She looked at him.

"You covered yourself with glory tonight, buster," she said.

"Thank you," he said.

She glared, then burst out laughing. She took him into her strong arms. They were close, close. She drew back.

"What would I do without you?" she said. "I'll stack the dishes; you close up."

He made the rounds. He did it every night: barring the castle, flooding the moat, hauling up the drawbridge. He started in the attic and worked his way down to the basement. He checked every lock on every door, every latch on every window. This nightly duty didn't seem silly to him; he had been a New York cop.

When he had finished this chore, he turned off the lights downstairs, leaving on the outside stoop light and a dim lamp in the hallway. Then he climbed the stairs to the second-floor bedroom. Monica was turning down the beds.

He sat down heavily in a fragile, cretonne-covered boudoir chair. He bent over, began to unlace his thick-soled, ankle-high shoes of black kangaroo leather, polished to a high gloss. He didn't know of a single old cop who didn't have trouble with his feet.

"Was it really a good meeting?" he asked his wife.

"So-so," she said, flipping a palm back and forth. "Pretty basic stuff. The lecture, I mean. But everyone seemed interested. And they ate. My God, did they eat! What did you have?"

"A sandwich and a beer."

"Two sandwiches and two beers. I counted. Edward, you've got to stop gorging on sandwiches. You're getting as big as a house."

"More of me to love," he said, rising to his bare feet, beginning to strip off his jacket and vest.

"What does that mean?" she demanded. "That when you weigh 300 pounds I won't be able to contain my passion?"

They both undressed slowly, moving back and forth, to the closet, their dressers, the bathroom. They exchanged disconnected remarks, yawning.

"Poor Abner," he said. "Did you get a close look at him? He's out on his feet."

"I wish Rebecca wouldn't wear green," she said. "It makes her skin look sallow."

"The cheesecake was good," he offered.

"Rebecca said she's lucky if she sees him three hours a day."

"Remind me to buy more booze; we're getting low."

"You think the cheesecake was as good as mine?"

"No," he lied. "Good, but not as good as yours."

"I'll make you one."

"Make us one. Strawberry, please."

He sat on the edge of his bed in his underdrawers. Around his thick neck was a faded ring of blue: a remembrance of the days when New York cops wore the old choker collars. He watched his wife become naked.

"You've lost a few pounds," he said.

"Does it show?" she said, pleased.

"It does indeed. Your waist…"

She regarded herself in the full-length mirror on the closet door.

"Well…" she said doubtfully, "maybe a pound or two. Edward, we've got to go on a diet."

"Sure."

"No more sandwiches for you."

He sighed.

"You never give up, do you?" he said wonderingly. "You'll never admit defeat. Never admit that you're married to the most stubborn man in the world."

"I'll keep nudging you," she vowed.

"Lots of luck," he said. "Have you heard from Karen Thorsen lately?"

"As a matter of fact, she called yesterday. Didn't I tell you?"

"No."

"Well, she did. Wants to get together with us. I told her I'd talk to you and set a time."

"Uh-huh."

Something in his tone alerted her. She finished pulling the blue cotton nightgown over her head. She smoothed it down, then looked at him.

"What's it about?" she said. "Does Ivar want to see you?"

"I don't know," he said. "All he has to do is pick up the phone."

She guessed. She was so shrewd.

"What did you and Abner talk about-a case?"

"Yes," he said.

"Can you tell me about it?"

"Sure," he said.

"Wait'll I cream my face," she said. "Don't fall asleep first."

"I won't," he promised.

While she was in the bathroom, he got into his flannel pajama pants with a drawstring top. He sat on the edge of his bed, longing for a cigar but lighting one of Monica's low-tar cigarettes. It didn't taste like anything.

He was a rude, blocky man who lumbered when he walked. His iron-gray hair was cut en brosse. His deeply lined, melancholy features had the broody look of a man who hoped for the best and expected the worst.

He had the solid, rounded shoulders of a machine-gunner, a torso that still showed old muscle under new fat. His large, yellowed teeth, the weathered face, the body bearing scars of old wounds-all gave the impression of a beast no longer with the swiftness of youth, but with the cunning of years, and vigor enough to kill.

He sat there solidly, smoking his toy cigarette. He watched his wife get into bed, prop her back against the headboard. She pulled sheet and blanket up to her waist.

"All right," she said. "Tell."

But first he went to his bedside table. It held, among other things, his guns, cuffs, a sap, and other odds and ends he had brought home when he had cleaned out his desk at the old headquarters building on Centre Street.

It also contained a bottle of brandy and two cut-glass snifters. He poured Monica and himself healthy shots.

"Splendid idea," she said.

"Better than pills," he said. "We'll sleep like babies."

He sat on the edge of her bed; she drew aside to make room for him. They raised their glasses to each other, took small sips.

"Plasma," he said.

He then recounted to her what Sergeant Boone had told him of the two hotel murders. He tried to keep his report as brief and succinct as possible. When he described the victims' wounds, Monica's face whitened, but she didn't ask him to stop. She just took a hefty belt of her brandy.

"So," he concluded, "that's what Boone's got-which isn't a whole hell of a lot. Now you know why he was so down tonight, and so exhausted. He's been going all out on this for the past month."

"Why haven't I read anything about it in the papers?" Monica asked.

"They're trying to keep a lid on it-which is stupid, but understandable. They don't want a rerun of the Son of Sam hysteria. Also, tourism is big business in this town. Maybe the biggest, for all I know. You can imagine what headlines like HOTEL KILLER ON LOOSE IN MANHATTAN Would do to the convention trade."

"Maybe Abner will catch the killer."

"Maybe," he said doubtfully. "With a lucky break. But I don't think he'll do it on the basis of what he's got now. It's just too thin. Also, he's got another problem: they're bringing in Lieutenant Martin Slavin to take command of the investigation. Slavin is a little prick. An ambitious conniver who always covers his ass by going strictly by the book. Boone will have his hands full with him."

"Why are they bringing in someone over Boone? Hasn't Abner been doing a good job?"

"I know the sergeant's work," the Chief said, taking a sip of brandy. "He's a good, thorough detective. I believe that he's done all that could be done. But they've got-what did he tell me?- about twenty-five men working on this thing now, so I guess they feel they need higher rank in command. But I do assure you, Slavin's not going to break this thing. Unless there's another homicide and the killer slips up."

"You think there will be another one, Edward?"

He sighed, looked down at his brandy glass. Then he stood, began to pace back and forth past the foot of her bed. She followed him with her eyes.

"I practically guarantee it," he said. "It has all the earmarks of a psycopathic repeater. The worst, absolutely the worst kind of homicides to solve. Random killings. Apparently without motive. No connection except chance between victim and killer."

"They don't know each other?"

"Right. The coming together is accidental. Up to that time they've been strangers."