Turning back the clock was the only answer and that, of course, was no answer at all.

Tony Parsons was sitting across from Kathryn Dance in a coffee shop, his shopping cart of groceries beside them.

He squinted and shook his head. "I've been trying to remember but I really can't think of anything else." He grinned. "Think you wasted your money." He lifted his coffee cup.

"Well, we'll give it a shot." Dance knew he had more information. Her guess was that he'd spoken without thinking-oh, how interrogators love impulsive subjects-and then realized that the man he'd seen might be a killer, maybe even the one who'd committed those horrible murders at the pier and in the alleyway the previous day. Dance knew that people who are happy to give statements about cheating neighbors and shoplifting teens grow forgetful when the crimes turn capital.

Maybe a tough nut, Dance reflected, but that didn't bother her. She loved challenges (the exhilaration she often felt when a subject finally confessed was always dulled by the thought that the signature on his statement marked the end of another verbal battle).

She poured milk into her coffee and looked longingly at a piece of apple pie sitting in a display case at the counter. Four hundred and fifty calories. Oh, well. She turned back to Parsons.

He poured some extra sugar into his coffee and stirred it. "You know, maybe if we just talked about it for a bit I could remember something else."

"That's a great idea."

He nodded. "Now, then, let's have us a good old heart-to-heart."

And gave her a big smile.

She was his consolation prize.

She was his present from Gerald Duncan.

She was the killer's way of saying he was sorry and meaning it, not like Vincent's mother.

It was also a good way to slow down the police-raping and killing one of their own. Duncan had mentioned the redheaded policewoman working at the site of the second murder and suggested Vincent take her (oh, yes, please…red hair, like Sally Anne's). But, watching the police at Lucy Richter's apartment in Greenwich Village from the Buick, he and Duncan had realized there was no way to get to the redhead; she was never by herself. Yet the other woman, a plainclothed detective or something, started up the street by herself, looking for witnesses, it seemed.

Duncan and Vincent had gone into a discount store and bought the handcart, a new winter jacket, and fifty dollars' worth of soap, junk food and soda to fill the cart with. (Somebody wheeling around groceries isn't suspicious-his friend, always, always thinking.) The plan was for Vincent to start trolling the streets of Greenwich Village until he found the second cop, or she found him, then he'd lead her to an abandoned building a block from Lucy Richter's place.

Vincent would take her to the basement and he could have her for as long as he wanted, while Duncan would take care of the next victim.

Duncan had then studied Vincent's face. "Would you have a problem killing her, the policewoman?"

Afraid he'd disappoint his friend, who was doing him such a wonderful favor, Vincent had said, "No."

But Duncan obviously knew it wasn't true. "Tell you what-just leave her in the basement. Tie her up. After I'm through in Midtown, I'll drive down there and take care of her myself."

Vincent had felt a lot better, hearing that.

The hunger raged through him now as he looked over Kathryn Dance, sitting only a few feet from him. Her braid, her smooth throat, her long fingers. She wasn't heavy but she had a good figure, not like those skinny model sorts you saw a lot of in the city. Who'd want somebody like that?

Her figure made him hungry.

Her green eyes made him hungry.

Even her name, Kathryn, made him hungry. For some reason it seemed to fall into the same category of name as Sally Anne. He couldn't say why. Maybe it was old-fashioned. Also, he liked the way she looked hungrily at the desserts. She's just like me! He could hardly wait to get her facedown in the building up the street.

He sipped the coffee. "So, you were saying you're from California?" Vincent-well, Helpful Tony Parsons-asked.

"That's right."

"Pretty, I'll bet."

"Is, yes. Parts of it. Now think back to what you saw exactly. That man running? Tell me about him."

Vincent knew he'd have to stay focused-at least until they were alone at the abandoned building. "Be careful," the killer had said, briefing him. "Be coy. Pretend that you know something about me but you don't want to talk. Be hesitant. That's how a real witness would be."

Now he told her-coyly and hesitantly-a few more things about the man running up the street and added to the vague description of Gerald Duncan, though it was pretty much what the police knew anyway, since they had that computer picture of him (he'd have to tell Duncan about that). She jotted some notes.

"Any unusual characteristics?"

"Hmm. Don't remember any. Like I said, I wasn't very close."

"Any weapons?"

"Don't think so. What exactly did he do?"

"There was an attempted assault."

"Oh, no. Anybody hurt?"

"No, fortunately."

Or un-, thought Clever Vincent/Tony.

"Was he carrying anything?" Agent Dance asked.

Keep it simple, he reminded himself. Don't let her trip you up.

He frowned thoughtfully and hesitated. Then he said, "You know, he might've been. Carrying something, I mean. A bag, I think. I couldn't really see. He was going pretty fast… " He stopped speaking.

Kathryn cocked her head. "You were going to say something else?"

"I'm sorry I'm not more help. I know it's important."

"That's okay," the woman said reassuringly, and for a moment Vincent had a pang of guilt about what was going to happen to her in a few minutes.

Then the hunger told him not to feel guilty. It was normal to have the urge.

If we don't eat, we die…

Don't you agree, Agent Dance?

They sipped coffee. Vincent told her a few other tidbits about the suspect.

She was chatting like a friend. Finally he decided the time was right. He said, "Look, there is something else… I was kind of scared before. You know, I'm around here every day. What if he comes back? He might figure out I said something about him."

"We can keep it anonymous. And we'll protect you. I promise."

A clever hesitation. "Really?"

"You bet. We'll have a policeman guarding you."

Now, there's an interesting idea. Can I have the redhead?

He said to Dance, "Okay, I saw where he ran to. It was the back door of a building up the street. He ran inside."

"The door was unlocked? Or did he have a key?"

"Unlocked, I think. I'll show you if you want."

"That'd be very helpful. Are you through?" She nodded at the cup.

He drained the coffee. "Am now."

She flipped closed her notebook, which he'd have to remember to get from her after he was finished.

"Thanks, Agent Dance."

"You're very welcome."

As he wheeled the groceries outside, the agent paid the check. She joined him and they started up the sidewalk where he directed.

"Is it always this cold in New York in December?"

"A lot of times, yep."

"I'm freezing."

Really? You look plenty hot to me.

"Where are we going?" she asked, slowing down and looking at the street signs. She squinted against the glare. She paused and jotted in her notebook, reciting as she wrote. "The perp was recently in this location, Sherman Street in Greenwich Village." She looked around. "Went up alley between Sherman and Barrow… " A glance at Vincent. "What side of the street's the alley on? North, south? I need to be accurate."