"They had all the numbers," she said, nodding. "It's been increasing in the last ten years, but the speaker said that's probably because more doctors and hospitals are becoming aware of the problem and are reporting cases to the authorities. Before, they took the parents' word that the child had been injured in an accident."

"That's probably true," he agreed. "Did they have any statistics that analyzed the abusers by sex? Did more men than women abuse children, or was it the other way around?"

She thought a moment.

"I don't recall any statistics about that," she said. "There were a lot of cases where both parents were involved. Even when only one of them was the, uh, active aggressor, the other usually condoned it or just kept silent."

"Uh-huh," he said. "But when just one parent or relative was the aggressor, would it more likely be a man or a woman?"

She looked at him, trying to puzzle out what he was getting at.

"Edward, I told you, there were no statistics on that."

"But if you had to guess, what would you guess?"

She was troubled.

"Probably women," she admitted finally. Then she added hastily, "But only because women have more pressures and more frustrations. I mean, they're locked up all day with a bunch of squalling kids, a house to clean, meals to prepare. While the husband has escaped all that in his office or factory. Or maybe he's just sitting in the neighborhood tavern, swilling beer."

"Sure," Delaney said. "But it's your guess that at least half of all child abusers are women-and possibly a larger proportion than half?"

She stared at him, suddenly wary.

"Why are you asking these questions?" she demanded.

"Just curious," he said.

On the morning of March 24th, Delaney walked out to buy his copy of The New York Times and pick up some fresh croissants at a French bakery on Second Avenue. By the time he got back, Monica had the kitchen table set with glasses of chilled grapefruit juice, ajar of honey, a big pot of black coffee.

They made their breakfasts, settled back. He gave her the Business Day section, began leafing through the Metropolitan Report.

"Damn it," she said.

He looked up. "What's wrong?"

"Bonds are down again. Maybe we should do a swap."

"What's a swap?"

"The paper-value of our tax-exempts are down. We sell them and take the capital tax loss. We put the money back into tax-exempts with higher yields. We can write the loss off against gains in our equities. If we do it right, our annual income from the new tax-exempts should be about equal to what we're getting now. Maybe even more."

He was bewildered. "Whatever you say," he told her. "Oh God, look at this…"

He showed her the article headlined: killer sought in two homicides.

"That's Abner's case," he said. "The hotel killings. The newspapers will be all over it now. The hysteria begins."

"It had to happen sooner or later," she said. "Didn't it? It was only a question of time."

"I suppose," he said.

But when he took the newspaper and a second cup of coffee into the study, the first thing he did was look up the phone number of Thomas Handry in his private telephone directory. Handry was a reporter who had provided valuable assistance to Delaney during Operation Lombard.

The phone was picked up after the first ring. The voice was terse, harried…

"Handry."

"Edward X. Delaney here."

A pause, then: "Chief! How the hell are you?"

"Very well, thank you. And you?"

They chatted a few minutes, then Delaney asked:

"Still writing poetry?"

"My God," the reporter said, "you never forget a thing, do you?"

"Nothing important."

"No, I've given up on the poetry. I was lousy and I knew it. Now I want to be a foreign correspondent. Who knows, next week I may want to be a fireman or a cop or an astronaut."

Delaney laughed. "I don't think so."

"Chief, it's nice talking to you after all these years, but I've got the strangest feeling that you didn't call just to say hello. You want something?"

"Yes," Delaney said. "There was an article on page three of the Metropolitan Report this morning. About two hotel murders."

"And?"

"No byline. I just wondered who wrote it."

"Uh-huh. In this case three guys provided information for the story, including me. Three bylines would have been too much of a good thing for a short piece like that. So they just left it off. That's all you wanted to know?"

"Not exactly."

"I didn't think so. What else?"

"Who made the connection? Between the two killings? They were a month apart, and there are four or five homicides every day in New York."

"Chief, you're not the only detective. Give us credit for a little intelligence. We studied the crimes and noted the similarities in the MOs."

"Bullshit," Delaney said. "You got a tip."

Handry laughed. "Remember," he said, "you told me, I didn't tell you."

"Phone or mail?" Delaney asked.

"Hey, wait a minute," the reporter said. "This is more than idle curiosity. What's your interest in this?"

Delaney hesitated. Then: "A friend of mine is on the case. He needs all the help he can get."

"So why isn't he calling?"

"Fuck it," Delaney said angrily. "If you won't-"

"Hey, hold it," Handry said. "I didn't say I wouldn't. But what do I get out of it?"

"An inside track," Delaney said, "that you didn't have before. It may be something and it may add up to zilch."

Silence a moment.

"All right," the reporter said, "I'll gamble. Harvey Gardner took the call. About a week ago. We've been checking it out ever since."

"Did you talk to Gardner about it?"

"Of course. The call came in about five-thirty in the evening. Very short. The caller wouldn't give any name or address."

"Man or woman?"

"Hard to tell. Gardner said it sounded like someone trying to disguise their voice, speaking in a low growl."

"So it could be a man or a woman?"

"Could be. Another thing… Gardner says the caller said, 'The same person did both of them.' Not, 'It's the same killer' or 'The same guy did both of them,' but 'The same person did both of them.' What do you think?"

"I think maybe you wouldn't make a bad cop after all. Thanks, Handry."

"I expect a little quid pro quo on this, Chief."

"You'll get it," Delaney promised. "Oh, one more thing…"

"There had to be," Handry said, sighing.

"I may need some research done. I'll pay, of course. Do you know a good researcher?"

"Sure," Thomas Handry said. "Me."

"You? Nah. This is dull, statistical stuff."

"I'll bet," the reporter said. "Listen, I've got the best sources in the world right here. Just give me a chance. You won't have to pay."

"I'll think about it," Delaney said. "Nice talking to you."

"Keep in touch," Handry said.

The Chief hung up and sat a moment, staring at the phone. "The same person did both of them." The reporter was right; there was a false note there in the use of the word "person."

It would have to be the killer who called in the tip, or a close confederate of the killer. It seemed odd that either would say, "The same person…" That was a prissy way of putting it. Why didn't they say "guy" or "man" or "killer"?

He sighed, wondering why he had called Handry, why he was becoming so involved in this thing. He was a private citizen now; it wasn't his responsibility. Still…

There were a lot of motives involved, he decided. He wanted to help Abner Boone. His retirement was increasingly boring; he needed a little excitement in his life. There was the challenge of a killer on the loose. And even a private citizen owed an obligation to society, and especially to his community.

There was one other factor, Delaney acknowledged. He was getting long in the tooth. Why deny it? When he died, thirty years of professional experience would die with him. Albert Braun would leave his books and lectures to instruct detectives in the future. Edward X. Delaney would leave nothing.