Lash forced his eyes open, realized it was the telephone. When he sat up, the room reeled. Closing his eyes, he lay back once again, feeling blindly for the phone.

“Yes,” he said, voice thick.

“Dr. Christopher Lash?”

“Yeah.”

“This is Ken Trotwood from New Olympia Savings and Loan.”

Lash forced his eyes open again, glanced at the clock. “Do you know what time—”

“I know it’s early, Dr. Lash. I’m very sorry. But we haven’t been able to reach you any other way. You haven’t responded to our letters or calls.”

“What are you talking about?”

“It’s about the mortgage on your house, which we hold. You’re behind in your payments, Dr. Lash, and we must insist on immediate payment, with penalty interest.”

Lash fought to think clearly. “You’ve made some kind of mistake.”

“It doesn’t appear so. The residence in question is number 17 Ship Bottom Road, Westport, Connecticut.”

“That’s my address, but—”

“According to my screen, sir, we’ve sent three letters and tried to call you half a dozen times. Without success.”

“This is crazy. I haven’t gotten any notices. Besides, my mortgage payment is automatically deducted from my bank account.”

“Then perhaps there’s been some kind of problem at your bank. Because our records show you’re more than five months delinquent. And it’s my job to inform you that if payment is not made immediately, we’ll be forced to—”

“No need for threats. I’ll look into it immediately.”

“Thank you, sir. Good morning.”

And the line went dead.

Good morning. As Lash sank back wearily, his eyes strayed toward the window, where the faintest glimmers of pre-dawn glow had begun to temper the unequivocal blackness of night.

What’s this guy supposed to have done?” asked the federal agent sitting behind the wheel.

“Under investigation for four possible homicides,” Lash replied.

Rain drummed on the roof and ran down the windows in heavy streams. He drained his coffee cup, considered ducking into the nearby deli for another, looked at his watch and decided against it. Ten after five already, and human relations records indicated Gary Handerling almost always left work promptly.

He looked down at the glossy photograph of Handerling on the seat beside him, taken that morning by a closed-circuit camera at Checkpoint I. Then he gazed across Madison Avenue toward the Eden tower. Handerling wouldn’t be hard to spot: tall and lanky, save for a softening around the belly, with thinning blond hair and a yellow windbreaker that stood out in a crowd. Even if Lash missed him, one of the other teams was sure to spot him.

Lash’s gaze returned to the photo. Handerling didn’t look like a serial killer. But then again, so few of them did.

The front passenger door opened and a heavyset man in a dripping blue suit climbed in. When he turned to glance into the rear of the car, the scent of Old Spice reached Lash ahead of the face. He’d known another Fed was going to ride with them, but he was surprised to recognize John Coven, a fellow agent he’d worked with on a few early cases.

“Lash?” Coven said, looking equally surprised. “That you?”

Lash nodded. “How you keeping, John?”

“Can’t complain, I guess. Still treading water as a GS-13. Another five years and I’ll be down in Marathon, fishing for tarpon instead of scumbags.”

“Nice.” Like many other agents, Coven was obsessed with the countdown to retirement and a government pension.

Coven looked at Lash curiously. “I heard you were off the Job. In the private sector, making a mint for yourself.”

Coven knew Lash had left the FBI, of course; and he would also know the reason. He was just showing tact.

“I am,” Lash replied. “This is a temporary thing. Moonlighting for some serious change.”

Coven nodded.

“Isn’t this kind of an unusual TDY for you?” Lash asked, politely reversing the line of inquiry.

Coven shrugged. “Not anymore. These days, it’s alphabet soup. What with all the shakeups and reorganizations, everybody’s in bed with everybody else. You never know who you’ll be working with: DEA, CIA, Homeland Security, local law enforcement, Girl Scouts.”

Yes, but not a private corporation, Lash thought. Using the FBI for hired muscle was something new in his experience.

“Only thing strange was that this came down from the chief’s office,” Coven said. “Didn’t go through the normal channels.”

Lash nodded. He remembered Mauchly’s words: We share our information with selected government agencies. Apparently, the cooperation went both ways.

He had seen very little of either Mauchly or Tara Stapleton all day. He’d arrived late, being forced to spend the better part of the morning untangling a hugely complex web of red tape, bank forms, credit agency reports, and bureaucratic mix-ups to correct his mortgage statement and restore various credit cards. Mauchly had stopped by his office just before lunch with a large packet under his arm. Handerling, he said, had picked up his train ticket for the following evening. A phone call he’d made from his desk that morning indicated he was meeting a woman after work. Surveillance was being arranged, and Mauchly wanted Lash to take part. The night before, he’d gently rebuffed Lash’s urgings that they contact the police without delay. “He’s not an immediate danger,” Mauchly had said. “We need to gather more evidence. Don’t worry, he’s being carefully watched.”

He’d dropped the packet — Handerling’s job application, employee evaluation, prior history — on Lash’s desk. “See if this fits your profile,” he said. “If it does, please put together a brief character analysis for us. That could prove very useful.”

And so Lash had spent the afternoon going over Handerling’s records. The man was clever: with hindsight, Lash could see subtle evidence he’d carefully coached himself on psych tests. Questions meant to raise red flags had all been answered neutrally. The validity scales were acceptably low across all tests, in fact equally low, implying Handerling recognized which questions were testing for fakery and answered them all the same way.

Such intelligence and planning were earmarks of the organized killer. And in fact Handerling would be nothing else if he was posing as a model Eden employee. The disorganized elements in the killings, Lash decided, were explained by the unique nature of the victims. It was clear the six supercouples to date were almost cult figures within Eden. But in somebody with feelings of inadequacy or anger — somebody who’d had an abusive mother, say, or bad luck in personal relationships — they might become touchstones for jealousy, even the acting-out of misdirected rage.

It wasn’t that Handerling knew the Thorpes and the Wilners, so much as that he knew of them, through his position at Eden. And that was very interesting indeed. It meant a new subdivision of serial killer, not previously identified: a byproduct of the information age, a killer who trolled databases to find ideal victims. It would make a hell of an article in the American Journal of Neuropsychiatry: an article that would curl the toes of his old friend Roger Goodkind.

The squawk of a radio came from the front seat. “Unit 709. In position.”

Coven picked up the radio, holding it low so it would not be visible outside the car. “Roger.” He turned toward Lash. “We didn’t get much of a briefing. What’s the setup, exactly?”

“This guy Handerling’s supposed to meet a woman after work. Beyond that, we don’t know much.”

“How’s he traveling?”

“Unknown. Could be foot, subway, bus, whatever. And—” Lash stopped suddenly. “There he is. Coming out the revolving door now.”

Coven switched on the radio. “This is 707. All units, be advised suspect is exiting the building. White male, about six foot two, wearing a yellow windbreaker. Stand by.”