Plans for the future were always tentative. That didn’t mean they shouldn’t enjoy the present.

Or that they shouldn’t plan.

Fedderman tripped and almost fell as he snagged a heel stepping off a curb. That had been close to being a turned ankle. Not something he could afford.

Concentrate on what you’re doing.

He gazed ahead. There was Weaver, half a block up, slightly farther away than Fedderman liked. She was striding out in those high heels, the way women do if they wear them frequently. It occurred to Fedderman that high heels lengthening women’s strides might be why they were sometimes harder to tail than men. Also, it seemed that women wearing high heels were always going someplace in a hurry. Maybe they—

Pain exploded behind his right ear.

He was on the ground, the heel of his right hand burning from where he scraped the skin while breaking his fall.

He was still trying to figure out what happened when something glanced painfully off his right ear and struck his shoulder.