
BOOK JACKET INFORMATION

Three women. All young college students.
All attending schools in New England. And
all victims of a monstrous crime: abducted,
their hair butchered, their wrists bound and slashed,
raped by their captor and left to die in the most
lonely, the most desolate of places.
But this time, the killer has slipped up. His
latest victim--a student caught working late
at the college library, left unconscious
on an apparently deserted beach--was found
alive, and the two fishermen who discovered her
caught a glimpse of the killer's face.
Armed with a police sketch, Boston police
detective Harry Jordan--known as "The
Prof" to his colleagues--sets about the task of
tracking the murderer. He floods the local
media with the sketch, but to no avail. He needs
national publicity, the kind of media attention that
only a high-profile, highly rated TV
personality could draw. He needs Mallory
Malone.
Popular from coast to coast as the "TV
detective," Mallory's fame rests with her
knack for pursuing forgotten murder cases,
reenacting the crime on her national TV show,
jogging witnesses' memories, and capturing the
killer. Cool, beautiful, with the disarming looks of
an angel, cops say Mallory Malone is
a toughie; she gets her teeth into her prey like a
Rottweiler and doesn't let go. Mallory
has a love-hate relationship with the cops. They
love it when her brand of investigative
journalism nabs the criminal. They hate it
when her success makes them look like they can't do
their job.
Harry knows all of this when he enlists her
help. He is prepared for her disdain. He is
prepared for her air of superiority. But he
isn't prepared for the electric, overwhelming
attraction between them.
Or for the surprising vulnerability hidden beneath
her tough exterior.
Or for the danger lurking around the corner for them
both.
For as the carefully concealed secrets of
Mallory Malone's past unravel, Harry
finds that the killer behind these grisly murders is
much closer than anyone could possibly have
imagined.

Elizabeth Adler was born in Yorkshire,
England. She is married to an American lawyer
and has one daughter. They have lived in Brazil,
England, France, and Ireland and currently live
in Los Angeles. She is the internationally
acclaimed best-selling author of L@eonie,
Peach, The Rich Shall Inherit, The
Property of a Lady, Fortune Is a
Woman, Legacy of Secrets, and The
Secret of the Villa Mimosa.






















If it be now, 'tis not to come; if it be not
to come, it will be now; if it be not now, yet it will
come: the readiness is all.
Shakespeare, Hamlet
NOW OR NEVER



The night was cool, dark and moonless, with a
slight breeze that lifted her long brown hair.
He watched the girl walk slowly across the
college parking lot to her little red Miata
convertible. His night-vision binoculars picked up
every detail. Even though it was late--well past
midnight--and the lot was deserted and filled with
shadows, her sneakered feet seemed to drag, as
though she were too tired even to care about possible
danger.
He loved it. ... he loved the breathtaking
innocence of her as she walked unsuspectingly
toward him.
He knew all about her. He had watched her
for weeks, planning for this night. He knew where
she lived, in the off-campus apartment shared with a
couple of other students. He knew the layout of
that apartment. He had inspected the chaos of her
littered room, had stretched out on her bed,
smelling the faint odor of her ripe young body
on the tangled sheets. To keep that memory, that
signal that triggered the excitement that would
culminate tonight, he had snatched a pair of her
panties from the pile of laundry on the floor,
holding them to his face in an agony of
trembling passion that had him on the brink.
Controlling himself, saving the savage pleasure
and the pain for later, he had glanced distastefully
around the littered student digs: at the brimming
ashtrays, the empty Coke cans, the discarded
pizza boxes and the clutter of CD'S, candles
and grungy clothing that covered every surface. He
had wondered, disgustedly, how she could live like that.
Thrusting the cotton panties into his pocket,
he had walked calmly back through the French
window, across the patio into the alley, and away.
He knew what time the girl's classes
were, that she was pre-med and a class
valedictorian at her high school in
Baltimore. He knew her name, that she wore
Calvin Klein underwear and Gap T-shirts and
red Converse hightops. He knew where she bought
her coffee and blueberry-muffin-to-go each
morning, where she hung out in the evening, and what time
she went to bed.
He also knew that she had no steady boyfriend, that
she dated rarely, and that she was immersed in
studying for the end-of-semester finals. And that was why
she was dragging her feet as she walked across the
parking lot toward him. She was exhausted.
He was wearing his "uniform": a fine quality
black turtleneck sweater of the type worn
by skiers; a black ski mask that covered his head
and face leaving slits for his eyes; black
sweatpants and black sneakers. Crouched low in
the back of her Miata, his heartbeat went
into overdrive as she stepped closer and the
adrenaline surge hit him.
His eyes were riveted to the binoculars as she
stepped closer. He could see every detail. The
way her breasts moved under her white shirt. The
way the black leggings outlined her thighs and
clung to her crotch. The look of fatigue on
her pretty face as she took a final drag
on the Marlboro, then flung it to the ground.
The lit butt glowed red and he frowned with
anger at her irresponsibility and untidiness.
He saw her glance warily at his
gunmetal-gray Volvo station wagon, polished
to a dull gleam, parked next to the Miata. From
the fleeting expression on her face, he saw
her dismiss it as the essence of suburban
respectability, the safe automobile of a
Boston family man or woman.
Clutching her book bag to her chest, she
fiddled with her keys, stuck them into the lock and
opened the door. He stopped breathing and crouched
even lower. Would she check in the back? If she
did, he was ready.
She flung the heavy book bag onto the
passenger seat with a groan of relief, then put
the key in the ignition and fumbled for another
cigarette.
He prided himself that she never knew what hit
her. The swift expert chop to the carotid artery
temporarily cut off the blood to her brain. The
pack of Marlboros slipped from her hand as she
slumped forward, unconscious, smacking her
forehead on the steering wheel.
He pulled her back by her long brown hair,
scowling as he saw the already purpling bruise.
He liked his girls pristine, unmarked. He
slid from the back of the Miata, silently cursing
its smallness. He opened her door and hefted
her from the driver's seat. For a few seconds he
just held her, reveling at her helplessness in his
arms, marveling at the feather-lightness of
her, at her softness, at the mingled feminine
odors of her perfume and lipstick. Then he
bundled her onto the floor of the Volvo, quickly
taped her mouth, then her wrists and covered her with a
dark plaid rug.
The cigarette butt was still glowing faintly in the
night. He walked across, stamped it out, then
picked it up and flung it in the nearby trash can.
Slamming the rear door, he climbed into the
driver's seat and locked the car doors. He
pulled off the black ski mask, knotted a
discreet paisley silk scarf over his black
turtleneck and shrugged on an expensive but
comfortably well-worn tweed jacket. Running
his hands quickly through his hair, he glanced once more
over his shoulder as he started the car and made for the
exit. All was quiet. Heaving a pleased sigh,
he pushed the CD play button, filling the
car with a delicate Bach cantata as he swung
left out of the exit.
The drive was quite long--over an hour--but
pleasant. He followed the music's complicated
geometric patterns expertly in his head,
nodding to the rhythms, smiling as he thought of .his
girl "sleeping" in the back, waiting for him.
Pulling the Calvin panties from his pocket, he
held them to his face, breathing in the scent of
her, titillating himself with the promise of
pleasures to come.
He drove through Gloucester, then Rockport,
a little further north up the coast, slowing as he
passed through the deserted main street of a small
town. A half mile farther on, he turned the
car down a lane leading to the beach and parked in the
lee of a small wooden jetty.
He glanced quickly at the three or four
small boats, listening to the smooth surge of the
ocean on the shore and the slap-slap of the waves
against the hulls. Only the stars and a faint
phosphorescence hovering over the ocean gave a
glimmer of light.
He took off his jacket and the scarf, climbed
out of the car and opened the rear passenger door. He
glanced at the illuminated dial of his watch. It
was two thirty.
She was lying exactly as he had left her,
eyes closed, her pretty face pale under her
long fling of dark hair. Such soft hair, he
thought, running its shining strands through his fingers. Such
beautiful, hateful long hair.
He dragged her roughly from the car and hefted her
in his arms again. He put his hand to her face, ran
a finger across her smooth young skin. She moaned and
her eyelids fluttered. Suddenly she was
looking at him.
Her eyes were blue, but the dilated pupils
had turned them almost black and she was having trouble
focusing. Cursing himself for not putting on the ski
mask, he hastily covered her face with the rug and
hauled her down onto the beach.
He set her down by the flaking wooden jetty
and chopped her neck again with his hand. Her head
sagged; she was unconscious. He untaped her
hands and then hit her, again and again, beating her in a
fury of punches, her head, her face, her
breasts. He paused in his work, his breath coming
quickly. Then with trembling fingers he unfastened the
buttons of her shirt.
He sat back on his heels, staring at her.
Her breasts were small, two perfect
pink-nippled spheres splotched with ugly red and
blue welts where he had beaten her. With an
anguished cry he flung himself on her, biting and
sucking her breasts with manic ferocity.
After a while he sat up. He took out a
small, immaculately clean knife, unsheathed
it, and put the plastic cover back in his
pocket. He ran the blade across his finger with a
satisfied sigh. Then he jerked her head up and
began systematically to hack off her long brown
hair. It took him about three or four minutes
and he enjoyed every second of it. Sometimes he thought
this was the best part. He looked at her, lying
half naked with her raggedly shorn head, helpless
before him, and he laughed. It was a sound of pure
pleasure.
He dragged off her black leggings,
hurriedly now--he could hardly wait, the urge
was building inside him. He pulled down her
panties, identical to the pair he had stolen from
her room, and stared at the tangled dark bush of
hair, quivering as he anticipated how she would
feel. He wore nothing under his own black
sweatpants, and he was on top of her in a
minute, thrusting himself into her, cursing the tightness
of her, glorying in the scent of her: hating her.
He thrust himself into her again and again. It was almost
too much to bear; the sheer quivering scream of it was
inside him as he halted for a split second.
The thin knife was ready in his hand. He
turned her hands palm up, then with swift
efficiency he slit first her right wrist, and then
her left. The rich blood gushed forth, pulsing with
his terrifying climax.
He sat back, still shuddering. There was no other
sensation in the world to equal it. This perfect moment
of power.
His head jerked around as he heard a noise.
Someone was on the beach. He could see the glint of a
flashlight, hear men's voices. He leaped from
her.
The fisherman walking along the beach swung his
flashlight upward at the sound. For a split
second the man's face was caught in its beam,
staring fixedly like a deer caught in headlights.
Then he turned and ran. He flung open the
car door, tossing the bloody knife onto the
floor as he turned on the ignition. With the
lights off, he swung the car around and gunned it
down the lane.
"Funny thing, Frank, that guy just speeding
outta here," Jess Douglas said to his friend.
"Like a bat outta hell," Frank
Mitchell marveled. "Must've been some heavy
pettin' goin' on tonight."
Their guffaws echoed over the slur of the waves
as they hefted their fishing tackle, heading for the
jetty and their boat.
The beam of Jesse's flashlight shortened as
it struck the girl's spread-eagled, naked
body, illuminating, like a black and white
horror movie, the dark patches on the sand around
her hands and the blood still leaking from her wrists.
"Dear God," Frank said shakily. "Oh,
my dear lord, will you just look at that."
Jess dropped his fishing tackle and put his
fingers to her neck, felt the flutter of her
pulse. "She's still alive," he muttered. "The
bastard slit her wrists. Give me your
bandanna, Frank--quick, quick."
Frank ripped the red-spotted cotton scarf
from his neck and handed it to him.
"Thank the lord for Eagle Scouts," Jess
muttered, fashioning a clumsy tourniquet on
her left wrist, instructing Frank to bear down
on the pressure point on the girl's vein--for
all he was worth.
"Jesus God," he said, wiping the sweat of
fear and horror from his brow. "No wonder the
bastard was outta here like that. He just about
killed her. We gotta get help, Frank.
You hold on to that girl's arm for dear life
while I run to the pay phone down the beach."
"What if he comes back?" Frank peered
uneasily into the blackness.
"You scared?" Jess demanded, clambering to his
feet.
"You bet your goddamn I am," Frank
muttered.
"Me too." Jess was already lumbering away
down the beach. "Get the bastard good if he comes
back, Frank. Remember, it'll be you or
him. Just keep your finger on that pressure point
is all I ask.
"Until help comes."



The dog, a large silver and white malamute
with astonishingly pale blue eyes, slithered from
under the bed. It sat alert, ears pricked,
tongue lolling, staring intently at the flickering
green digital display on the clock radio:
4:57-4:58-4:59-5:00.
Its paw shot out, zapping the snooze button
on the first ring.
Boston Homicide Detective Harry
Jordan rolled over onto his back, eyes still
tightly shut. The dog watched him, waiting
expectantly for his next move. When nothing
happened, it leaped onto the bed. It lay down with
its head on Harry's chest, its eyes fixed on
his face.
Ten minutes later the alarm went off again. This
time the dog let it ring.
Harry's dark gray eyes snapped open and
stared straight into the malamute's pale blue
ones.
The dog's tail wagged slowly, but it did not
move its head from his chest.
Harry groaned. In his dreams the eyes he
had been gazing into did not belong to a malamute.
"Okay, I'm up," he said, ruffling the dog's
thick neck fur.
Swinging his legs from the bed, he stood up and
stretched luxuriously. Then he padded across the
polished-wood floorboards to the window to inspect
the pewter dawn.
Harry Jordan looked great naked. He was
forty years old, six foot two and a
lean one hundred and eighty pounds of solid
muscle, despite a steady diet of junk
food at Ruby's diner, around the corner from the
precinct. He had unruly dark hair, level
gray eyes, and usually a day-old stubble.
His colleagues called him the Prof because of his
Harvard law degree, but they were more impressed
by his football record at Michigan
State, where his record-breaking 105-yard
touchdown was still spoken ofwith awe. What they
didn't know, because he had kept it to himself, and besides
he no longer found it important, was that Harry
had inherited a great deal of money.
His grandfather had left him a trust fund that he
finally came into at the age of thirty, plus the
beautiful old brownstone in Boston's Beacon
Hill. Harry thought he might have enjoyed the
money more when he was twenty instead of
thirty-five, but he guessed his grandfather was right and
if he'd gotten his hands on it earlier, it would be
gone by now, spent on fast cars, fast women and
finding himself. As it was, he had had to "find
himself" the hard way.
He had never forgotten the words of his father when he
almost flunked out that first year of law school.
"Why the hell don't you get your brains
back from your prick and put them to use," he'd
snapped angrily. "Zip up your pants,
Harry. Give me back the keys to the
Porsche. Get your ass into that seat in the
lecture room, and get yourself to work."
In the end Harry had straightened out. He'd
graduated from law school and gone to work for the
family firm, until he could stomach it no
longer. Then he'd quit and become a rookie in
the Boston Police Department.
When asked why, he gave the same answer
both to his father and to the recruiting officer:
"Lawyers don't deal in justice anymore.
They just deal in legal conundrums, getting
guilty men freed on technicalities and
pocketing huge fees. At least this way I'll
have the satisfaction of catching the criminals."
And he did. Harry was a good cop. He had
worked his way up from the patrol car via the
rescue services, the fraud squad, the drug
and vice squads, to senior detective. He
had been married once, when he was twenty-eight
and she was twenty, but she hadn't liked the change
from attorney's wife to cop's wife.
He had been devastated when she left him. He
had held her in his arms and kissed her, but it was
too late. For her, the feeling had gone.
He converted the Beacon Hill house
into apartments and rented out the three top floors.
His own apartment was on the garden floor, and when he
moved in, he'd bought himself a pup. The
malamute. He looked like a wolf and was the
closest to a wild creature he could get. He
called him Squeeze and the dog went everywhere with
him.
Harry paced through the hallway and opened the
back door leading into a good-sized walled yard.
With a joyful growl the dog shot past him.
Squeeze stood for a moment or two sniffing the
fresh morning air, then began his usual
perambulation around the lavishly untidy
pollen-laden garden.
Harry sneezed loudly as he padded to the
bathroom. "Got to get that grass taken care
of," he promised himself as he did every morning.
His only problem was time, or rather the lack of it.
Still, he liked his garden, and he liked his
bathroom too.
It was huge, square and old-fashioned, with the
original black-and-white-tiled floor, a
fireplace with a cast-iron grate, a
mahogany-paneled tub big enough for a giant, and a
Victorian water closet with a blue-flowered
bowl and a pull chain. The old marble washstand was
big enough for a man to splash around in and it made up
for the lack of counter space to put his stuff. He
liked it that way.
From the bathroom he walked back through the
hall. A Nautilus machine stood
incongruously next to the ebony grand piano in
what had once been the elegant drawing room
of a rich nineteenth-century Boston lady. The
Nautilus was his next chore, but first he needed
a cup of coffee.
There was nothing old-fashioned about Harry's
kitchen--it was all black granite and brushed
steel, but these days he never seemed to find the time
to cook or entertain. The coffee machine was the
only piece of kitchen equipment that ever got a
workout. Now it gurgled and coughed, and the red
digital timer blinked, announcing it was brewed.
Harry thought impatiently that his life was ruled
by digital timers; even his watch had one.
He filled a plain white mug with
coffee, spooned in two sugars and was on his way
to the Nautilus when the phone rang.
His eyebrows lifted resignedly as he
answered it. At 5:10 A.m. it could only
mean trouble.
"What happened, Prof? Squeeze miss the
alarm button this morning?"
Harry took a sip of the hot coffee. It was
Carlo Rossetti, his partner on the force and his
buddy. "He didn't go for the extra five
minutes. I guess he just wanted up and out."
"Sorry to call so early, but I knew you'd
want to know right away. There's been another one,
a young woman raped and stabbed. Only this one
didn't die. At least not yet. She's in
Mass General. It's pretty much touch and go."
Harry glanced quickly at the digital watch that
had irritated him only a few moments ago.
"I'll meet you there. Tell the chief we're
on our way. Is she conscious? Has she said
anything yet?"
"Not that I know of. I just got here myself. The
night shift was having a slow one when the call
came in at about three A.m. A couple of
fishermen found her on the beach near Rockport.
The emergency rescue squad helicoptered her
down from there. The duty officer was McMahan.
He and Gavel are over there now, but this is our
baby, Harry. I knew you'd want in on it."
Harry remembered the brutally mutilated young
bodies of the two previous victims. "I'll
be there in ten," he said grimly.
There was no time for a shower or even to brush his
teeth. He flung cold water on his face,
rinsed his mouth with Listerine, threw on jeans, a
denim shirt and an old black leather bomber
jacket, and whistled for the dog. In three minutes
flat he was out the door.
Harry still hadn't gotten over his passion for
fast cars. The souped-up 1969 E-type
Jaguar in British racing green was parked in his
usual spot across the road. The dog hunkered
down on the beautiful tan coach-hide-leather
backseat, and a minute later they were speeding out of
Louisburg Square to the hospital.



Massachusetts General was a massive
limestone block set back from a busy
avenue. Traffic rattled around it, and the morning
air vibrated with the perpetual wail of sirens from
ambulances and emergency rescue-squad fire
engines and the clatter of rotor blades as
helicopters landed and took off from the roof.
Harry swung into a parking spot in the reserved
zone. He left the back windows open a crack
for the dog, hurled himself through the doors of
Emergency and collided with a white-coated
doctor.
"My, my, you're in a hurry this morning,
detective," the doctor said mildly, adjusting
his horn-rimmed eyeglasses.
Still running, Harry threw an apologetic
glance over his shoulder. "Sorry, doc. Oh,
hi--it's you, Dr. Blake. Excuse me,
I'm in a hell of a rush."
The doctor shook his head, smiling. "Never
saw you when you weren't," he called. "Anything
I can do to help?"
Harry waved his hand dismissively as he sped
round the corner. "Not your department, doc. At
least, not yet." His face grew grim as he
thought of the implications of what he had just said.
Dr. Blake was head of pathology at the
hospital and a medical examiner for the Boston
PD.
The Nursing Sister at the desk knew Harry
too. "First floor, trauma ward, last on the
right," she said, when he paused in front of her.
"They've given her fifteen pints of blood.
She's comatose and critical. And no, I
don't know if she's going to make it."
Harry's bleak eyes met her. "Jesus,"
he whispered.
The sister crossed herself quickly. "Believe
me, she needs Him."
Skirting the crowd waiting for the elevator,
Harry took the stairs two at a time. He
paused at the top. He took a deep breath and
ran his hands through his uncombed hair. He closed
his eyes for a moment, steadying himself.
The smell of hospital corridors still got
to him. The only time he had ever been an inmate
was when he was five years old and had had his
tonsils and adenoids removed. They had fed him
a steady diet of ice cream for a week. He
couldn't remember being traumatized by it, but the
childhood fears still stuck.
He swung through the fire door and it
whooshed silently shut behind him.
Rossetti was leaning up against the wall, arms
folded, one leg crossed lazily over the other.
His glossy black hair was slicked flat, his
white shirt was immaculate and his black
trousers had a fresh crease in them. He was
filing his nails and whistling "Nessun dorma"
through his perfect teeth. He looked like the early
version of John Travolta ready for a night on
the town instead of a Boston homicide
detective on duty at 5:25 A.m.
Despite the tough circumstances, Harry
grinned. Carlo Rossetti was thirty-two
years old, long jawed, dark-eyed, and a serious
ladies' man. He had probably come direct
from the previous evening's rendezvous but he looked
as though he had stepped straight from his good
Italian mama's house: clean, well-fed, and
ready for action.
"She's not gonna make it," Rossetti said
flatly.
Harry looked startled. "How d'you know?"
"I've seen her. Seen that look before, that
otherworldly thing." He shrugged. "Take a look
for yourself."
A uniformed cop stood guard outside the
door. He saluted and said good morning, standing
aside to let Harry in.
Harry took in the scene at a glance: the
nurse hovering over the machinery, the monitors
flickering in the corner, and the young woman lying
motionless on the narrow bed with IV'S pumping
fluid into her arms. Her bandaged wrists were
propped stiffly out in front of her on top of the
sheet. And her young face was pale as death beneath the
halo of shorn hair.
The nurse glanced at him. "She's in shock.
Maybe she'll come out of it," she said softly.
Harry wanted to believe her and not
Rossetti. "Any chance she might wake up and
be able to talk to us?"
"If she does wake up, the last thing she'll
want to do is talk to you."
"We need her. She's our only hope of
catching the killer. She might have seen his face.
Maybe she even knows him."
The nurse sighed. She had heard of the
mutilation of the other young victims. "He didn't
cut off the nipples this time."
Harry stared at the young woman with the
tubes in her arms, at her severed wrists and
bloodless face. The memory would stay with him
forever; or at least until he had done his job
and the killer was caught. He turned and walked out
the door.
Rossetti had finished filing his nails. He
was sipping black coffee from a paper cup. He
held a second one in his other hand and offered it
to Harry.
"So? What d'you think?"
"I think we had better start praying."
They sipped the coffee silently.
"What's with the fishermen?" Harry asked finally.
Rossetti shrugged. "Local police took
a statement, faxed it through to the boss. They said they
didn't see nothin' that meant anything, just heard
a car taking off in the dark. Then they saw the
body--excuse me, the victim. A few
minutes earlier, and they would have caught him in the
act. Unlucky for her."
"Do we know her name?"
"They're working on it. She had no
identification on her, no purse, no keys.
Nothin'."
Harry nodded; there were thousands of young women in
Boston, but both the other victims had been
students and the odds were that this one was too. It would
make the search easier. He expected that they would
know her identity within hours.
He drained his coffee cup and looked around for the
machine. "I'm gonna get some more coffee,
hang around here for a while just in case we--she
gets lucky. Why don't you check in at the
precinct? Let them know where I am, and see how
they're doing on her identity and whatever else is
going down."
"Will do." Rossetti unfurled himself from the
wall. He looked Harry in the eye. "Don't
take it personal, Harry. You're just the cop
doing his job." He slapped him affectionately
on the shoulder as he strode off down the gleaming,
antiseptic-smelling corridor. "Never would have
taken you for the emotional type. You should save it
for the women. They love all that over-the-top
stuff. Madison County and Clint
Eastwood and all that."
Harry smiled. "And how would you know,
Romeo?"
"Casanova, y'mean--too old for
Romeo." His laughter echoed through the
death-stalked corridor as he walked briskly
away.
Harry paced the corridor for an hour. He
went downstairs and ate a bacon and egg sandwich
in the cafeteria. Then he came back and paced
some more. At noon he stepped out and walked
Squeeze around the corner, where he bought a ham
and Swiss on rye from Au Bon Pain. He
shared it with the dog and gave him a bowl of water,
then returned him to the car.
The dog settled down on the backseat again, his
head on his paws, his pale blue eyes gazing
reproachfully up at Harry.
"It's a cop's life, Squeeze," Harry
said as he slammed the door. "I warned you when you
took me on, this is what it would be like."
They were the same words he had said to his wife
ten years ago, but they hadn't saved his
marriage.
The uniformed cop guarding the door had changed.
"Afternoon, sir," he said, saluting. "Officer
Rafferty. I'll be on duty until eight
P.m., sir. And Dr. Waxman is in with the
victim now."
The doctor was standing at the foot of the bed
studying her charts. He glanced around as Harry
entered.
"How're you doin', Harry?" He smiled.
They were old acquaintances, veterans of a
decade of trauma victims.
"Pretty good. What about her?"
"She regained consciousness briefly, about ten
minutes ago." He sighed regretfully. "At
this point I'd be inclined to say it's a triumph
of spirit over matter. She's stabilized, for the
moment." He shrugged. "Anything could happen."
Harry stared at her, willing her to wake up
again. He ran his hands through his still-uncombed hair.
"If she comes round, will she be able to talk?"
"Your guess is as good as mine, though I'm not
sure I'd advise trying it."
Their eyes met. "It may be our only chance
to get him," Harry said quietly. "She might
know him. If she talks, she might save
others."
"We'll see." Dr. Waxman slipped his
charts back into the slot at the foot of the bed.
"I'm needed down in Emergency. Are you going
to keep vigil?"
Harry nodded.
"See you later, then."
Harry took a seat on the straight-back
chair beside the bed. He looked at the girl, then
glanced uncomfortably away. He felt like a
voyeur, watching her sleeping. Only hers
wasn't real sleep. It might be a death
watch.
He stared at the ceiling, then at the jagged
peaks and valleys that were her vital signs,
blipping on the monitors in the corner. He was
a good cop, a tough cop, but this helpless young
woman had gotten to him.
There was a knock on the door and Rossetti
poked his head in. "Thought I'd find you in here."
He took a folded sheet of paper from his inside
pocket. "Her name's Summer Young. She's
twenty-one years old and a senior at Boston
U. Her home address is in Baltimore.
Her roommates missed her--they got worried
when they spotted her old Miata in the library
parking lot. The doors were unlocked. The key was
in the ignition, and her book bag was on the seat.
They called the police."
Harry nodded. The scenario was exactly as
he'd expected.
"The parents are on their way," Rossetti
added quietly. "Be here in a couple of
hours."
They stared silently at each other. They both
hoped for her sake that it would be sooner.
"Latchwell's waiting outside,"
Rossetti added. "Just in case."
Harry's head shot up. Latchwell was the
photo-fit expert. He could put a face together
from the vaguest description. Sometimes he seemed
to conjure it from thin air, honing it down, refining and
redefining it: "thinner lips--no, his mouth
turned down sort of like this; bushy eyebrows--
no, less bushy ... black eyes ... well,
maybe not black, dark though, and kind of shadowy
..." Latchwell had helped catch many a
criminal with his uncanny expertise.
Rossetti glanced uneasily at the girl.
"I guess I'll get back to the squad
room. Gotta talk to those fishermen."
Harry nodded. He wanted her parents to get
here; he wanted them to gather their girl up in their
arms, tell her it would be all right, that she would be
fine, that she would get over this. But he didn't
believe it.
A few minutes later, when she opened her
eyes and looked straight at him, he was shocked.
"Hi," he said softly. "I'm Detective
Harry Jordan. You've been hurt, but you're
safe now. Your mom and dad are on their way.
You'll be okay."
Her mouth twisted as she tried to form a word.
"Bastard," she whispered.
He nodded. "Tell me, Summer, do you know
him?"
She attempted to shake her head, flinching as
pain rippled through her body. Her lips formed a
silent no.
Harry hated himself for pushing her, but he had to do
it. "Did you see him? Can you remember?"
She frowned, struggling. "Soft," she
whispered. "Hands."
The nurse pushed the beeper, signaling Dr.
Waxman. Placing a finger on the pulse point
at the girl's throat, she frowned. "Enough,"
she whispered.
Harry nodded--he knew he couldn't take it
any further now. He looked at Summer one
last time. She seemed to be making a great effort
to speak and he leaned over her to catch her whispered
words.
"Eyes," she said in a voice like a sigh,
"dark ... staring ..."
He waited, but her eyelids drooped and she
lay still again. As he watched, a tear slid
suddenly down her pale cheek. "Brave
girl," he whispered. "Brave Summer.
You're going to be all right."
Dr. Waxman came in as he was going out.
"That's enough, detective," he said tersely.
"The parents are being helicoptered in now. It's
their daughter, their turn."
Harry nodded. "Let me know if anything
happens. I'll be back at the precinct."
Latchwell was exchanging views on the
Celtics versus the Knicks with Officer
Rafferty. He glanced eagerly at Harry as
he opened the door. "Ready for me?"
Harry shrugged. "All we've got is dark
staring eyes."
"Well, it's a start."
"That may be all we get. Thanks,
Latchwell. Sorry for wasting your time."
"All in a day's work." Latchwell shouldered
his equipment and strode off.
Harry's cell phone rang. It was
Rossetti. And it was bad news. The fishermen
had been no help. Their memories were just a
blur, more concerned with the girl than with the man.
Harry told the officer on duty he could reach
him at the precinct, then headed back to the car.
Squeeze heard him coming. He stuck his nose
through the window, his feet scrabbling on the tan
coach-hide seats. Harry snapped on the leash
and took him for a long walk.
The dog sniffed the street corner and the
lampposts, yipping excitedly, but for once
Harry didn't notice. Two young women were
dead, another was in critical condition, and he was
no closer to finding the killer than he had been a
year ago.
He turned back to the car, dropped
Squeeze at home, fed him and took off again
for the precinct. It was going to be a long night.

Five hours later, the call came through.
Summer Young had died without regaining consciousness.





Detective Rossetti drove his
five-year-old BMW too fast down the dark
street near the waterfront. Tires screeching,
he swung into the empty lot that served as parking
for the Moonlightin' Club. He checked the time:
it was one thirty A.m.
Flinging open the car door, he headed for the
club. Lights spilled from the windows, and as he
stepped inside, he was hit by a wall of sound.
Rap blasted from enormous speakers, bouncing
back from the walls, hitting the rafters and hurling
down again. The young black guy manning the snack
bar grinned hello as he walked by, and others
high-fived him cheerfully. He grabbed a cup of
coffee and walked through to the gym. It was jammed,
even this late.
The Moonlightin' Club had been donated
anonymously to the city in an effort to get kids
off the streets and off crack, and Rossetti and
Harry were two of the many cops who gave their free
time to help run it. The club had four rules:
No discrimination. No drugs. No weapons.
No gangs. Whatever the kids were up
to in their own world, they were neutral when they came
to the Moonlightin' Club and its gym.
The rules had been broken many times but the
club still staggered along. Sometimes Rossetti
thought they were winning the battle--like tonight, when fifty
or so young men were working out or playing basketball
instead of shooting up or shooting each other. The
basketball team even had a couple of possible
rising stars--they were hot and they were good, and the
desire to win had overtaken the temptations of the
streets. Every little bit helped.
He spotted Harry leaning moodily against the
wall, watching the players racing up and down the
court. His thick dark hair was tousled from running
his hands through it, a habit Rossetti knew his
partner had when he was agitated. His clothes
looked as though he had slept in them, and his lean
face was shadowed with stubble and exhaustion.
Rossetti guessed he had been at his
desk, hashing and rehashing every detail of the three
murders. He knew it was anger that kept Harry
there, and he'd bet it was only pure trembling
adrenaline rage that kept him on his feet now.
He'd also bet he was no further along than he
had been six hours ago, when Summer Young had
died.
He sauntered up behind him. "Somehow I
guessed I'd find you here."
Harry turned. Rossetti had the usual
paper cup of coffee clutched in his hand like a
permanent fixture. His sharp Italian linen
jacket, dark pants and fresh white shirt were
immaculate and Harry suddenly remembered he
hadn't even showered that day, let alone changed
clothes. He was still wearing the same jeans and shirt
he had flung on at five o'clock that morning.
"I feel disgusting," he said, scowling.
Rossetti grinned. "You look disgusting,
Prof. But the dog looks just fine. How
y'doin', Squeeze? Got any secrets
to tell me about your master? We need a line on
him, boy. You know, the truth about his private
life? What's he do when he's not working?
Women, booze--that kinda stuff?"
Harry laughed. "When am I not working,
Rossetti? Tell me that."
"Rarely. And that may be your problem, Prof.
Now look at me. I quit my shift at
eight thirty, had a drink with the guys. A hot
date at nine thirty, a good meal, a
little lovin'--it makes a difference to a guy's
life. So? What did you do?" He held up
a warning hand. "No, don't tell me. You had
a beer and a burger at Ruby's. Then you went
back and tried to unravel the serial killer's
psyche all by yourself. Waste of time, Prof, waste
of time. You need a little fun in your life to sharpen
you up. And then a good night's sleep."
Harry sighed regretfully. "You're right, of
course. And I didn't solve the murders. But
I can't get this one out of my head. Her last
words were to me. "Bastard," she said."
He straightened up, shook his head to clear it.
"Ah, what the hell, Rossetti. Forget about
sleep. How about you and I hit Salsa
Annie's? I'll buy you a bourbon and let you
tell me the story of your life, while we
raise our blood pressure with a little music."
He held out his palm and Rossetti slapped
down on it. It was Harry's favorite club and
Rossetti figured his partner could work off his
anger with a little hot dancing. "Done," he said,
heading for the door. "All this pure physical
exercise stuff at two in the morning is too
much for me anyhow."
The second dawn Harry had witnessed in
twenty-four hours was breaking when they swung their
way out of Annie's a couple of hours later.
Humming to the music in his head, Harry salsaed
across the street to the parking lot.
"Just like Gloria Estefan," Rossetti
said, grinning, as he lit a cigarette.
"Thanks for the compliment. And for your company. Good
night, Rossetti."
"'ationight, Prof." Rossetti got into his
BMW, turned on the ignition, and combed his hair
in the rearview mirror. He could see Harry
reflected there. He was sitting in the Jag with the
dog next to him, holding the steering wheel and staring
into space. He watched him for a couple of
minutes; then Harry climbed out of the car again.
"Rossetti!" he yelled. "Hey,
Rossetti!"
He stuck his head out of the window. "Yeah?"
"Get your ass over here, man. We're off
to Rockport."
Rossetti yawned loudly. "Rockport,
Massachusetts?"
"No, you jerk. Rockport, Illinois.
Where d'you think, Rockport? Just get
your smart Italian butt over here. We're
going back to talk to those fishermen again. And while
I'm driving, you can get on the radio and tell
them to get Latchwell up there right away. Those
guys saw him, Rossetti. They're the only
ones, apart from the dead, who did. They've got
to remember something about him, about his car. It's up
to us to jog their memories."



Mallory Malone read the brief newspaper
report on the rape and murder of Summer Young
in the limo on the way to Kennedy airport, about
the same time that Harry and Rossetti were on their
way to interview the fishermen who had found her.
She read it again, carefully, noting that the
police were linking the killing to the deaths of two
other young women in Massachusetts in the past
eighteen months.
She tore out the report, folded it and placed
it in her green leather Filofax, already crammed
with notes and cards, names, addresses,
telephone numbers and other important information.
Then she stuffed it in her sand-colored Bottega
Veneta bag.
Besides her passport and tickets, her
itinerary and traveler's checks, the bag was also
stuffed with the papers she meant to read on the
Concorde flight to London. Plus two
pairs of narrow gold-rimmed eyeglasses,
two identical pairs of sunglasses, several
packs of pocket-sized Kleenex and a jumbled
bag of cosmetics and lotions.
There was also a Mont Blanc rollerball
pen, a couple of unmatched earrings, a few
ticket stubs from the last trip and odd bits of
foreign currency. On top was a black
cashmere sweater that would do double duty in an
emergency, day or evening, as well as a change
of underclothes.
She had learned from hard experience to be
prepared for any eventuality--the time her baggage
had not turned up in Rome for the three days of a
long holiday weekend, and every store in the city had
been firmly closed.
Mal smiled as she thought of the old saying: You
could tell exactly what a woman was like from the
contents of her handbag. A stranger would
probably assume she was a nervous
traveler, a pessimist expecting the worst
to happen, sloppy and untidy with a chaotic home
life. The sort of woman whose car was littered
with a week's debris: old coffee containers and
take-out cartons, and an assortment of clothes
intended for the cleaners--whenever she found the time to get
them there.
In fact, nothing could be further from the truth.
She was thirty-seven years old, tall and
slender, with the short blond hairdo of a network
anchorwoman, impeccably dressed in a
simple but expensive beige suit. There was no
run in the pantyhose that sheathed her long legs,
and her sand-colored suede pumps were pristine and
unscuffed. Her makeup was minimal but
perfectly applied; the mocha lipstick outlining
her full soft-lipped mouth, the brown liner adding
a faint emphasis to her large sapphire blue
eyes, and the faint, haunting scent of
Nocturnes, by Caron, that seemed to enfold her.
Mal Malone was known as "the TV
detective." On her prime-time show she
followed up violent cases of murder, of
fraud in high places, of sex scandals in
Washington, and of Mafia drug-running in
Miami.
She was famous for taking up the causes of
forgotten murder victims, after public outrage
had died down and the media had gone on to the next
sensational case. With the assistance of the DA, she
would delve out every detail, then reenact the crime
on TV, jogging the memories of potential
witnesses who might just remember something
crucial.
The public was riveted by her. She had her
finger on the nation's pulse. She knew what was
bothering them and she showed them why.
It was debatable whether Mallory Malone was
a beauty. Sometimes she looked breathtaking; at
others she looked downright plain. It all
depended on her mood.
When she was up and hot on a case, waves of
energy lit up her face with a thousand watts of
candlepower, giving her skin a golden glow and
turning her eyes luminescent with concern. And at
television award shows and dinners, she was ravishing
in her trademark plain evening dresses in her
favorite muted colors, the low necklines
showing off her pretty shoulders and breasts.
On other days, less frequent now,
Mal Malone, the famous TV personality,
seemed to disappear into the background. She could
walk down Fifth Avenue and not a head would
turn in recognition. The golden hair would be
slicked back, lacking life and luster. The
expensive jacket would somehow look as though it
had come from the bargain sale racks. And the glow of
vitality, the curiosity, the intelligence that had
propelled her into the spotlight would be dimmed like
a TV screen fading into a pinpoint of light before
being extinguished altogether.
Nobody but Mal understood the phenomenon, and
she chose not to explain it to anyone. She was a
woman who kept her own secrets, but it was an
image that haunted her.
Most days, however, Mallory Malone was on
top of the world. This morning, she was on her way
to London to interview a voluptuous young
American actress who had just become engaged
to a man four times her age: a billionaire
with a not-too-perfect past and a hunger for more
future than was left to him.
Mal had charmed the happy couple into appearing
on her show, knowing that the actress was eager for
publicity. She was flattered to be interviewed,
though Mal had warned her that she would be asking some
"impertinent" questions of a personal nature.
"Oh, I know what you mean," the young actress
had cried, delighted. "Like, am I marrying him
for his billions? Well, I can answer that right
now, Mal. Truthfully. I'm a woman in
love. It's as simple as that. And if you knew
him, you'd understand why."
Actually, Mal was not about to ask anything so
obvious. Instead, she intended to ask what the rest
of the world was asking: Does the lovely
twenty-three-year-old have sex with this unpleasant
man in his eighties? And if so, what is it like?
And if he were not a billionaire, would she even
contemplate having sex with him, let alone living
out the rest of his days with him?
Mal intended to interview the billionaire
separately, have him take her on a tour of his
enormous country estate and his palatial
London house. She would ask him about his
private jet, the suites he kept at the grand
hotels around the world, the yacht berthed in Monte
Carlo, and the Swiss hideaway where he lived
most of the year.
She would draw him out about his
achievements, and he would tell her about them because he
was a very ruthless old man who really cared for
nobody but himself. And then she would ask him, so very
gently, about his first wife. The girl from the poor
London suburb who had worked at his side in
those early years, when they were running a workingmen's
caf`e in London's East End, before they
created their restaurant and hotel empire.
"What happened to that young woman?" she would
ask, though of course she already knew. And after his
lies and smooth coverup, she intended to confront
him with the facts: that as his empire and his wealth had
grown, he had no longer considered his wife a
suitable consort for a king of business. That his
desertion of her and the cruel divorce had left
her destitute. And she would ask him about the
"accident" at his country home when his ex-wife
had gone to beg the business monarch for financial
help, a few crumbs from his brimming plate.
The same accident that had left her
brain-damaged and in a state mental institution for
over thirty years. Alone, with never a
visitor, nor a luxury to ease her pain.
"About that accident," Mallory Malone would
say, smiling. "It seems there were two witnesses
to your wife's "fall" down that magnificent
Jacobean oak staircase. How is it they have
never come forward to tell what they saw?"
She imagined how his face would redden as he
blustered his arrogant way around this. And she would
smile and say, "Well, here they are now.
Ready and willing to testify that you paid them good
money not to say what they saw. That you pushed
her down the stairs. Now they've changed their
minds."
And then we shall see what Little Miss Mercenary
has to say about how darling her billionaire
was, she thought grimly. How virile and
charming and generous. And how lovable.
Odds were, they deserved each other. He had
bought the actress on the commodity market, not
to line his coffers but to enhance his image. And she had
sold her youth and undoubted beauty for the
temporary fame and the power of being a rich man's
wife--as well as for the millions she hoped
to reap in the divorce court after a couple of
years. Unless, of course, he died conveniently
before that and left it all to her. Mal doubted that he
would.
She stared out the limo's window at the
snarled traffic edging slowly up the
expressway, thinking of the report about the rape and
murder of Summer Young. The student was almost the
same age as the young actress. She too had had
all her life in front of her. Until some
bastard had put a stop to it.
It was a pretty name: Summer Young. Mal
wondered what she had been like, about her ambitions,
her family and friends. Perhaps she had been a
loner, dedicated to her studies, determined
to make her own way in the world. She shivered,
thinking about the horror of what had happened to her.
Lifting the telephone receiver, she dialed her
office.
"Beth Hardy here," her assistant answered
promptly on the first ring.
"Beth, it's me. I'm on my way
to JFK. Did you catch the report on the rape
and murder of the young student at BU?"
"I sure did. That's my own alma mater,
remember? My God, Mal, what's the world coming
to? If only she had called for a student
escort! But I know that parking lot--it's only
five minutes away from the library. She
probably didn't think it was worth it, that there was
no danger. Poor kid."
"The police are linking it to two similar
incidents in the past eighteen months. Have someone
dig out the facts for me, Beth, would you? See
what we can get on it."
"Is this going to be a feature, then?"
Mal stared moodily in front of her. The
outlying areas of the airport were coming into sight.
"Maybe. It's a thought. Let's find out if
there's a story lurking under the surface that the
police are keeping to themselves. A serial killer
on the loose? That kind of thing." She frowned as
the phone crackled with static. "I have to go now,
Beth. Talk to you from London."
"Bon voyage," Beth called. "Give a
good interview."
Ten minutes later, Mallory Malone was
being VIP'D straight through to the Concorde lounge,
where she boarded the flight immediately.
Fifteen minutes later she was airborne.
Refusing a glass of champagne and orange
juice, she sipped a cup of tea. The man
sitting beside her seemed eager to talk, but she
ignored him.
Thrusting Summer Young from her mind, she
took out her papers and went over the questions she would
ask in the interview.
The flight was almost over before she knew it. She
went to the bathroom, flicked powder over her
nice but slightly bumpy nose, slicked the
MAC mocha lipstick over her mouth and brushed
her short blond hair. Out of consideration for her
fellow passengers, she did not spray
Nocturnes onto her pulse points or into the
soft hollow between her breasts.
She stared at herself in the mirror, feeling the
aircraft move beneath her feet. Here she was,
plain little Mary Mallory Malone, a nobody
from a small town in Oregon, flying faster than
sound and about to meet one of the richest villains in the
world. She smiled. Sometimes she didn't believe
herself.
A short while later she was wafted through
immigration and into a waiting Rolls, on her way
to London and the luxurious Lanesborough
Hotel, where she would have a large suite,
complete with her own butler.
"Oh, Mary Mallory," she said to herself,
awed. "You've come a long way from those all-night
buses and the rusting turquoise Chevy with the chrome
fins."



"Gotta give you A for effort, Prof,"
Rossetti said six hours later, on their way
back to Boston. They were at a roadside
caf`e eating either breakfast or lunch--he
wasn't sure which, because by now he had lost track
of time.
"Thanks. It's not great, but at least we got
the framework of a likeness from them." Harry stared
at the photo-fit picture of the killer.
Caucasian, narrow face, big mouth with thin
lips, broad forehead, a shock of dark hair.
And those staring eyes that had burned into his
victim's memory.
It had taken four hours of intense work
to delve from the minds of the two shocked fishermen the
vague memory of a man they had glimpsed only
for a couple of seconds. At first they had insisted
they didn't recall a thing: it had been too
dark, too quick, and he had been gone almost before they
registered he was there. But then Harry had gone
to work on them, leading them back into the moment
before they saw the girl, those vital seconds when
their brains had taken an instant flash photo
of the killer.
He had told them what the victim had said about
the man's eyes, and they had choked up when he said
they were the last words she spoke. They were decent
guys, eager to help. Then Latchwell had gone
to work, and now they had a probable description.
""Medium height and build,"" Harry
read again, ""thin-faced, clean-shaven.
Prominent eyes with heavy brows. Thick dark
hair, the bushy kind that stands on end. Wearing
dark clothing. Driving a small dark-colored
truck or a wagon.""
He said, "It'll be front page in the
Herald and the Globe, and in the morning
tabloids, and maybe the nationals."
Rossetti shrugged--he didn't expect much
from the publicity. "We'll see what it trawls
in besides the nuts looking to get in on the act and for a
moment of glory. And the little old ladies who are
sure he was hiding in their closet last night."
He slurped his coffee noisily, and Harry
glared at him. "You should quit drinking that stuff.
Your stomach must be lined with caffeine."
"Think how ugly I'd look if Doc
Blake took his forensic scalpel to me."
"He'd be afraid to cut you open. There's
coffee in your veins, not blood." Harry's
eyes met his. "He's doing the autopsy on
Summer Young at six."
"You going?"
Harry nodded.
"Count me out, man. I can't take that
cutting-open business, weighing the hearts and
livers, and all that horror stuff. Tell me,
Prof, what makes a guy become a forensic
expert, anyway?"
"It's a science. Without doctors like
Blake, we might never know what really
happened. He's a detective, only his
detecting is done after death."
Rossetti shivered. "Yeah, well, I'll
stick with the living, thanks."
Harry laughed. "Not if you keep on drinking
that coffee."
"So? And speaking of health, when did you last have
a real meal? And I don't mean at
Ruby's."
Harry thought about it. "Three weeks
ago. At Marais, in the company of a delightful
woman--unknown to you, so I won't bother telling
you her name--whom I was supposed to call back."
He shrugged regretfully.
Rossetti stared curiously at him. "A
good-looking guy like you, Prof. With your education and
that fancy apartment. Women must be fallin' over
themselves to get into your bed."
Harry laughed again. He stood up and slapped
him on the back. "Thanks for the compliment. But a
person needs time to build a relationship. I
called, she called back--we had a drink, an
evening here, an hour or two there. It's just not
enough."
He called for the check, laid the money on the
table and added a five-dollar tip. He had a
soft spot for waitresses--they worked hard for their
money, and he knew most of it came from tips.
The young woman smiled appreciatively at
him as she scooped it up. "Thanks a lot,"
she called. "You have a good day now."
Rossetti turned and gave her a wink and she
laughed.
"See that," he said to Harry. "One encouraging
word and you'd have had yourself a date."
Harry sighed exaggeratedly. "Rossetti,
Rossetti, you're the self-confessed
Casanova, not me. It was you she was smiling at.
Besides, she probably has a husband and three
kids."
"Since when was that a problem?" Rossetti
looked smug.
Harry laughed. "Shame on you, a good
Italian Catholic boy. If only your
mama could hear you. And your priest."
"Believe me, he hears it all. Including
how I feel about rapists and killers and how I
want to rip the balls off them."
Squeeze was tied to the post outside the caf`e
next to an almost-empty dish of Alpo.
Harry unhitched the leash. "Meet you back at
the car," he said to Rossetti.
"Sorry about this, boy," he muttered as the
dog tugged him down the road. "But it's been a
tough couple of days. I'll make up for it with a
good long run later."
Squeeze wagged his tail, sniffed the grass,
and did his duty. Harry guessed that whatever went
down it was all right with Squeeze.
In the car, driving back to Boston,
he thought about the woman he had taken out to dinner
three weeks ago. She was attractive,
charming, cultured and very self-assured. She
came from a good Boston family and her parents
knew his.
"It's a put-up job between them," she had said
when she called and left a message on his
machine. "I've been away, working in Paris for a
couple of years, and my parents think I'm out of the
social swing. And your mother seems to have given up
all hope. This may be our last chance as far as
they're concerned, so why don't we make them
happy? Won't you please have dinner with me, one
evening next week?"
He had been charmed when he played back the
message, and charmed by her. She was tall and
slender with a good body, and she wore her long dark
hair pulled back, Spanish style, in a
knot at the nape of her creamy neck. Her
brown eyes sparkled and so did her wit. Dinner
had been fun, and so had the drink a couple of
nights later at her place. But he had pulled
the eight-to-four shift and had to run. He had
seen the regret in her eyes and heard it in his own
voice.
His mother had called the other night to say that the
woman was seeing an old friend from college and they
seemed made for each other.
Harry shrugged. Such was the life of a busy
cop--especially a dedicated one.
He glanced at the clock on the glossy
burled-walnut dashboard of the Jag. If he
put his foot down, he might have time to take a
shower and change before he went back to the hospital
for the autopsy.



A few days later, at seven thirty in the
morning, Harry was in the squad room, his hands
clasped behind his head, his feet propped on the
desk, his eyes closed. He was thinking about
Summer Young.
He and Rossetti had just emerged from a
grueling meeting with the irate police chief. He
had said the mayor was getting restless, he had
to answer to the public. Was there a serial killer
on the loose in his city? If so, what were the
police doing about it?
"What does he think we're doing?
Sitting on our butts? Just letting the guy get
away with it?" Rossetti demanded indignantly.
Harry sympathized. They were both feeling the
pressure. "We're doing everything we can," he
had told the chief. "We're doing our best
to catch the bastard." He would never forget that
"bastard" was what Summer had called her killer
just before she died.
"Yeah." The chief was upset. "Well,
Harry, your best is just gonna have to get better.
And fast. The mayor wants this killer caught.
Boston is famous for its colleges and he
needs their image kept clean. He doesn't
want college girls raped and slashed and dead.
Besides, he has a girl of his own at
Northeastern. He has a personal concern, you
might say. He wants action, Harry. Now."
Harry swung his legs off the desk and
switched on his PC, summoning up his list of
evidence.
The local crime-scene officers had done a
thorough job. They had found kneeprints in the sand
where the killer had crouched over his victim. From
them they had been able to deduce he was a short,
stocky man, possibly five foot seven or
eight.
They had also found traces of skid marks where
the killer had gunned the car in his escape, but the
area was too sandy to leave much impression. The
crime lab was analyzing the minute particles of
rubber that had been scraped from the road, but they
didn't hold out much hope for matching tires from
them. As for the parking lot near the college, it
too had shown a dusty scuffle of unidentifiable
tire marks.
But Summer's car told a whole other story.
They knew that the killer had hidden in the back of the
Miata. He had taken her by surprise with a
karate-type blow, evidenced, the police
surgeon told them, by the purple bruises on
her neck over the carotid artery and on her
forehead, where she had fallen forward and struck her
head on the steering wheel.
Forensics was leaving no stone unturned. The
whole basis of forensic science was that a criminal
always leaves something of himself at the scene of the
crime. And that he always takes something from there,
on his clothing or on his body: minute particles
of skin or dust, a thread, a hair, a flake
of paint. Forensics looked for evidence in
impossible places.
They had hoped to raise a footprint in the
Miata, using an electronic mat. They
placed a sheet of foil between two sheets of
black acetate and ran a weak electrical
current through. The electricity would attract the
dust particles to the surface in the shape of a
footprint, if there was one. They were unlucky--
there was no print--but they collected the dust
anyway and took it away to be analyzed.
They had also found a tiny black fiber on the
backseat of the Miata, and a couple of hairs that
didn't match the victim's had been removed from
her clothing. The crime lab was running tests and
Harry expected to hear the results soon. Of
course the tests would prove nothing by themselves but
Harry had learned to respect such evidence.
Forensics was the modern-day equivalent of
Sherlock Holmes. If the butler did it, they
could confirm it.
They were also testing the saliva taken from the bite
marks on her breasts, and a forensic odontologist
was reconstructing the killer's teeth and dental
work from the bite marks.
But the most vital piece of evidence was the
semen found on the victim. When the results of the
DNA tests came through, it could link the killing
to the two other murders. DNA evidence was as
damning as any fingerprint. It was what would put this
killer behind bars for life.
Meanwhile, a week had gone by since Harry
and Latchwell had gotten the photo-fit. The
local TV stations had shown it on every news
program and all the newspapers had
front-paged it, morning and evening. Calls had
flowed in, from the usual cranks as well as from the
genuinely concerned who thought they might have seen the
killer. Every possible lead had been followed. And
--nothing.
Harry was beginning to doubt the accuracy of the
picture. Maybe he had pushed those fishermen
too hard, put ideas in their heads.
Harry thought about what Summer had said before she
died. Staring dark eyes ... soft hands. She
was the only one who really knew what the killer
looked like.
Even Doc Blake, after the autopsy, had
seemed skeptical. "Are you sure this is a
true likeness?" he had asked. "How can you be
certain? Only the girl could have told you,
and unfortunately she didn't live long enough."
Dr. Blake was right, he thought, swinging his
legs down from the desk and running his hands wearily
through his dark hair. Either the photo-fit was not a
good likeness, or the killer was not a local man.
The case needed more public awareness if they were
to keep him from striking again--it needed more nationwide
publicity.
"What we really need," he said
to Rossetti, "is Mallory Malone."
Rossetti raised his dark eyebrows. He
stared at his partner as though he'd gone crazy.
"Yeah. Sure we need her. She'd make us
look like a couple of dumb cops on network
TV, while she batted her baby blues and
told the nation that if we were smart and did our job
properly, we would have caught this killer first time
out. In other words, buddy, you and I would take the
rap publicly for three murders. The media would
latch on to us like piranhas in a feeding frenzy."
He shrugged. "Think again, Prof. That's my
advice."
"But what if she displays the photo-fit on
her show? Maybe she'd snag the one person who
knows who this guy is. In California, perhaps.
Or Florida or Texas or Montana.
Jesus, Rossetti, we need help, and we
need it now. Before the trail goes cold."
"What trail?" Rossetti glared at him.
"Why go looking for trouble? Aren't we in deep enough
already? Don't we have the chief on our backs,
to say nothin' of the mayor and the college
presidents ... hell, all of
Massachusetts. So why not Mallory Malone
as well? Might as well make a party of it."
His dark eyes met Harry's angrily for a
minute, then he shrugged, defeated. "Ah, what
the fuck, of course you're right. What's a
guy's career worth anyhow if he can't finish the
job he set out to do. Call Malone if you have
to, but leave me out of it. I'm off to Ruby's
to punish myself with eggs and a short stack, and their
"special" ungenuine maple syrup. You
comin'?"
Harry grinned. "I'll let you kill yourself with
Ruby's kindness on your own. I'll settle for
another cup of that black death they call coffee
around here."
Harry shouldered through the crush to the coffee
machine at the end of the hallway. It
smelled of sweat and cigarettes and stale
pizza, and even this early in the morning the squad
room was buzzing. The graveyard shift had been
busy: a domestic dispute had ended in a stabbing
--not fatal yet, but odds were it would end up that
way; a drug-related shooting and a drive-by.
The holding cells were crowded with drunks and
domestic-violence and public-nuisance cases,
and weary cops were typing up case sheets and
answering the constantly ringing phones. Not a bad
haul for an eight-hour shift. For the umpteenth
time Harry wondered why man never learned that when
it comes to violence, nobody wins.
From years of practice, he shut out the
racket and sat at his desk contemplating
Mallory Malone.
On television she was a hunter. Twice she
had uncovered information that led to photo-fit
pictures. Twice she had displayed those
photo-fits on her program and the suspected
criminals had been captured.
Malone made it her business to know everything about
the people she was investigating and her research team
seemed endowed with second sight. She had
contacts in high places and was adept at
uncovering even the best-kept family secrets.
People joked nervously that your slate had better be
as clean as the day you were born if Malone came
after you. Even the cops said she was a toughie. They
said she sank her teeth into her victims like a
rottweiler and she didn't let go.
And the only reason she got away with it was because
she looked like an angel.
Her blue eyes always had an innocent and
slightly surprised expression, as though she
couldn't quite believe what she was doing. In her
Donna Karan suits, she looked like corn-fed
Middle America hitting the big time, and she had
an ingenuous, sunshiny quality that concealed a
steely shaft of ambition.
The public might love her, but her
relationship with the cops was definitely
love-hate. They appreciated it when she
helped them get the killers and the crack dealers
and the drug runners, but they hated the fact that she
made it look as though she were doing their job
better than they did it themselves.
Harry shrugged--he was between a rock and a hard
place. He picked up the phone and dialed the
number of Malmar Productions.
"This is Homicide Detective Harry
Jordan of the Boston PD," he told the
woman who answered. "I'd like to speak with Ms.
Malone."
"One moment, sir. I'll put you through to her
assistant."
After a few minutes of surprisingly gentle
piano music on hold, another voice said,
"Beth Hardy here. How can I help you,
Detective Jordan?"
"I have a case I'd like to discuss with Ms.
Malone. The murder a couple weeks ago of a
young college student."
"Oh, the girl from BU?"
"Then you read about it?"
"I did and I felt especially bad about it.
BU'S my own college. I'm not much older
than she was. I couldn't help thinking, there but
for the grace of God goes little old me. Poor
kid."
"That's why we could use Ms. Malone's
help."
Beth sighed regretfully. "Sorry,
Detective Jordan, but your timing's off.
She just got back from London yesterday, and for
once she's taking a break. Anyhow, the
programs are all set for the next six
weeks." She hesitated, remembering Mal's
telephone call about the case. By now, the
research team had probably dug out the information
she had requested.
"Tell you what," she added. "I'll give
her a call. Maybe she'll be interested,
maybe she won't."
Harry frowned. Rossetti had been right.
He already felt like a fool for calling, and
Malone was just an arrogant TV celebrity.
"Thanks a lot, Ms. Hardy," he said
skeptically. "I won't wait for her call."
Beth's laugh was mocking. "The chip on your
shoulder's showing, detective. No promises,
but I'll see what I can do."



Mal did not pick up her phone when Beth
called. Instead, she lay on an overstuffed sofa
in the sitting room of her exclusive Fifth
Avenue apartment, staring blankly at the puffy
gray clouds building up over Central
Park.
She had hyped herself up for the London
interview, working on sheer nerves and adrenaline.
The billionaire had proven tougher than she
expected. But she had set the cat among the
pigeons all right, and when the program aired
later tonight, it would cause a sensation.
The best thing was, there was nothing the vicious
old bastard could do about it. She had cleared every
point, every single detail with legal before she had
left. He had threatened to sue, but he would not.
How could he, when it was the truth. What happened
next was up to the police and to his fianc@ee,
though it looked as though she was sticking by him.
Mal shook her head, bewildered. It just went
to show the power of that kind of money. Absolutely
all that was in the woman's head was that she had
caught a Mr. Rich, and not that when he got
tired of her, she might easily be the next to
"fall" down those stairs. Because this old man was not
about to part with one cent. He would take it to his
grave or else leave it all to build a
monument to himself--an arts center, or a museum
with his name on it--so that when he was gone, he would still
be spoken of every day. He intended to live after death
if anybody could.
Mal yawned wearily; even the Concorde could
not eliminate time zones and jet lag completely.
She wished now she had taken time to see something of
London but, except for her own production
crew, she didn't really know anyone there. Of
course she'd had plenty of invitations--to dinner,
to openings, to charity affairs--the English social
season. But that sort of thing was no fun. In
fact, it was hard work--just a roomful of strangers
who only wanted to be seen with her because she was a
celebrity. She would have been the entertainment of the
evening. She would have had to smile and be polite,
sparkle, and make conversation. She had declined
them all.
Only later, after a solitary room-service
dinner in her lavish flower-filled hotel
suite, had she wondered wi/lly if she had
done the right thing. After all, there might have been one
person out there whose eyes would have connected
meaningfully with hers. There might have been one man
who recognized who she was, not what she
was. He might have been someone who could make her
laugh, someone she could have fun with.
The clouds covered the sun, and she
wrapped her soft cream robe more closely around
her, tucking her bare feet underneath her on the
rose-patterned chintz sofa.
Visitors were always surprised by Mal's
apartment. They expected it to be decorated the
way she dressed: cool, simple, and
monochromatic. Instead, they got an
old-fashioned country house, complete with
family pictures and a terrace garden.
Mal's home was filled with English
antiques and comfortable sofas covered in artfully
faded floral fabrics. The tables were crammed
with silver-framed photographs. There were rare
old books on her shelves as well as current
biographies and best sellers and crime
fiction, and perfectly lit paintings of
ancestors and horses and dogs on her pale,
expensive silk-covered walls. There were
watercolors of villas in Tuscany and soft
English landscapes, and art books piled on the
massive oak coffee table in front of the French
limestone fireplace. Even on a sultry
evening like this, a fire glowed in the grate, its
heat combated by air conditioning, simply because she
loved the way it looked.
And she liked flowers around her too, great
bouquets of garden flowers: spiky blue
delphinium and fragrant white stock,
snapdragons and huge daisies, and fat,
fragrant, tumbling pink roses that were
duplicated in a painting by a great
seventeenth-century Dutch artist that hung on
her wall. But the evocative scent of lilacs
was her favorite, and when they were in their short,
sweet season, she wanted nothing else.
Few people knew it, but in the privacy of her
home, more was better for the publicly cool,
spare, and uncluttered Mallory Malone.
Hauling herself from the comfortable depths of the sofa,
she walked out onto her terrace. Twin stone
fountains splashed musically as she inspected her
plants, rooting her manicured fingers in the
earth, pulling out an errant clump of chickweed,
deadheading the azaleas, picking a tiny branch of
rosemary and crushing the leaves for their scent.
She sat on the carved wooden bench overlooking
Manhattan's towers. "If I closed my
eyes," she said aloud, shutting them tightly,
holding the rosemary to her nose, "I might be in
Provence. I might be listening
to cicadas and birdsong and the wind in the olive
trees, instead of traffic and the telephone ringing."
She opened her eyes and looked around
uneasily. She wasn't used to leisure time.
Now that she had it, she wasn't sure what to do with
it.
Standing up, she paced the terrace again. She
picked off another dead flower head, frowning up
at the lowering clouds as the first large drops of
rain plopped down. Lightning flashed and thunder
rumbled. Within seconds it was a downpour.
Wrapping her robe around her, she fled back
indoors.
The phone was ringing again. She ran to the study
to answer it, stopping as the answering machine
clicked on. She reminded herself that a break was
what she needed. That meant no phone calls.
She hesitated, glancing at the machine. There
was no harm in seeing who had called, just to make
sure they hadn't all forgotten her.
She listened to twelve messages and was bored
by the time she got to Beth Hardy's at number
thirteen.
"Sorry to interrupt your peace and quiet,"
Beth said, "but there's a touch of urgency to this one.
Remember the BU student? The one who was raped
and murdered? You asked me to get the research team
onto it in case you got interested? Well, a
Detective Harry Jordan called from
Boston this morning. He wants you on the case.
I told him your schedule was fully booked and you
were on vacation. He seemed pretty pissed off
that you weren't available, but I thought you would want
to know anyway. Meanwhile, I hope you're
having fun, or at least a rest. Oh, by the
way, I have his office number, and his home
number too. Unlisted. Pretty fancy for a
cop, huh? Just thought I'd pass that on to you.
Here they are, just in case," she added again, with a
laugh.
Mal sank into the rose-patterned chair in
front of the desk. She hadn't forgotten the young
girl who had been so brutally raped and killed.
"Summer Young," she said out loud. It was such a
magical name, she knew the parents must have loved
their daughter very much. She pulled her bare feet
up onto the chair and clasped her arms around her
knees, staring into space, thinking. Then she picked
up the phone and called Detective Jordan.
His office number rang ten times before
his machine answered.
"No wonder you need help, detective,"
she said irately into the phone. "I almost didn't
wait to leave a message, the darn machine took
so long. Do me a favor and try for only three
rings in future. It saves my time and my
temper. You know where to reach me. Oh, by the way,
it's Mallory Malone."
Irritated by him already, she slammed down the
receiver and stalked into the kitchen. She filled the
kettle, drumming her fingers impatiently on the
polished limestone countertop while she waited for
it to boil. She put a Wild Berry Zinger
teabag into a pink-flowered mug and poured the boiling
water over it, stirring until it was brewed red
enough. Then she grabbed a slab of no-fat
lemon pound cake and marched back into the sitting
room.
She ate the cake in two minutes flat.
"You made me do that, Detective Harry
Jordan," she said out loud, guiltily
assessing the calories. And then she laughed.
"Darn it, what I really need is a good dinner.
I can't even remember the last time I ate when
it wasn't on the run. Or else on my own.
And what fun is that?"
Bored, she picked up the phone from the coffee
table and dialed Jordan's home number.
Harry was just walking in the door. He was wearing
gray shorts, a sweat-wet gray T-shirt,
and scuffed sneakers, and he was wheeling a
twelve-speed Nishiki mountain bike and carrying
a helmet. Squeeze got to the phone before he
did, but the snooze-button trick was the extent
of his technical abilities. He just barked
joyfully at it.
"Out of the way, dog. This is man stuff."
Harry hurled himself into the chair and grabbed the
receiver.
"Yeah, Jordan here," he said, still panting.
"And Mallory Malone here, Detective
Jordan."
"Mallory Malone?" He was astonished.
She was the last person he expected to hear from.
"I hope the panting doesn't mean I've
caught you doing something you shouldn't," she added
spikily.
Harry's eyebrows shot up. "Ms.
Malone, I hope you will never catch me doing
something I shouldn't. But then again, we may
have different views on what I should and should not do."
"I'm sure you're right." Her voice was
crisp, even tart.
He grinned, enjoying her. "Thanks for calling
me back. Just out of interest, how did you get my
home number?"
"Never underestimate the power of a good research
team."
"In other words, it's not what you know, it's who
you know."
"Possibly. Meanwhile, why don't you
tell me about your problem?"
"More specifically, three problems, Ms.
Malone. Three murders, all young college
women in New England. The pattern is the
same. They were abducted in a parking lot or
quiet street at night and driven to a lonely
place. Their hair was cut off. They were raped,
then their wrists were slit, neatly and cleanly, as
though with a surgical knife. They were left to die
in pools of their own blood. The first in a
derelict country farmhouse; the second, at a
deserted boathouse on the river; and this last one
on a remote beach. In the first two cases the
women had been reported missing but their bodies
were found only by chance several weeks later.
"The latest victim, Summer Young, had been
studying late at the college library. She
walked to the parking lot to pick up her car. She
was abducted and driven to a lonely beach. But the
beach wasn't as lonely as the murderer expected.
"The attacker took off, but a pair of
fishermen caught a brief glimpse of his face
in the beam of their flashlight. From their quick
impression of him, we managed to put together a
photo-fit."
She said, surprised, "You have a picture of
him?"
"That's right, ma'am."
"It's Ms. Malone," she retorted, and he
could hear the irritation in her voice. "I hate
that word ma'am," she added. "It makes me
feel about a hundred years old."
He said teasingly, "No one would ever believe
you were a day over thirty-five, Ms. Malone."
"Thanks a lot, detective." Her voice
was edged with ice. "I assume your own looks are
standing up to the pressure of time and the pull of
gravity. Meanwhile, let's get back
to Summer Young. I've been in London
for the past week. I didn't realize you had a
photo-fit. I want to see it and talk more about
the case. I'll need to know all the facts you have.
No holding back."
"Then you're interested in helping us?" Harry
wasn't joking around anymore.
"I'm interested in helping innocent victims
and preventing more killings, detective. Not in
helping the police do their job."
Harry took that on the chin. "Yes, ma'am.
Ms. Malone. Since our objectives are
the same, I'm sure we can work together.
Amicably."
"Are you free tomorrow evening?"
"I can be. Just tell me the time and the place,
and I'll be there."
"I'll come to Boston," she said, surprising
him.
"There's no need for that. I'll come to you."
He might not have spoken for all the interest she
displayed. "I'll take the seven o'clock shuttle
from La Guardia. Is there a restaurant where
we could meet?"
"Sure. Around the corner from the precinct
house. Ruby's, on Miller."
"I'll be there at eight thirty,
detective."
"I'll look forward to meeting you, Ms.
Malone."
The phone clicked and the line went dead. "Like
hell I will," Harry muttered, running his hands
through his thick dark hair.
Squeeze cocked his head to one side, tongue
lolling, eyes alert. "They were right,
Squeeze." He ruffled his silver fur
affectionately. "Ms. Malone ma'am is a
toughie."



Rain bounced from the slick sidewalk as
Harry hurried around the corner to Ruby's. It
plastered his dark hair against his skull, dripping
inside the collar of his old black leather bomber
jacket.
The dog trotted at his heels, shooting wary
glances at the flashing sky, skittering nervously
at the quick rumble of thunder. Harry hoped
Mallory Malone would make it through the
thunderstorms that had plagued the area all
day, but he wouldn't blame her if she canceled.
It was a bitch of a night.
The bell on Ruby's glass-paneled door
jangled as he pushed inside. The small caf`e
was jammed, every booth and Formica-topped table
taken. There were a couple of cops and some regular
locals he recognized, plus a few strays.
The plate-glass windows above the red-checkered
curtains were steamed, shutting out the miserable night;
and the smell of hot coffee and fried food and
chicken gravy hovered permanently over the
room, like smog over L.a. A couple of
matronly waitresses in red and white aprons
and wilting caps maneuvered laden trays
skillfully between the scarred red vinyl
banquettes, and blue cigarette smoke
wreathed to the nicotine-yellow ceiling.
Squeeze shook himself, scattering a
waterfall of raindrops over Harry's fraying
Levi's, then sat on his haunches, sniffing the
air eagerly.
Grabbing a paper napkin, Harry mopped the
water from his face and the inside of his collar, then
tried to catch the waitress's eye.
"Hey, Doris," he called as she hurried
back behind the counter. "How long for a booth?"
She shrugged. "Ten, fifteen maybe."
He grabbed her arm. "I need a guarantee
on that, sweetheart." He smiled at her. She
was plump and fiftyish and harassed, and he had
known her since she was plump and forty and had time
to flirt. Time had taken its toll, but they were still
good friends.
"You bringing a hot date to Ruby's tonight,
cheapskate?" she asked, raising a painted
eyebrow.
"It's business, Doris. Just business. But
it's a woman and I don't want to keep her
waiting."
She grinned. "I always did like a guy with
manners. I'll make sure you have the booth in the
far corner, even if I have to kick those guys
outta there." She sniffed, glancing at the wet
dog. "Smells like a farmyard in here," she added
as she walked away.
She returned a couple of minutes later
carrying a dish of meat. Squeeze did an
eager little dance on his hind legs.
"Every dog deserves steak once in a while,"
she said, setting the dish down in the
corner. "Even a smelly hound like you."
"You spoil him, Doris. Besides, he just had
his dinner. He's going to get fat."
"Yeah. I always liked fat men and fat
dogs. And that leaves you out, detective. All
muscle and no squeeze." Laughing at her own
joke, she shouldered her tray and marched
determinedly toward the corner booth.
"Hey, you guys," Harry heard her say
loudly, "you gonna sit here all night or
what? There's paying customers waiting for this
table."
He laughed, and then his cellular phone
beeped. Turning away from the noisy room, he
pressed it to his ear. "Jordan."
"Detective, where the hell is this
Ruby's?" Mallory Malone sounded irate.
"The limo driver has never heard of it."
He grinned. "Everybody who's anybody in
Boston knows exactly where Ruby's is, Ms.
Malone. Put him on the phone, I'll give
him directions."
She did not laugh or even say good-bye, or
see you in a little while, or anything remotely
sociable. Instead the driver came on the line and
Harry gave him the directions. By the time he'd
finished, Doris had the guys in the booth counting
out their money while she stood, arms folded,
watching them. Two minutes later they were shouldering
past him to the door and Doris was clearing the table.
Harry hated to think of what might have happened
if he had kept Ms. "Star" Malone waiting.
He edged into the booth, his back to the wall so he
could see her come in. Squeeze slid under the
table out of the way--and his big head sank onto his
paws as he prepared for a snooze.
Harry went over what he knew about
Mallory Malone. Surprisingly, for such a
public personality, it wasn't much. Just that she
was originally from Oregon and had attended
Washington State University where she had
majored in journalism. After a few jobs in
small-town radio and TV, she had become a
weather girl on a Seattle station. From there she
had been picked up by a network and groomed as a
newscaster; then she became a morning
anchorwoman, and now she had her own successful
show.
There had been one marriage, to a rich Wall
Street broker. But that hadn't lasted
long. Her hours were different from his and he said she
was consumed by her work.
"Mallory has dedicated her life
to TV," he had told the press bitterly.
"I hope it keeps her warm in bed at night."
There were no children.
As he watched, the door swung open and
Mallory Malone stepped inside. She glanced
around, her eyebrows raised, as though she were
wondering if she could possibly be in the right
place.
Harry slid quickly from the booth and loped toward
her. "Ms. Malone."
Her head swung around and their eyes met. He
hadn't realized from TV that hers were such a deep
blue, nor that her lashes were so long. When she
lowered them and looked down at his outstretched hand,
she looked unexpectedly shy. She was smartly
dressed in a gray cashmere sweater and skirt
with a red jacket, and her golden hair was beaded with
glittering raindrops. She looked as out of
place in Ruby's as a tropical flower in
Alaska. And she had cold hands.
As she shook Harry's hand, Mal thought
uncomfortably that she was overdressed in her
cashmere, while Jordan looked scruffily at
home in his faded jeans and the beat-up jacket.
He was younger than she had expected and, damn it,
he was attractive. His rain-wet dark hair was
plastered to his narrow skull, his gray eyes were
penetrating as they looked into hers, and his firm
mouth looked sexy. He had at least a day-old
black stubble and looked way too sure of himself.
Disconcerted, she removed her hand.
"Detective Jordan," she said coldly.
"It took my driver half an hour to find this
place."
"I'm sorry, though it's really not that hard."
Antagonism crackled between them. She glanced
disparagingly at the counter with its mirrored display
of pies and chocolate cake; at the steamy little
kitchen and the cracked red vinyl banquettes and the
waitresses slinging hash and fried eggs and
burgers and cholesterol.
She raised a superior eyebrow.
"Slumming, Detective Jordan?"
Harry gritted his teeth. What the hell did
she expect, Le Cirque? "I'm sorry
it's not up to your standards, ma'am. But it is
close to the precinct house, and I am
on duty." He shrugged, "Besides, cops can't be
choosers, with what they earn. All the guys eat
here."
Her blue eyes narrowed. "Most cops,
Jordan. But not rich cops."
Harry knew he was in trouble. She hated
Ruby's, she hated cops, and she hated rich
cops even more. He wondered how she knew--then
he guessed it was the same way she had known his
unlisted home number. She made it her
business to know exactly who she was interviewing,
whether it was on TV or not.
Heads turned in recognition as he led her
to the table at the back, but she seemed unaware that
there were other people in the place. As she slid into the
booth opposite him, her foot encountered the soft
bulk of the dog. Startled, she peeked underneath,
then a sudden smile lit up her face.
Harry stared at her, dazzled. It was as though
somebody had switched her on.
"Say hello to the lady, Squeeze," he
instructed, and the dog, true to his name, squeezed
out from between their knees. He sat next
to Mallory, then raised his right paw politely.
"Oh, cute." She threw Harry a
for-God's-sake glance. But she took the paw and
patted the dog, murmuring sweet nothings to it.
"Back, Squeeze," he commanded, and the dog
slunk obediently under the table again. He rested his
head on Harry's shabby suede Paraboots,
waiting for him to make his next move.
Her eyes met Harry's across the
cigarette-scarred Formica table. "Isn't
Squeeze an odd name for a dog? Shouldn't he be
called Rover or Fido or something?"
"He's called Squeeze because he can
squeeze out of any place. As he proved when
he was just a pup. You name it, he squeezed out of
it. Under the backyard fence, out of a car window, out
of my bedroom at night. I thought about calling
him Houdini, but then I thought, nah, too
fancy. Squeeze is better."
She nodded, agreeing with him, and her
chrysanthemum crop of blond hair, sequined with
raindrops, fluttered like petals across her
smooth brow.
Harry dragged his eyes from her and passed her a
grease-spotted plastic menu. "What'll you have?
I can recommend the ham steak and home fries."
She threw a quick glance at the heaping
plates being passed over the counter. "A beer will
do just fine."
Beer did not seem her style; he would have thought
she would go for coffee--black no sugar--but he
guessed shrewdly that she knew when to play at
being one of the guys.
He signaled Doris and ordered two beers.
Doris's jaw dropped when she saw his
companion. "Two beers?" she demanded,
astonished. "Ya should be buyin' this lady
champagne. Cheapskate."
Mal laughed as Doris winked at her. "Us
women gotta stick together," Doris said, heading
to the counter. She was back in a flash with the beers and
her order pad.
"Could ya just put your autograph on here,
Mal?" she asked, thrilled. "Otherwise my
kids are not gonna believe it when I tell
'em who was in Ruby's tonight. Aw hell," she
added resignedly, as Mal signed her name with
practiced ease, "they're not gonna believe
me, anyways. They'll think I just made it
up."
"But you and I will know you didn't." Mal
smiled up at her.
"Yeah. And that's what counts. Thanks,
Mal, I appreciate it. And while you're at
it, don't let this hunk give ya the runaround.
I always tell him he's all muscle and no
brains."
There was laughter lurking in Mal's blue
eyes as she took a sip of her Bud Light.
Then she slipped off her red jacket and looked
squarely at Harry.
"Okay, Jordan," she said, suddenly all
business, "you're on."
"I feel like I'm auditioning for the show," he
said uneasily.
"You may be. So get on with it."
He told her the facts about the murders and that
there had been no connection between the three young women
--they had not come from the same towns or even from the
same states. They had not known each other. They
had not lived near each other. They had not attended
the same colleges.
"These were not random killings," he said. "This
guy is precise. He's an organized
killer. He knew exactly what he was doing.
I think he knew where his victims lived and their
daily routine, what times their classes
were, and when they were likely to be alone."
Mal's eyes widened, and a little shiver ran
down her spine. "You mean he stalked them?"
"I believe he did."
"That's terrible," she said soberly. "A
maniac on the loose around all these college
kids. He can just take his pick. Don't you have
any line on him at all?"
"Forensics is working on scene-of-crime
evidence--fibers, hairs, semen. We'll have the
DNA in a couple of weeks, and I'm certain
it will link him to the two previous attacks. And the
students are aware of the danger now. They've been
warned not to wander around campus after dark. The
schools have escort services to walk young women
back to their dorms. It'll help for a while."
"You think he'll strike again?"
"I'm certain of it. The FBI'S
Behavioral Science Unit has a
psychological profile. They say we're
looking for a guy with a deep psychosis against
women. Cutting off their hair is symbolic--
he's divesting them of their femininity. Rape
proves his power over them, and the slitting of the
wrists probably brings him to a climax he can
never otherwise reach. For him, it's probably the
ultimate moment of power. The women are
helpless, they feel pain--they are dying while he
lives."
Her horrified eyes met his. "Oh, my
God."
He nodded grimly. "So now you see why we
have to catch him before he strikes again. From his
pattern I'd guess he'll take his time--perhaps
a couple of months. He'll survey the scene,
pick out his victim, trail her, maybe even
break into her house, get the feel of her, the
scent of her. Like an animal stalking its prey.
He's methodical. That's why he's been so
successful."
"Why do men do these things?"
Harry shrugged. "Studies show that all
murderers of this type come from dysfunctional
homes--drug abuse, alcohol, criminal
activities, you name it. There's often mental
illness in the family, and they probably suffered
serious emotional and physical abuse in
childhood. Usually the mothers dominated them,
demeaned them, systematically emasculated them.
In turn, they become sexually
dysfunctional adults, unable to sustain a
mature, consensual relationship with another
adult."
"You think this is what happened to our killer?"
"I wish I knew." Harry ran his hands
wearily through his still-wet hair. It stuck up
spikily, and Mal thought interestedly that he
looked as though he'd just stepped out of the shower.
"The public always thinks a murderer looks like
a monster," he said. "But the fact is, mostly
he looks like any guy on the street. The
FBI profile says our killer probably
lives a "normal" life. Meaning he is a
man with a deep psychosis able to put up a
facade of normality. He lives alone, in a
house rather than an apartment because he needs privacy
for his comings and goings. He's of neat appearance and
orderly in his daily life. He holds down a
decent job, white collar rather than blue. He
might even be from a higher social level. He
carries out his job well, has no friends, and is
obsessively tidy."
"So we're not looking for a freak or a
down-and-out vagrant roaming the streets. We're
looking for a regular guy, a man his neighbors
and co-workers think quite normal. No different from you
or any other man in Boston."
"A needle in a haystack," he agreed.
"It's lucky you managed to get the
photo-fit."
Harry slipped the picture from the manila
envelope. "One other thing. The last victim,
Summer Young. Before she died, she managed
to tell us two details. That he had dark staring
eyes. And smooth hands."
"So he's definitely not a manual worker."
"It's unlikely."
"Did she say anything else?"
"Yeah. She called him a bastard. Those were
her dying words."
Shaken, Mal looked away from him. She
took a sip of the beer.
She studied the picture for a long minute, and
Harry studied her. He liked the way her
eyelashes curled, sweetly, at the tips.
"This is taken from the description of the two
fishermen?" she asked at long last.
"Yes. They caught him in their flashlight for a
second before he took off. But a police artist
enhanced the eyes to match Summer's
memory of him."
Mal's voice was colder than the beer.
"I'm afraid it's not much to go on,
Detective Jordan. It's not accurate. And
it's certainly not enough to base a national TV
program on. I'm sorry, but I can't help
you."
Picking up her jacket and purse, she slid
out of the banquette.
Harry stared at her, stunned. One minute she
had been ready to get out there on TV and save
other young women from a terrible fate. The next she
had slammed the door in his face.
"Wait just a minute." His voice was harsh.
Under the table Squeeze raised his head and growled
softly.
Harry leaped to his feet. She turned
away, but he grabbed her shoulder. "What
happened?"
"What do you mean?" He let go of her and she
thrust her arms hurriedly into her jacket,
avoiding his eyes.
"One minute you're hot for the story. The next
you're not. I'd like to know why."
She shrugged. "I let you tell your story,
detective. I listened. I made a decision.
That's the way I do things. Rejection is not
sweet, Harry Jordan, I understand that."
She picked up her purse, still avoiding his
eyes. "Nothing personal, of course." Then she
strode past the cracked red vinyl booths, out of the
diner, and into the waiting limo.



Mal stared determinedly out the rain-streaked
windows at the passing scenery, willing herself not
to think about it. On the flight back to La
Guardia, she read four long articles in the
latest Vanity Fair, though if you had asked
her later, she would have been unable to tell you a thing
about them.
The sight of her own front door had never
been so welcome. She closed it behind her and
leaned against it, her heart thudding as though she had just
run five blocks.
Her housekeeper had left the lamps lit and
she glanced gratefully around her peaceful home.
Kicking off her shoes, she padded through the
hallway to her bedroom.
The crisp cotton sheets were already turned
down and the enormous French antique bed was puffy
with pillows and covered with a soft cashmere throw.
She could hardly wait to crawl into it.
She unhooked her gray skirt and stepped out
of it, then tugged the sweater over her head and
flung it onto the pale-carpeted floor. Her
pantyhose and underwear followed in a little trail
as she walked to the rose-marble bathroom.
She found a match and lit the lilac-scented
candles amid the ferns and greenery surrounding the
tub, then turned on the faucets. Leaning on the
cool marble sink, she peered at herself in the
mirror. She was shocked to find she looked so
normal. She still looked like Mallory Malone,
star investigative reporter with her own
successful prime-time show.
She climbed into the tub and lay back in the
soothing warmth of the water, her eyes closed,
waiting for the familiar scent of lilacs
to transport her back to a memory she still
treasured, to the one moment of perfect happiness
she could remember. But tonight the magic wasn't
working.
She climbed wearily from the tub and wrapped a
fluffy white towel around her. She looked in the
mirror again.
Her own eyes stared back at her, dark with
panic. She had forgotten to take off her
makeup. Quickly, she went through the familiar
nightly ritual: cleanser, toner,
moisturizer, a little cream under the eyes. She was
on automatic pilot.
She brushed her hair, then walked naked to the
enormous closet. Still chilled, she put on a
gray sweatshirt and a pair of white socks.
She turned and stared at herself in the full-length
mirror. It was as though the light had gone out
inside her. And she was Miss Nobody again.
Her head drooped as she trailed
desolately from the bedroom into the kitchen. She
put water in the kettle and waited, motionless, for
it to come to a boil. She fixed her favorite
wild berry tea, but this time she did not even think
about the lemon pound cake.
Carrying the mug carefully, she walked back
to the bedroom and placed it on the silver tray on
the night table, then climbed into bed. She sank
thankfully back into the comfort of the white pillows,
switched on the TV set, and pressed the
mute button.
Headline News flickered silently onto
the screen. She sipped the tea and swallowed two
Advil for her lurking headache, watching the world
events listlessly.
After a while she turned out the lights.
Shivering, she curled up in a fetal position,
waiting for sleep to come and blot out her
memories.
The comfortable bed seemed to be dragging her down,
the soft pillows were stifling her, she was
free-falling into a bottomless dark pit. ...
With a terrified cry she shot upright. She
flung off the covers and slid from the bed, shaking.
Her throat was dry and little tremors rippled through
her body. "Oh, God," she whispered, "oh,
God, no."
She had not had the nightmare for a long time--she
had thought it had finally gone, buried with all the
rest of the bad things in the secret place in her
mind, where she had banished it. But it was still there.
It was still there.
Quickly, she turned on the bedside lamp, then
the overhead lights, the bathroom lights and the
closet. She ran through all the rooms, switching
on every light, turning up every dimmer until the
apartment blazed like a department store window at
Christmas. She stared around, still trembling. There
was no place for a ghost to hide now. She was in
control again.
She went back to the bedroom and took a
suitcase from the closet. Hurriedly, she
began to fill it. Just simple things--workout
stuff, sweatshirts, sneakers.
When she had finished, she looked at the
bedside clock. It was two thirty. She would
fax the spa in Tucson and tell them to expect
her. That left three and a half hours to kill before
she could call the airlines for a reservation on the
earliest flight out. Three and a half hours before
she could run away from Harry Jordan--and from her
past.

At the same time, two thirty A.m.,
Harry was in the gym at the Moonlightin'
Club. He had played a lengthy game of
basketball and then worked out for forty-five
minutes. He gave one final heave on the
160-pound overhead lift of the Nautilus
machine, held it, then lowered it smoothly
back into place. Sweat trickled down his neck
into his tangled dark chest hair.
Watching him, Rossetti sighed. "I left
a soft bed and a warm woman to come here and find you,
Prof. What's with you? You have dinner with Mallory
Malone, and you don't take calls anymore?
You too good for us regular cops now, or what?"
Harry toweled off the sweat. "I had a lot
on my mind."
"Me too, remember? You were putting my
career on the line tonight with Ms. Malone. You
don't show up, you don't call--"
Harry strode past him, heading for the showers.
Rossetti followed.
Harry stripped, turned on the shower, and stood
under the spray, his head tilted back and his eyes
closed.
"What kind of excuse is that?" Rossetti
complained. "You've got a lot on your mind. And
I don't, is that it? I thought it was the two of
us--the two Musketeers--searching for a killer.
I guess it's the three Musketeers, now that
Malone's in charge."
Harry shook the water from his eyes and looked
at the irate detective. "Wrong," he said.
"Mallory Malone declined to help us."
Rossetti's long jaw dropped. "She
did?"
"She did." Harry stepped from the shower and
dried off. "She said there wasn't enough information
to build a TV program on. And that the
photo-fit wasn't accurate."
"And how the hell would she know?"
Harry shrugged. He pulled on a pair of
dark blue boxers and stepped into his Levi's.
"Maybe she's got second sight, I don't
know. All I know is, she was hot to help and then
she wasn't."
Rossetti glared suspiciously at him.
"You come on to her or what?"
Harry laughed as he tucked in his shirt.
"No, I did not make a pass at her. She
is Ms. Frosty Freeze personified. Most
of the time."
"What about the rest of the time?"
Harry buttoned his shirt, thinking about it. "The
rest of the time she was kind of sparky but nice," he
said finally.
"Nice?"
"Yeah, you know, a nice girl.
Woman," he corrected himself, though now that he
thought about it, there was something girlish under her
career-woman facade. Perhaps it was the
eyelashes. "She liked Squeeze."
Rossetti grinned. "The way to a guy's
heart--it works every time. "Love me, love my
dog.""
"It didn't quite get that far, Rossetti.
Meanwhile, she pissed me off so bad, I had
to come here and work it off. Otherwise I might have
ended up punching someone."
"Frustration, huh?"
Harry flung a weary arm across
Rossetti's elegantly tailored shoulders as
they walked back through the gym to the lobby. The
club was buzzing with people coming and going and the caf`e area
in the lobby was crowded. They grabbed some coffee,
said hellos and good-byes, and pushed through the heavy
swing doors. They stood on the steps sipping their
coffee, staring into the rainy night.
"You got it in one, Rossetti," Harry
said.

The windshield wipers blinked away the heavy
rain as he drove the Jag back through the quiet
city to Louisburg Square. It was three
A.m. and he was exhausted, but he knew he
wouldn't sleep.
Squeeze recognized the familiar sound of the
Jag's engine and the solid slam of its door.
He was waiting in the front hall, tail wagging,
eyes alert.
Harry slipped on the leash and stepped out again
into the rain.
"This is a quickie, old fella," he
muttered, head down, avoiding the puddles.
"Sorry about tonight, but I needed to be alone."
He grinned at himself--apologizing to the dog as
though to a neglected wife. "Aw, what the
hell, Squeeze, what I need is a drink.
And what you need is a bone." Hauling on the
leash, he dragged the reluctant dog back up
the street and in out of the rain.
He strode into the kitchen, fed the dog the bone,
and took a fresh bottle of Jim Beam from the
cupboard. Pouring himself a slug, he added ice,
then wandered into the sitting room and turned on the
lamps, dimming them to a faint glow. He put
Neil Young's Harvest Moon on the CD
player and settled back in his
favorite old leather chair that was as beat up as
his favorite old leather jacket.
Sipping the bourbon, he savored it slowly
on his tongue, then put his head back and let the
music fill his head. The track was "Unborn
Legend." It was a song that always reminded him of
his ex-wife, Jilly. But more than that, it
described the way he'd felt about her when he'd
met her. And even though he told himself it was
over, pass`e, gone, that what he'd thought it was
had really never been, the song still brought the ache
back to the bruise in his heart.
Squeeze dropped the bone onto the
magnificent eighteenth-century silk Bokhara
rug at Harry's feet, then settled down,
chewing contentedly. The rug had belonged to his
grandmother. "Ah, what the hell. It's only a
rug," Harry said resignedly. "It's meant
to be used. Before it became an antique,
probably half a dozen babies peed on it,
and maybe a few cats threw up on it as
well."
He switched his thoughts to Mal Malone. He
ran his meeting with her like a reel of film in his
head, from the beginning, when she had given him that first
challenging look. He re-ran her intelligent
interest in the case and her horror when he'd
told her what the killer had done. He re-ran
the image of her looking at the photo-fit.
There had been no flicker of expression as she
looked at the face of the killer. No distaste,
no horror--not even interest, for God's sake.
And that was what was wrong. Mallory Malone
had been interested at first, all right. He had
seen it. Then when she had looked at the picture
her face had become immobile. But her eyes,
as she handed it back to him, had not. There had been
a hint of something there. It wasn't recognition,
or even fear.
For a fleeting instant, Mallory Malone had
looked haunted.
He sipped the bourbon thoughtfully. He thought
Ms. Malone was hiding something and he wondered
what. Could it be the pattern of the killings? Or the
identity of the young victims? There was definitely
something. She had done a good job of disguising her
reaction--but then, she was an actress, or at
least a woman with a public face. He thought she
was everything he liked least: spiky, tough, a
hard-bitten career woman all the way.
Then he remembered the smile that had lit up
her face when she'd seen Squeeze. He
remembered the raindrops glittering like sequins in
her hair and the unexpected blueness of her eyes.
Perhaps he had got her wrong after all.
He heaved a weary sigh. "Ms. Malone is
a woman with secrets," he told the dog.
"She knows more than she's telling. And I intend
to find out exactly what that is."
Squeeze lifted his head and looked at him.
He wagged his tail and returned to the bone.
""Love me, love my dog,"" Harry
repeated, smiling. Glancing at his watch, he
decided to call her in the morning. Which was only a
couple of hours away by now.



The man drove the gunmetal-gray Volvo
carefully around the corner. He was late getting
home this evening. He didn't like that, but it couldn't
be helped. There had been a problem.
The treelined street was pleasant, with large
well-kept houses set back on
velvet-green lawns. Expensive
automobiles were parked in the driveways, and
gardeners toiled for seasonal perfection,
replacing dying spring bulbs with fresh early
summer flowers.
His home was at the very end opposite a
vacant lot, hidden from its neighbor by a thick
bushy screen of leylandia. Leylandia wasn't
as beautiful a shrub as he would have liked, but it
had the advantage of being dense and fast-growing, and
that had taken precedence over beauty. The rest of
his garden, though, was a showplace, his pride and
joy.
He swung the Volvo up the driveway and
pulled into the garage. He switched off the engine
and pressed the remote, waiting until the garage
door was fully closed before he got out of the car.
Taking a red box-file from the seat, he slammed
the door and locked it.
The locks on the back door of the house were
expensive and complicated. There were two of them: a
Chubb deadbolt and a Yale mortise lock.
He took out the keys, unlocked each one,
stepped inside, then turned and relocked them.
He pushed two enormous bolts into place, one
into the floor, the other into the wall.
As he walked through the tidy white-tiled
laundry room into the kitchen, he glanced sharply
around, his dark eyes taking in every detail. It was
exactly as he had left it.
He strode into the hall and examined the front
door, which had the same arrangement of locks and
bolts. They were firmly in place.
Satisfied with his security arrangements, he
went to the wood-paneled study and placed the
box-file on the desk. He walked away--
then, irritated, turned back and realigned the
pile of books waiting for his attention. He
straightened the pens in the pewter containers, putting
the red ones together, then the blue and then the black.
He couldn't work unless everything was neat and
precisely arranged. "Ship-shape," his father, a
navy man, used to call it.
At least "a navy man" was what he
grandiosely told people his father had been, and it was
partly the truth. But even as a young lieutenant,
his father's drinking had been a problem. There were
"incidents": barroom brawls, fights in
foreign ports, drunkenness on duty. He was
warned. Then he had gone too far--he'd beaten
up a woman, a prostitute in San Diego,
and almost killed her. His father had been
dishonorably discharged.
He was six years old at the time. His mother had
told him the sorry story later, though of course
she'd never let on to their neighbors. She kept
it a family secret. Meanwhile, her husband
staggered from job to job as a traveling salesman,
eternally on the road and eternally in the saloon.
It wasn't the only family secret.
The boy had been sleeping in his mother's bed
since he was out of diapers. He had always hated
it--she was a big woman with large floppy
breasts that she still offered to him to suckle every night,
even after he was weaned and no longer wanted her
milk. And then shamefully, she kept offering them
to him all the time he was growing up.
"Go on, do it," she would urge him, thrusting
her giant brown nipple into his reluctant
mouth. "Relieve me of the burden of all this
milk. It's all your fault anyway--you
caused me to swell up like this. And it's your
fault your father no longer wants me."
The musky female scent of her would envelop
him as he felt her fumbling under her
nightdress. She moaned and trembled.
"What are you doing," he'd demanded,
terrified, taking his mouth from her, but she simply
forced his head back again.
"Do it, just do it," she ordered. And when he
pulled away, she smacked him viciously across
the face. "Do as I say, or I'll have the
hide off you," she hissed, shuddering with excitement
when he obeyed. And then she had put her hands on
him too.
But he didn't want to think about that.
His bedroom was as immaculate as the rest of his
house: a plain beige carpet, a plain wooden
headboard, and glass-topped wooden night
tables. The bed was a single--the very idea of
sleeping next to someone nauseated him. This room
was his alone.
He removed his tweed jacket and hung it
neatly in the closet. He took off his gray
flannel pants and hung them up too. He
removed his shirt and his jockey shorts and tossed
them into the laundry basket. Then he took a
long shower.
Afterward, he dried off and inspected himself,
naked, in the mirror. He was short and stocky,
with big shoulders from early years of weight
training. Unlike the thick hair on his head, which
was toned to a blackish-brown at a downtown
Boston salon every month, his chest hair was
gray. And when he needed a shave, so was the stubble
on his chin. When he had first started graying at the
age of twenty-six, he had thought it looked quite
attractive. Distinguished was the word he had used
about himself. But he had soon been forced to the
conclusion that premature grayness meant
premature aging. He had been coloring it ever
since.
He looked nothing like the photo-fit. He
smiled at the irony of it. Except for the eyes,
of course--but then, he always wore contacts when
he was "hunting."
Picking up his heavy-rimmed glasses, he
put them on, then brushed his hair, parting it
precisely on the left. Naturally, when he
had pulled off the ski mask, his thick coarse
hair had stood on end, which was how it looked in the
photo-fit. Not smooth and sleek the way he
always wore it, glossy with just a touch of
old-fashioned pomade.
The rest of the picture had been meaningless
except for the broad strokes: the narrow
face, the heavy brows. But the mouth was all
wrong, and so was the jaw. He laughed out loud, just
thinking about it. And about how much cleverer he was than
the cops. They would never catch him--not in a
million years.
Hunting was the word he preferred to stalking, which
was what the police called it. He was a
huntsman seeking a worthy prey. It took
him a while because he was picky, and besides he
enjoyed the search. He knew exactly what he
was looking for. Then came the "chase," and the
perverse excitement in the fact that the woman was
unaware that he knew her almost as intimately as
she knew herself. And that was the time he struck. The
perfect moment.
He pulled on a pair of black cotton
sweatpants and a white polo shirt and sneakers,
then strolled back down the hall. He stopped
outside the locked door. He stared consideringly
at it for a long time, but he would not go in there tonight.
There was no need.
Back downstairs in the kitchen he opened the
refrigerator. He had already eaten dinner at a
small bistro in town, one of several he
enjoyed. They had come to know him because he was a
regular, and they never minded that he was always alone
rather than a couple, which would have meant more money in their
cash register. He always drank one glass of
red wine, always ordered mashed potatoes, and always
overtipped, guaranteeing himself good service on his
next visit.
He inspected the refrigerator's contents.
There was a large bottle of Smirnoff, a
couple of bottles of soda and three lemons.
And a small narrow steel knife in a plastic
case.
He took out the Smirnoff and poured himself a
tumblerful. He cut a slice of lemon and put
it in the vodka. Taking a sip, he walked
back into his study and sat down at the desk.
Taking a framed photograph from the top
drawer, he set it in front of him. The glass
was shattered, but it was still possible to see the
woman's face: fleshy, stern, unsmiling. He
lifted his glass in a toast.
He said, "To the mother. Who made all this
possible." Then he drank the vodka in one go.
Unclipping the fastener on the box-file, he
took out the papers. They were press reports on
the rape and killing of Summer Young.
He read each one avidly, spending a long time
on those that gave details of the discovery, smiling
again at the useless photo-fit.
Later, he took half a dozen Polaroids
from a locked drawer and spread them out on the
desk. Then he returned to the kitchen and
refilled his glass.
Back at the desk, he stared at the
photographs. They were all of young women. He
glanced quickly up at the mother's picture, feeling
her eyes on him. He reached up and slammed it
facedown onto the desk, cursing as a shard of
glass cut into his thumb. Sweeping the mother's
image into the drawer, he put his bloody thumb
into his mouth and sucked on it.
The Polaroids had been taken from the car and the
girls were unaware they were being photographed. In
some, they were walking toward him along the street; in
others, they were walking away.
He sat for a long time, picking them up,
studying the details of each one, comparing them.
Finally he took a red marker and made an X
on the girl of his choice.
He put the papers and the Polaroids back
into the drawer and locked it. Then he put the file
away, next to two others, in the wooden cabinet
in the corner. Along with the files of those who had
gone before.
Whistling, he got a pair of pruning shears from
the garage and walked out into his back garden. It
was as immaculate as the house: every plant was
neatly in its space, everything was weeded and cared
for. He bent over his roses, snipping a stem
here and there.
He was just like any other suburban man on a
fine early May evening. Except for the locked
room in his house. And the slight bulk of Summer
Young's underpants in his pocket. Every now and then
he stopped what he was doing and slid his hand in
there. Just to touch them, remembering. For the moment, it
was enough.



Malmar Productions' Madison Avenue
offices were awake and bustling with activity at
eight thirty the following Monday morning, when
Mal breezed in wearing black biker's shorts,
a black baseball cap and a white sweatshirt
with a Tucson logo on the front.
Beth Hardy was on the phone. She swung her
chair around and looked Mal up and down, her
eyebrows raised. "What happened to you? You
look radiant!"
Mal laughed. "Twelve hundred calories
a day. A four-mile walk at six every morning.
Abs, buns, and thighs workout at nine. Funky
aerobics at eleven. A little yoga stretching
at noon"--she paused and struck an athletic
pose--"and you too can look like this."
Beth sighed regretfully. She was petite and
rounded, with long dark hair and an ample bosom.
"Not even starvation and twelve-mile hikes would
change these boobs," she said gloomily. "The
hell with them. All I want is to look good in
clothes."
"Most women want to look good out of their
clothes."
"Yeah, well not this one. I'd settle for being
a Vogue waif."
Mal laughed. "Your husband would miss you if
you changed."
Beth rolled her expressive brown eyes.
"Husbands." Then she laughed too. "I guess
you get what God gives you, and you just have to make
the most of it."
"Meanwhile you look great. I love the
suit."
Beth was wearing a cream fitted jacket and
skirt that enhanced her curves. "Calvin.
Bloomie's sale last year. It's our
anniversary. Rob's taking me out on the town--
dinner, champagne, all that romantic stuff."
She laughed again, and Mal could see how happy
she was.
"How many years is it now?"
"Seven and counting. We got married right out of
college. I guess we're going for the
record."
"Lucky you," Mal said quietly, meaning it.
"I've called a staff meeting at nine,"
Beth said. "But I'll get my stuff together and
bring you up to date on Tuesday's program
first. Then if you have any problems with it, we can
hash them out at the meeting. As you know, the next
six weeks are set. We can go through them, and
research can update you on their progress."
"Okay." Mal turned and headed toward her
own office.
"Oh, by the way--Detective
Harry Jordan called. Several times. He
didn't seem to believe me when I told him
you'd gone away. I guess he didn't think
you're entitled to a vacation. I told him you'd be
back today. I also had Research find out his life
story--the report's on your computer."
Mal paused, her hand on her office door.
"Did he say what he wanted?"
"Yeah. Your home phone number." Beth
looked curiously at her. "So? Are you going
to tell me what happened at that meeting in
Boston?"
Mal shrugged and turned away. "A
wild-goose chase. That's all it was.
Detective Jordan didn't have his act
together."
Beth nodded speculatively. "Then this is a
personal matter? Just between you and the detective,
huh?"
Mal popped her head back around the door.
"Of course not," she said indignantly. "I have
absolutely nothing to say to the man."
Her office was large and light, with
floor-to-ceiling windows that gave a
bird's-eye view of the traffic surging down
Madison. The Italian steel and rosewood
desk was empty of papers, though that would change
when her staff arrived for the production meeting at
nine. Chairs were arranged around the oval
rosewood conference table at one end of the room, and
juice and coffee and a platter of low-fat
brownies waited on the steel console.
She sat at the desk, took off the
baseball cap and ran her fingers through her hair,
thinking about Harry Jordan. She had behaved
stupidly. He must have thought it odd, her walking
out on him like that. She poured herself a glass of
juice. Jordan had caught her off-guard, that
was all.
As the staff straggled in for the meeting, she
resolved to put the whole incident and Harry
Jordan out of her mind. After all, she would never
see him again.
Her day was a busy one. At the meeting she
went over the script for tomorrow's show, plotting out the
sequences and making several changes. She added a
followup to the previous week's program about the
billionaire, which had received sensational press.
They had new film of his grand country house and the
infamous Jacobean staircase, plus
paparazzi stills of the old boy jumping naked from
his yacht into the blue Mediterranean in the company
of three naked young women.
Mal grinned at Beth's comment on the stills:
"It's a good thing he has money, because the rest of
his attributes wouldn't get him anywhere."
After the meeting Mal changed into a pale gray
pantsuit for lunch with the network president at
The Four Seasons, where they discussed her
future plans. "If it's working for you, it's
surely working for us," he told her, thrilled with the
ratings, especially for last week's program.
From there she went to the studio for another
production meeting that took longer than she
expected, after which she went to the gym to work out for an
hour.
It was six o'clock by the time she returned, and
except for Beth the office was deserted.
Beth finished applying her lipstick and
perfume. She smoothed down her skirt, smiling
at Mal. "How do I look?"
"Great. In fact, you look lovely. Rob
is a lucky man."
"I tell him that every morning when he wakes
up."
"And does he tell you that every night before he
goes to sleep?"
"Among other things." She winked, laughing.
"Well, I'm out of here. Anything you need before
I go?"
Mal shook her head, but she looked wi/l.
Beth hesitated. "What are your plans?"
"I just got back. I guess I'll have an
early night, catch up on some sleep."
Their heads swung around in unison as the
telephone rang. Mal glared at it. "Go,"
she told Beth. "You're out of here, remember?"
"I never could resist a ringing phone. I mean,
it might be really important; vital; life
or death." She picked it up. "Malmar
Productions."
"Hi, Beth," Harry Jordan said.
Her eyebrows climbed into her hair, and she
mouthed "Harry Jordan" to Mal, who shook her
head.
"No," she mouthed back.
"An A for persistence, detective," Beth
said, smiling.
"Thanks for the grade, but what I'd really like
is to speak to Ms. Malone."
"H'm, well, she's--she's busy." She
looked at Mal, who was nodding encouragingly.
"I guess," she added, sounding doubtful.
Mal could hear his laugh booming over the phone.
"I'm glad she's back. Tell her I
missed her."
"He says he missed you," Beth said,
covering the mouthpiece with her hand.
Mal rolled her eyes and heaved a sigh.
"You might also tell her that I'm downstairs
in the lobby, and I'd surely like to see her."
Mal shook her head again. "Why not?" Beth
whispered, but Mal ran her finger across her
throat, frowning.
"Sorry, detective, she's just too tired.
First day back at work and all that."
"I'll wait," he said firmly as Beth
hung up.
She looked inquiringly at Mal. "So why
not? I mean, the guy's only doing his job.
What would it take just to give him the time of day,
let him explain his case? Anyhow, he has a
great voice. Sexy, I'd say."
Mal flung herself into the chair and propped her
feet on the desk. She glared at Beth.
"He's old, decrepit, and ugly. And you're
going to be late," she said firmly. "Go on--
don't keep your man waiting."
Beth sighed. She thought that, for a top TV
personality, Mal looked awfully lonely.
She swung round as the elevator pinged and a
man stepped out. Her eyes widened as she took
him in. He was tall and lean with dark hair and a
day-old stubble. He was wearing a funky black
leather jacket and beat-up Levi's that looked as
though he had slept in them, and there was an air of
confidence about him. He was very definitely
appealing.
"Detective Jordan," she guessed.
"Beth Hardy. Glad to meet you. At
last."
He held out his hand, and she shook it. "How
did you get in here?"
He smiled at her, and she stared back at
him, dazzled. "A detective's badge can
get you in almost anywhere, Ms. Hardy."
Mal's voice was icy. "I'm surprised you
didn't bring the dog along."
Harry gave her a cool look, noticing her
long legs, tanned from the Arizona
sun, the baseball cap, and the sneakers. She
looked pretty good--casual and un-made-up.
"Squeeze isn't too good about flying. And
I don't think New York City is his
style."
"And what makes you think it's your style,
detective?"
Beth glanced interestedly from one to the other.
"I'm gone," she murmured, picking up her
purse. "Nice meeting you, detective." Behind
his back, she raised her eyebrows and made an
approving face at Mal. "To die for," she
mouthed.
She was still laughing as she waited for the
elevator.
Mal didn't ask Harry to sit down, and he
leaned lazily against the wall, his hands in his
pockets, looking at her.
"You're just too pushy for a rich detective,"
she said frostily. "You should know when to take no for
an answer. Especially from a lady."
"I don't give up easily, Ms.
Malone," he said with a smile in his voice.
"Actually, I came to invite you out to dinner. A
personal invitation. Nothing to do with my work."
She threw him a skeptical glance. "My
blue eyes get to you, huh?"
"That--and you like my dog."
Mal laughed. "You mean you're offering me a
repeat at Ruby's?"
His eyes met hers--they were deep set and a
beautiful pewter-gray. She could see every little
dark fleck in them. She lowered her lashes,
cutting him off.
"I know a little French place in the
Village. I think it would suit Madame.
Please, won't you join me?"
Maybe it was the please that suddenly made her
say yes. Or his beautiful gray eyes. Or
maybe because she felt lonely and he made her
laugh. But she set a condition: "No business."
"I promise." He crossed his heart and
looked sincere, and she laughed as she agreed
to meet him at Bistro Arlette at eight
thirty.



Remembering Harry's old leather jacket,
Mal dressed down in simple black
pants and a sweater.
She knew she had made a mistake as soon
as she entered Arlette's. It was small and very
chic, with tall arched windows and spare decor and
interesting paintings on the walls. And Harry
Jordan had dressed up.
He was waiting for her at the small bar,
looking like a cross between Harrison Ford and
John Kennedy in what she could have sworn was an
Armani blazer, taupe linen pants, and a soft
white shirt. He was even wearing a tie.
"I'm glad you came," he said, looking as
though he meant it. "I was afraid you'd change
your mind."
"Obviously we're not on the same
wavelength," she said, irritated at being caught
on the wrong foot. "Had I known, I would have
dressed."
He sighed exaggeratedly. "I thought you would know
Arlette's. It's the new in place."
"Sure. Like Ruby's."
He smiled teasingly at her as they were
escorted to a table near the window. "Maybe
next time we'll get it right. Sartorially
speaking."
"Next time?" She took a seat and looked
questioningly at him. "Aren't we getting a little ahead
of ourselves?"
"I'm a great believer in advance planning."
Mal laughed, relenting. His eyes had a
mischievous twinkle in them, and a smile lurked
at the corner of his mouth.
Sitting opposite her, Harry thought she was the
most attractive woman he'd ever seen--even
though her nose had a definite bump in the
middle, and her deep blue eyes were too wide
set, and maybe her jaw was a little too round. But
her mouth was generous, full-lipped, and
vulnerable-looking, and she had a sort of a golden
glow about her. He liked her cool energy and the
intelligence in her eyes. And her sharpness. In
fact, he liked the whole package. Even her
ears, and he was particular about ears. Hers were
beautiful. Small and set flat against her
perfectly shaped head.
It was a pity she was being so cagy with him on the
photo-fit. Otherwise he might enjoy himself.
He called the waiter and ordered champagne
without consulting her. She raised her eyebrows in
surprise. "If you hate it, I'll
order something else," he said. "I just wanted you
to try this. It's a small label I discovered in
France, and it happens to be one of the best."
"What if I prefer a martini?"
"Then you'll have one."
"I see. You're a man who likes to take
charge."
He put his elbows on the table, rested his chin
on his fists. He leaned closer and looked into her
eyes. "Only when I feel certain it's what
the other person would like."
Mal matched him, propping her chin in her
hands. Their eyes locked. She noticed his had
darker rings around the pewter-gray. She thought he
was attractive. It was a pity he was so cocky.
Besides, she was sure he was still pursuing the
photo-fit. She wanted nothing to do with it.
Otherwise she might have fancied him.
She said challengingly, "So tell me,
detective, why did you really ask me out?"
"I thought this would be a good opportunity for us
to get to know each other."
She smiled a sly little Cheshire cat
smile. "Better watch out. I might know more about
you than you think. However, since you're such a
take-charge guy, why don't you just order for both
of us?"
His eyebrows rose in surprise. "That's very
trusting."
"Trust is not a word that exists in my
vocabulary."
He gave her a skeptical sideways
look, but she just smiled. He signaled the
waiter, gave him the order, then turned back
to her.
""Detective" is a bit formal for two
people sharing a culinary experience," he said. "And
besides, I'd hate anyone to think I was on
official business. Why don't you call me
Harry?"
The waiter poured the champagne, and she took
a sip. She looked approvingly at him. "You
certainly know your wines."
"Among other things," he agreed.
"Hmm, not exactly modest either,
detective."
"Not about things I'm sure of. And it's
Harry. Remember?"
She tilted her head, considering. "I'm not
sure I can get used to calling you
Harry. But then, I won't have to, since this will
be our one and only shared culinary experience,
as you so elegantly put it."
"I hate to think this might be our last meeting,
as well as our first, Ms. Malone."
""Ms. Malone"?"
He raised an eyebrow. "Would you prefer
"ma'am"?"
She laughed. "I didn't know teasing came in
the detective manifesto."
"It doesn't, but you haven't yet asked me
to call you Mallory. Ms. Malone, ma'am."
She raised her glass in a toast. "Here's
to you, Harald Peascott Jordan the Third.
Scion of a wealthy upper-class family of
eminent lawyers." Her blue eyes danced with
mocking laughter as she looked at him. "Son of
one of the greatest trial lawyers of his era. An
expert in courtroom interrogation, known for his
ability to find a legal loophole that would get
his client off. Even though he and everybody else
knew his client was guilty as hell. And for his
brilliance at effecting plea bargains for those he
couldn't expect to get away with it."
Harry groaned. "Let's not drag out all the
family secrets."
She smiled wickedly at him. "But you,
Harry the Third, skipped the family
tradition. You went to Michigan State and
became a football great. An academic
All-American with a straight-A average. A
star pick for the pro-football recruits that year
--an offer you didn't accept." Her eyes met
his curiously. "Why, Harry? What happened?"
He shrugged and sipped his wine. "You mean you
don't know?"
"Even I cannot know a man's inner thoughts, his
personal reasoning. But I can make an educated
guess. Your father?"
Harry nodded. "He was getting older. He was
already in his forties when he married. By the time I was
at college, he was in his sixties. He
wanted to be sure things continued exactly the
same way they always had, even after he was gone.
So he did what he knew how to do best: he
plea-bargained with me.
""I'm getting old, Harry," he said
to me, tugging at my heartstrings and my guilt.
"At my age, you never know how much time there is
left. And remember, we have your mother
to think of--the continuity of her life--after I'm
gone. I need to know the firm will be in your hands,
safe in the family and not taken over
by grave-robbers.""
Harry smiled. "He meant his partners. He
always thought they were waiting to step into his shoes, and
I guess he was right. Anyhow, he told me
to go to law school first. Then we'd see about the
football.
""Don't think I'm not proud of you,
son," he said to me. "What father wouldn't be
proud to see his son score that winning touchdown
against Notre Dame? Why, I cheered fit
to bust along with the rest. But facts are facts, and
I'm just not getting any younger. Face up to your
responsibilities, Harry. Think of your
mother.""
"So you were a good boy and went to Harvard Law
--and almost flunked out the first year. Probably in
an effort to get back at your father."
He said, astonished, "Has a man no
privacy, Malone?"
"Of course," she replied demurely. "But
not when it's a matter of public record. You
spent more time dating sophomores at Brown than
you did at law school. You cracked up your
Porsche twice, you frequented too many bars,
and your grades were non-existent. You were
suspended."
Harry threw his hands up in despair. "This
isn't exactly what a guy wants on a first
date--a rundown of all his youthful mistakes.
Are you deliberately trying to undermine me?"
There was more than just curiosity in her eyes now.
There was warmth and sympathy, just the way there was in
her TV interviews, when her subjects
suddenly got the feeling she really cared and
spilled their guts to her.
"It's all right, Harry. You can tell me,"
she said gently. "I promise it's just between you and
me."
He went along with her. "I wanted to go
back, but it was too late--I'd burned my
bridges. In the world of football, I was
yesterday's news. There was already a new crop,
younger, keener, fitter. Better than me. My
father said nobody was sorrier than he was, but
family came first and he was never a man to shirk
responsibility. And he didn't expect his
son to either."
Harry laughed as he told Mal exactly
what his father had said about zipping up his pants.
"So you went back to law school?"
"I knew he was right. Opportunity knocks
but once in the short sweet life of a
professional athlete. It's now or never. When
it comes, you grasp it, or suddenly a year or
two has gone by and you're already too old, passed
over in favor of the new crop. I graduated from
law school and went to work for my father."
The waiter arrived. Mal's eyes grew round
with pleasure as she looked at the plates of
salmon tartare served on top of tiny crisp
potato cakes. Harry thought she looked like a
little girl with a birthday cake.
"Taste it," he encouraged. "See if it's
as good as it looks."
"Mmm." She rolled her eyes happily,
her mouth full. "Better."
"I'm relieved to see you're human after
all. I was beginning to think the Mal Malone we
see on television was the real you."
"Perhaps she is." She wasn't about to explain
herself to Detective Harry Jordan. She
picked up on her theme again. "You lasted two
years working for your father. And then you quit and became
a cop. Why?"
Her bright blue eyes felt as though they were
drilling into the back of his head, seeking out the
truth from him. But behind the soft voice and appealing
manner, he was aware that her mind was clear and
razor-sharp; he guessed it was that combination that had
made her such a success.
"Since you know so much, I assume you already know
the reason."
After a pause she said, "What about your wife?
Did you love her?"
"Jesus, Malone." He glared at her,
shocked. "Of course I loved her. And if you
want to know, it hurt like hell when she left. And
why, may I ask, do you want to know?"
"Just checking that rich cops have feelings too."
"Like you, Malone?" he said coldly.
She grinned. "Touch`e, detective.
Tell me about the Moonlightin' Club."
He had to laugh. He said admiringly, "How
the hell did you find out about that? It's supposed
to be a secret." Harry had bought and donated the
gym anonymously--only a few of his
superiors knew about it.
"It's my job to know things about people. I know
you're in the process of fitting out a second
gym in another area, this time with a swimming pool.
And that you and some of the other cops give generously of
your free time to help out." She looked seriously
at him. "You did a wonderful thing, Harry. A
lot of men wouldn't have considered spending that kind of
money to help street kids."
He shrugged. "Other men don't see them on
the streets every night the way I do. Somebody's
got to help and I figured since I didn't
earn the money, why not put some of it back where it
came from?"
"Very noble," she said, meaning it.
"Oh sure, Saint Harry. I feel as
though I'm on your show," he added, exasperated.
"I think it's time we talked about you." He
took her hand and turned it over, studying the
lines. "Or do I have to read your palm?"
Mal eyed him uneasily--she was good at
interviews, but not so good at giving answers.
"There's nothing to tell. Just the usual format--
small-town girl goes to college, gets job
in small-town TV station, becomes a weather
girl, and is taken up by a network." She
shrugged. "The rest is history."
"Hey, hey, hey." Harry held up his
hand. "Slow down a minute. What small
town? How about your family? Brothers and
sisters? Boyfriends? Your marriage--and I demand
equal time on this one. Come on, Malone, this is
no fair exchange."
Mal's eyes met his briefly. In that
second they had the same haunted look they'd
had in Ruby's when she'd given him back the
photo-fit picture.
"Forget it," she said. "That's all there is.
I'm the least interesting woman on the planet."
Suddenly she looked different--lost and
forlorn. Harry shook his head. He just didn't
get it.
Then she tilted her chin and gave him that
dazzling smile that lit up her face. "Just
joking, Harry. Just joking."
The waiter removed their plates and they sat
silently for a moment, looking at each other.
"So why the full psychological breakdown
on me?" he asked. "I'm not likely to be on
your show, though I can't figure out why. But I'm
warning you, I'm still working on it."
She ran her fingers up and down the stem of her
glass, then said softly, "Perhaps I was interested
in what made a man like you tick. What your
motives might really be for asking me to dinner."
"And what about your motives for accepting my
invitation?"
Tension crackled between them as their eyes locked.
"I just wondered what you were really like," she said,
looking innocent.
Harry ran his hand thoughtfully across the stubble that
was already darkening his jaw. "Am I to understand it was just
an abstract thought? Or are you thinking of getting
to know me better, Malone?"
She gave him that cool little smile again. "Just
joking, detective. I couldn't resist."
He sighed regretfully. "I was hoping it was
sexual harassment."
He watched, amazed, as she tucked into her
dinner. She looked as though she lived on fresh
air and rosy apples, not real food. He said,
"You eat as though you haven't had a square meal
in a long time."
"I haven't. I've been on twelve
hundred calories a day for the past week. And
when I was a kid, I never had good food.
Sometimes no food at all. I guess that's the
reason I enjoy it now."
Finally she had revealed something about herself--a
small chink in her protective armor. He
said, "You surprise me. I imagined you came
from the sort of nice home we all dream about.
You know, with Mom in the kitchen cooking up great
meals, Dad mowing the lawn or shooting baskets
with his sons, taking his family fishing. You making
cheerleader and homecoming queen, and all the guys
competing to take you to the prom."
"It's a nice image." She sat back in
her chair, her arms folded defensively over
her chest. "Unfortunately, we are not all
born with silver spoons in our mouths, like you,
Harry Jordan."
"True, but neither one is anything to be ashamed
of."
She gave a skeptical laugh. "And how would
you know? You probably didn't even know what the
wrong side of the tracks looked like until you
became a cop."
"Is that where you lived then? On the wrong side
of town?"
"I was discussing the matter in the
abstract. It's my job to know how the other half
lives."
"Mine too."
She glanced reflectively at him. "So
what does a guy like you usually do on his nights
off?"
"You know me through and through. Why don't you tell
me?"
"You hit the night life--those little
hole-in-the-wall salsa clubs you seem to like.
You're a hot dancer, you're a wine
connoisseur. You enjoy good food in charming little
restaurants like Arlette's, and women find you
attractive."
"We're back to that again."
She leveled that cool innocent look at him
one more time. "Funny how it keeps cropping up.
Look, Detective Harry, I hate to break
the spell between us, but I have to do the Cinderella
act. I'm taping a show first thing in the morning, and
I need to get some sleep."
"Pity. I thought I was just getting to know you."
"Is that what you thought?" She threw him a
mocking glance over her shoulder as she headed for the
ladies' room.
He shook his head, watching her weave
gracefully through the tables. It was not what he
thought. In fact he thought he didn't know much more
about her now than he had when he came in here.
"You don't have to take me home," she said
later, outside the restaurant, waiting for a
cab.
"I always see a woman to her front door."
"Things have changed since your mother's day,
detective. Women are independent now. They
take cabs all by themselves."
He threw her an irritated glance. "You can
say what you like, I was brought up to have good
manners."
"Oh? A mama's boy?"
"Like the killer. Remember?"
"You promised no business," she reminded him
soberly.
"I'm a man who keeps his promises."
The cab arrived. He held the door for her,
then climbed in next to her. She didn't
protest. She gave the driver the address, then
sat quietly looking out the window. She wondered
what it would be like, to be loved by a man like Harry
Jordan. A man with old-fashioned
good manners, a man who kept his promises.
A man whose hard thigh she was much too aware of
next to hers.
Harry could smell her perfume, soft and
grassy. His eyes followed the antique
moonstone pendant she wore to where it lay in between
the soft curves of her breasts. He cleared his
throat, breaking the silence. "Thank you for a
delightful evening, Ms. Malone."
She gave him a long look. "It was a
pleasure, Detective Jordan."
"Back to formality again," he shook his head
sadly. "But then, you never did ask me to call
you Mallory."
"I didn't, did I." Her blue eyes were
guileless.
The cab pulled up at the curb and Harry
got out and held the door for her. "You'll have
to get used to my manners if we're ever going to do
this again," he said.
She gave him that skeptical look but made
no reply as they walked up the steps to her
building.
"No nightcap, I guess?" he said
regretfully. "You're taping that show early tomorrow."
"Right."
"So this is good night, then?"
"Good night, Detective Jordan."
Harry stood with his arms folded, watching her
walk into the foyer. She stopped, hesitated for a
moment, then turned and came back toward him.
"Tell me something, Harry. The time I
called you on the phone--Exactly why were you
panting?"
He ran a hand through his hair, smiling.
"Truth or dare?"
"Truth."
"Pity. I had all kinds of good answers for the
dare. The truth is, I had just been for a bike
ride. I take the dog along. It's a good
way to get us both some exercise."
Mal threw back her head, laughing. "I just
wondered. Good night again, Harry." She walked
back up the steps.
"You know what, Malone?" he called after her.
She turned. "What now?"
"If you could think of one word to describe me,
what would it be?"
She frowned. "What is this? A test?"
"Unh-unh, it's truth or dare.
Remember, you started it."
She thought for a minute. "Cocky," she said.
"Yes, cocky. That describes you
exactly."
"Okay. Now you're supposed to ask me."
She put her hands on her hips, looking
disbelievingly at him. "Okay, so I'm
asking."
"An enigma," Harry said. "That's exactly
what you are, Malone. An enigma."
Mal thought for a moment. "I take that as a
compliment, Harry," she said, walking back into the
lobby. "Good night, and this time I mean it."
She raised her hand in farewell, not looking
back.



Mal was at the studio at seven the next
morning. They weren't taping until ten, but she
always got there early, along with the production
crew, to make sure everything was exactly the way
she wanted it.
"Even though we've gone over it a hundred
times," Beth complained. "After three years,
Mal, surely you can trust us to get it right."
"I just need to be sure, that's all," Mal
insisted.
"Okay. It's no skin off my nose if you
want to get up early. How about a cup of
coffee and a doughnut?"
Mal looked scandalized. "Caffeine and
sugar? After last week I'm so pure, just the
sight of it might make me swoon." She eyed
Beth's cup longingly. "Well, perhaps just half
a cup." Beth grinned. "Of decaf," Mal
added guiltily.
"And just one bite?" Beth waved the jelly
doughnut under her nose.
Mal closed her eyes against the tempting
sight. "Get thee behind me, Satan," she said,
waving it away.
She scanned the script while she sipped the
coffee. Then she checked the activity in the
studio. Everything was on schedule, so she wandered
down to makeup.
"Here I am, ready for my other face," she
said to Helen Ross, who had worked with her ever
since that first nervous show three years ago.
Helen put her head to one side,
studying Mal's unmade-up features. "You
always say that, but you know, you don't look that much
different with the makeup. Just a little more defined for the
cameras, that's all."
"It makes me feel better, thinking I
look like someone else." Mal flopped into the
chair and regarded herself in the mirror. "It's the
other woman they see on their screens, not the real
me."
Helen shook her head, not understanding. She began
smoothing toner, then moisturizer onto Mal's
clear skin.
"Helen?"
She glanced inquiringly at Mal in the
mirror.
"Do you think I'm a control freak?"
Helen laughed. "I don't. But I know those
who do."
Mal scowled. "I suppose I am," she
admitted reluctantly. "But it's my show. And
if I didn't keep on top of it, it wouldn't
be number one."
"I guess so," Helen agreed mildly.
She finished the makeup in friendly silence, and
Mal reread the script while Helen
blow-dried her hair. But for once she couldn't
concentrate.
She wondered for the fourth, or was it the fifth time
that morning, what Harry Jordan was doing. She
imagined him riding his bike, pounding those strong
thighs she had felt next to hers last night, the
big silver-gray wolf-dog running
alongside. Or she saw him in Ruby's,
oblivious to the smoke and the racket as he
demolished a plate of eggs and home fries with
never a thought for his waistline. Not that he had
anything to worry about, she thought, remembering the
way he had looked in his Levi's.
But Harry had taken the day off yesterday to be
with her, so most likely he was back at work today.
She imagined him in the squad room, wearing his
old leather jacket, his hair attractively
rumpled, joking with the guys.
Then she told herself abruptly that she was being
ridiculous. She had no idea what his life was
like. All she really knew about him were the few
facts research had gleaned on his background.
She didn't know the real Harry Jordan. She
didn't know whether he had loved his father, even
though he had wrecked his football
career. She didn't know about his wife and how they
had met and how much he had cared about her. She
didn't know about his job, except that he was good
at it--a dedicated man who gave his time and
tenacity to solving homicides, like Summer
Young's.
She turned the page of the script, forcing herself
to concentrate. She had no business thinking about
Harry Jordan, she told herself. Anyhow, she
had a show to do. That was the most important thing.

At the end of the long day, she went to a Chinese
restaurant around the corner from the studio with the
production crew, where she drank jasmine tea
and laughed a lot as they discussed the show, letting
out the tension.
It was nine o'clock when she got home. As soon
as she opened the front door, the scent of
lilacs surrounded her.
She closed her eyes, thinking she must be
dreaming. When she opened them again, there was a big
crystal vase on the console in the hall, full
of fragrant white lilacs as well as a dozen
or so tight creamy roses and lilies. She
reached out and touched them, entranced.
The card lay on the table, but she knew they were
from Harry Jordan. With an apprehensive little
shiver, she wondered how he had known about
lilacs. Then she told herself he must have called
Beth and asked what her favorite flowers were.
There was also a small parcel. Kicking off her
shoes, Mal padded into the living room and flung
herself into the big chair. She smiled as she read his
note.
"Enigma," it said. "A person of puzzling
or contradictory character. Perplexing, mysterious.
From the Greek ainigma, from ainissesthai
--to speak in riddles. (Random House
Dictionary)"
"Very clever, Harry," she said, amused.
She looked at the parcel. The wrapping paper
had scarlet Santas and Happy Christmas in
gold, with a red bow stuck clumsily in the center.
She guessed it was all the wrapping he had on
hand. Still, she ripped it open as eagerly as a child
on Christmas morning.
It was a CD. The Enigma Variations
by Edward Elgar. Smiling, she went over to the
machine and put it on.
She sat cross-legged on the
floor, gazing into the flames as the romantic
music filled the room. The scent of lilacs
permeated the house and the logs crackled comfortingly in
the grate. Somehow, because of Harry Jordan, tonight
she felt less lonely.
It hadn't always been that way. Once upon a
time she had been Mary Mallory Malone, the
invisible girl at Golden Junior High.
And the loneliest girl in the world.

Mary Mallory had not been born in
Golden. She and her mother had gone there when she was
twelve, after her father had walked out on them. She
had never seen him again, but to this day she could
remember how he looked: tall and wiry, with a
tattoo of a mermaid on one sinewy arm and a
deep scar cutting across his left cheekbone. He
would flex the muscles in his arm so it looked as
though the mermaid's breasts were jiggling, then laugh
uproariously, glancing slyly at Mary
Mallory and her mother, knowing he was embarrassing
them.
He was a sailor, of sorts. He worked as a
stoker on the merchant ships that sailed from
Seattle to Asia, but all he ever saw of the vast
oceans he crossed regularly was in the brief
respites from the sweltering heat in the boiler
rooms, when he would go on deck for a smoke,
staring with narrow, wary brown eyes at the heaving
expanse of water. Then he would disappear quickly
below again, to his bunk to sleep or back
to shoveling coal into the giant furnaces.
It was different when he hit port. Mary
Mallory knew, because she'd heard him telling
her mother about it through the thin walls that separated their
bedrooms. Torturing her with graphic accounts
of his exploits would be a more accurate
description.
Mary Mallory would cover her ears and bury
her head under the covers, so as not to hear about the
women he'd bought in Macao and Taipei and
Honolulu. But her mother was forced to listen as he
told her exactly why she could not compare to his
roving sexual conquests.
"You know what they do," he would say in his
hoarse, menacing, cigarette-scarred voice.
"They grip you with their muscles. Yeah, these."
He thrust his hand into her cruelly, and she muffled
her terrified cries with the sheets, so as not to frighten
her young daughter in the next room.
"You're useless," he snarled at her as he
pounded futilely into her, blaming her for his own
inadequacies. "You're nothing, you hear me?
Nothing. Nothing but a crazy woman."
And then would come the sound of his hand striking her
soft flesh. Mary Mallory heard it and her
mother's high wail of pain, even though she stuck
her hands over her ears.
"Oh, God, oh, God, please don't
let him hurt her," she would pray, jolting
upright in bed. "Don't let him hit her. Stop
him, stop him."
Sometimes her prayer would be answered. She would
hear the bed squeak as her father swung himself to his
feet, and the rustling of his clothes and the clink of the
metal buckle on his belt as he fastened it; the
thump of his boots on the floor and the squeak of the
bedsprings as he sat down to put them on.
Then a long silence when she knew he was standing
there, looking at her mother. Mary Mallory
crossed her fingers; she crossed her arms and her
legs and squeezed her eyes tightly shut.
"Don't hit her again," she prayed. "Just
don't."
Sometimes he did, sometimes he didn't.
Afterward, she would hear the clump of his boots on the
stairs, and the front door would slam so hard, it
seemed to rock the flimsy little frame house on
its foundations.
Mary Mallory froze, straining her ears.
Only when the car's engine started up did she
sag with relief, sure they would not see him again that
night.
She stared at the wall, hearing her mother's
muffled sobs, sharing her despair, not knowing what
to do about it. She couldn't go to her. She couldn't
throw her arms around her and comfort her. Things were not like
that in their household.
No one ever spoke about their feelings and Mary
Mallory had come to the conclusion that you weren't
meant to have them. In fact, no one spoke much at
all in her house, except to say things like "pass
the salt."
Her mother seemed locked in her own private
misery. She drifted around the tiny house in a
faded pink cotton wrapper, like a woman in a
dream. She would sit at the kitchen table for hours
over a cup of coffee, staring vaguely in front
of her, smoking cigarette after cigarette.
Mary Mallory would leave her there in
the morning when she went off to school, and often she
would still be there in the afternoon, when she got back. Still
at the table, still with the coffee cup, still the
cigarette.
"Mom," she suggested tentatively, when her
father was away on one of his long voyages and things
were easier, "Why don't we go to the movies?
They say there's a good one playing at the
Rialto."
Her mother's dull eyes shifted onto her for a
second. Her brows lifted as though she were
surprised to see her there. "You go. There's money
in my purse."
So she went to the movies alone, losing herself in
the Technicolor glamour of the latest
Hollywood musical, drinking in the music and the
laughter and the wonderful dresses until she was
practically living life up there onscreen with
them. Only when the credits rolled and the lights
came up did she return to the awful reality of
being Mary Mallory Malone.
She saw everything that came to the Rialto,
sometimes twice or even three times, sneaking in the
side door on Saturday afternoons when she had no
money, which was almost always, living vicariously and
storing the images in her head so she could dream about
them later in bed. Until she was twelve years
old, she believed life really was like in the
movies. It was just her own life that was different.
Except she had a problem with the love
stories. She didn't believe people really looked
at each other like that, with their hearts in their eyes,
that they hugged and kissed and said I love you. She
knew her own parents did not love her and she
wondered if it was because she was ugly. She was a
mousy child, thin, with limp fair hair and myopic
blue eyes hidden behind ugly, thick-lensed
plastic glasses. In her whole life she could
not remember either of them ever putting their arms around
her, hugging her, kissing her. They never called
her by affectionate pet names, never made her
feel special.
When she was eleven, her father didn't come home
at the end of a voyage. A year passed, and
suddenly one morning Mary Mallory came
downstairs to find her mother sitting at the kitchen
table, smoking as usual. Only this time she was
clutching a letter. She held it nearsightedly to her
blue eyes, scanning it over and over, her brows
raised in perplexed surprise.
"Mary Mallory," she said in a strange
new voice, "it says here that we have defaulted
on our mortage payments. It says here"--she
put a trembling finger on the line--"that we have
ignored all their previous letters and that unless we
vacate the premises by Saturday morning, the
bailiffs will be sent to evict us."
She lifted her eyes and looked astonished at
her pale, bespectacled daughter standing by the
door. It was as if she had suddenly seen the
light at the end of the tunnel, the happy ending she
had always been searching for. Galvanized out of her
lethargy, she got briskly to her feet.
"You've got to help me," she said, glancing
wildly around the scabby little kitchen. "We need
to pack. Dishes and stuff, and clothes." She
thought for a minute. "You know what this means, don't
you?" Her usually dull eyes alive with
triumph. "We'll never have to see your father again."
It was sad that it had taken the repossession of
her home to free her mother from the tyranny of her
sadistic husband, but Mary Mallory didn't
think of that then. All she felt was relief. And
after that, worry.
"But what shall we live on, Mom?" she
asked, scared.
"I'll get a job," her mother said airily,
opening a drawer and flinging a battered collection
of dimestore cutlery into a plastic bag. "As
a clerk in the supermarket, or a waitress
maybe. Somethin', anyhow."
Mary Mallory didn't think so, but she
knew they couldn't stay where they were. So she found
a cardboard box and obediently filled it with their
cheap dishes, stacking them neatly.
She stopped and looked uncertainly at her
mother. She was humming tunelessly, and it occurred
to Mary Mallory that she had never seen her mother
excited before. She had just one question: "Mom, where shall
we go?"
Her mother paused, thinking about it. "You know what?
I've always wanted to live by the ocean." She
laughed, an alien sound that rippled through the sour
old house like the fresh sea breeze she was
dreaming about. "Yes, that's where we'll go," she
said exultantly. "To the seaside."
It was the only moment in her life that Mary
Mallory caught a glimpse of the pretty
girl her mother had once been. Before she married,
and before the black depression had claimed
her.
Her spirits rose to match her mother's. She could
almost believe that happiness lay ahead, there at the
seaside, where the rainbow ended. And she laughed
too, as she flung pots and pans into another
cardboard box with a great clanging of metal.
"We're off to the ocean!" she yelled,
delighted. Closing her eyes, she breathed
deeply as though she could already smell the salty
spray and feel the tug of the wind in her hair, as
though she could already taste their happy new life.
A couple of hours later, they had piled their
few remaining worldly goods into the ancient
turquoise Chevy with the chrome fins. Mary
Mallory's mother got behind the wheel and Mary
Mallory reminded her that they had better fill
up with gas since they were going on a long
journey.
At the gas station her mother counted out the money
carefully, then winked at her and went into the little
store and bought her a Coke and a Snickers bar.
"Lunch," she said cryptically, lighting a
cigarette from a fresh pack of Marlboros as
they drove off down the road.
It wasn't until they were passing the place that
Mary Mallory even remembered.
"Mom, what about school?" she asked,
suddenly brought back to sober reality.
"There'll be a new school," her mother said, not
bothering even to give it a glance.
"But shouldn't we tell them or something?"
"Unh-unh." She shook her head. "No
need. Believe me, they won't even notice
you're not there."
Mary Mallory looked back at the ugly
red-brick school she had attended for the past four
years. She had no friends there; even the teachers had
ignored her.
She knew she was different from the other children at
school. She had seen their parents when they came
to the meetings or the play at Christmastime. They
were nice, ordinary smiling people who laughed and
talked to each other and joked with their children and the
teachers. The sort of people who linked arms or held
hands as they walked across the schoolyard, leaning
affectionately into each other, their heads together as
they talked. Nobody ever talked at Mary
Mallory's house.
Her mother and father never came to the school, not
once the whole time she was there. And the
teachers never asked her about them. They just looked
knowingly at each other when they saw Mary
Mallory alone at a concert or on sports
day.
The other children didn't ignore her--they just never
seemed to notice her, that's all. Mary
Mallory was like the runt of the litter, kept
outside the pack to live or die as best she
could.
She knew her mother was right--no one would even
miss her. She hoped things would be different at
her new school at the seaside.
They drove through pleasant countryside, and
Mary Mallory gazed out at the black and white
cows, and at chickens clucking in the barnyards, and
once even a herd, or was it a flock, of pink
piglets trotting along on delicate little
hooves in wake of their enormous lumbering
mother-sow.
She ate the Snickers bar in tiny little
bites, making it last for a couple of hours, but
by the time they hit the coast road, darkness was
falling and she was starving.
"I'm hungry, Mom," she said. "What are
we going to do about dinner?"
Her mother glanced at the dashboard clock,
"Goodness, is it that time already?" she said,
surprised. She swung the wheel suddenly to the
left, and the car skidded across the highway in front
of a logging truck, into a gravel parking lot.
The sixteen-wheeler loaded with fresh-cut
logs screeched to a halt behind them. "Goddamn
women drivers!" the truck driver yelled,
wiping his sweating brow. "You don't learn
to signal, lady, you'll end up dead."
Mary Mallory bit her lip anxiously, but
her mother seemed not to have heard. "Sorry," Mary
Mallory mouthed to the driver, but he shook his
head and glared menacingly at them.
"Come on," her mother said, getting out of the car and
heading for the brightly lit caf`e.
She hurried after her. "Mom, don't you think
we'd better lock the car?"
"Lock it? But why?" She glanced back
helplessly. Mary Mallory took the keys and
ran back and locked the doors.
The truckstop caf`e was fluorescent-bright,
smoky, and crowded. It smelled of bacon and
burgers and coffee. Music boomed from the
jukebox in the corner, competing with the roar
of conversation and the sizzling and clattering coming from the
short-order kitchen.
Ignoring the other customers, her mother strode
to the head of the line. She turned to look at Mary
Mallory, who was hanging back nervously.
"A burger okay with you?" she called. Without
waiting for an answer, she ordered two burgers
and two root-beer floats.
She picked up her tray and, oblivious to the
scathing comments of the irate truckers, stalked to a
table near the window. Mary Mallory slunk after
her, head down, hoping no one would tell them off
for pushing into the line like that.
She sat silently opposite her mother, eating
her burger. She couldn't remember the last time
they had done this together, and her spirits rose. She
began to believe there really was a new life
awaiting them at the seaside. Her mother seemed so
different--strong and purposeful, as though in ridding
herself of her husband, she was leaving behind the terrible
past and that other sad, frightened woman. Mary
Mallory knew she would get a job. They would
have a proper home and friends, and they would be happy.
Back in the car, she fell asleep. She
didn't move until her mother nudged her and said,
"Wake up, Mary Mallory. I've found the
seaside."
They were high up on a cliff. In back of
them stood a forest of trees, so tall they seemed
to touch the clear night sky. And before them lay the
ocean, eerily dark except for the clear silver
path laid across it by the full moon.
Mary Mallory rolled down her window and
poked her head out, breathing the cold fresh air.
She stuck out her tongue, tasting the salt on the
wind. The ocean surged restlessly, murmuring,
groaning, hissing when it struck the rocks below, like
some gigantic prehistoric beast.
"It's the seaside all right, Mom," she said.
Her mother yawned. "I guess we may as
well spend the rest of the night here," she said,
sliding down in her seat and closing her eyes.
Mary Mallory glanced over her shoulder. The
back of the car was piled with boxes and plastic
bags and her mother's scattered clothes. There was no
room there for her to stretch out. She rolled up the
window and slid down in her seat like her mother,
shuffling until she arranged herself in a bearable
position.
She smelled the salty ocean in her
dreams that night, and when she awoke, the sun was
dappling the trembling ocean with flecks of gold.
And her mother was fast asleep with her head on Mary
Mallory's shoulder.
It was the closest she could remember ever having
been to her mother. She sat completely still, afraid
of losing the contact, feeling the warmth of her mother's
soft cheek against her arm. She watched the colors
of the sea change as clouds filled the sky,
turning the innocent blue-green to carbon gray.
A couple of squirrels scuttled past the car
as the first drops of rain splattered onto the
roof. The rain became a downpour, and the sea
turned into a raging, roaring ocean, hurling itself at
the cliff.
"Goodness, it's raining," her mother said, sitting
up and rubbing her eyes. "We'd better get
going, Mary Mallory. I need to make a pit
stop."
They bumped back down the slippery lane,
through the forest onto the highway. The wipers swished
uselessly back and forth in the deluge as her mother
pointed the turquoise Chevy south, peering over
the hood into the gloom.
The rain was still bouncing down as they pulled into a
gas station half an hour later. They emptied a
couple of plastic bags and tied them over their
hair to keep it dry, then ran to the restroom,
giggling like a pair of silly schoolgirls. They
washed their hands and faces but had no
toothbrushes, so they got a pack of spearmint
gum from the machine instead, and then they were on their
way again.
"Darn," her mother said as they turned onto the
highway. "I meant to get gas."
Mary Mallory checked the gauge--they still had
half a tank. She stared out of the window at the
cascading waves of water thrown up by the passing
logging trucks, barreling down the highway as though
they owned it.
"Mom, I'm hungry," she said an hour
later, over the pop music blasting on the
radio.
"You're hungry? Again?" Her mother threw her
a disbelieving glance as she lit another
cigarette. "Seems to me you're always hungry
these days." Then she grinned. "It must be the sea
air."
Mary Mallory, who had breathed nothing but
secondhand cigarette smoke for the past
hour, thought a breath of sea air wouldn't be a
bad thing. She rolled down her window, but all that
came in was a blast of icy wind and a torrent of
water.
"Close the darned window, Mary Mallory,
or I'll catch my death," her mother exclaimed,
shivering.
Mary Mallory rolled up the window again and
reached into the back for a fuzzy blue mohair
sweater. "Here," she said, offering it to her mother.
She didn't seem to notice, but she placed it
round her shoulders anyway.
They just kept on driving and driving through the
pouring rain--for hours, it seemed to her. Then the
engine began to cough and splutter. Her mother frowned
and shoved her foot harder on the gas pedal.
Mary Mallory looked at her, alarmed.
Her mother edged the big old car to the side of the
road as the engine gave a final cough, then died.
She stretched her arms over her head, easing the
ache of the long ride out of her spine. "Well,
I guess this is it," she yawned. "We're out
of gas. It's the end of the line, Mary
Mallory. Here we are, and here we stay."
Mary Mallory rolled down her window. She
poked her head out and read the sign immediately in
front of them.
It said, YOU ARE NOW ENTERING GOLDEN,
OREGON, POP. 906.



Harry had put in a long hard day, and it
wasn't over yet. He had other cases on his
workload besides Summer Young, and he had one more
visit to make--to the Mass General--before he could
go home, pour himself a bourbon, take a long
shower, put on some music, and think about
Mallory Malone's possible reaction to his
enigmatic note.
He had deliberately not put his name on the
card and he suddenly thought it would be pretty
funny if she had no idea who the flowers were from.
"Nah," he told himself with a reminiscent grin,
"of course she'll know. Malone is one smart
woman." He had been going to say "cookie" but
caught himself in time. Ms. Malone ma'am would
not appreciate being termed a "cookie."
He eased the Jag into a spot between a red Ford
Explorer and a gunmetal Volvo station
wagon, automatically noting their license
numbers as he did so. It was the cop's
built-in reaction from his days in the patrol car,
always with an eye open for stolen vehicles or
wanted criminals on the run. Storing the
numbers in his head, he walked across the lot to the
Emergency entrance.
A couple of hours ago, he had been called
to the scene of what at first had looked like a
hit-and-run but on closer investigation was more like a
gang killing. Except that the victim did not
seem too ready to expire. Without a body, a
homicide cop was out of a job, but Harry was
checking anyway, to make sure the situation
hadn't changed.
The waiting room smelled of disinfectant and
blood, and as usual it was fraught with tension. The
wounded and the sick waited their turns patiently.
Babies were screaming, distraught parents were
pacing, and silent relatives were waiting in
white-faced vigils to hear the news--bad or
good--about their loved ones.
"Evening, Suzie," he said to the young nurse
at the desk. "Keeping you busy tonight?"
"Don't they always?" Suzie Walker gave
him a special smile that told him she wouldn't
mind if he asked for her phone number, but she
had seen Harry a dozen times at the hospital
and he never had. "I guess you've come to see the
hit-and-run victim. He's been moved into a
ward--third floor on the left. And by the way,
Detective Rossetti beat you to it."
"Story of my life." Harry grinned, taking
the steps two at a time just to prove to himself he
wasn't really tired. Then he loped down the
hallway to where Rossetti was loitering, coffee
cup in hand.
"How's he doing?" Harry asked, heading for the
coffee machine.
Rossetti took a final bite of his tuna
on rye. "Pretty good," he mumbled, his mouth
full, "for a guy with two broken legs and a
fractured skull. He went right over the top
of the vehicle. Smacked his head good. Lucky for
him, he didn't break his neck. Unlucky for
us, because he claims he can't remember much about
it. Just the color of the van--white."
Harry walked back, carrying his coffee.
"No point in hanging around, then."
"Gaylord and Franz are in charge
now." Rossetti drained his cup and heaved a
sigh of weariness. "Tomorrow is another day, Prof.
I don't know about you, but I'm beat. I'm
gonna have an early night." He glanced
uncertainly at his watch. "Well, maybe ten
is a bit too early."
"Only if you're sleeping alone,
Rossetti. And if I'm to believe you, that never
happens."
Rossetti refilled his cup and they ambled
back down the corridor, sipping their coffee.
Harry said thoughtfully, "We're not having much
luck recently, vehiclewise. A black
truck or van in the Summer Young case, and a
white van in the hit-and-run. Think the fates
are against us, Rossetti? Or are we too
stupid to find the clues staring us in the face?"
"What clues?" Rossetti looked
gloomy. "All we know is that the butler
didn't do it."
"Oh, we've got plenty of clues,
Sherlock. Forensics says the fibers found in
Summer's car were cashmere. Black cashmere."
Rossetti gave a low amazed whistle.
"Seems our man has expensive taste in
sweaters. Maybe he knows a good discount outlet.
Or else he's got money. You got the guys
checking the stores?"
Harry nodded. "And checking the manufacturers
and importers. The crime lab says the fiber
is not the cheaper kind of cashmere. It's the
long-staple good stuff, from the belly of the best
goats, possibly Mongolian. The
manufacturer is probably European, most
likely Scottish. That'll narrow our search to the
more expensive stores and boutiques."
"What else?" Rossetti demanded.
"The hairs found on her clothing are
Caucasian. And they were dyed. Their true
color is gray."
"You think he was deliberately disguising himself?
Or he's just an older guy trying to look
younger?"
Harry shrugged. "All we know is that he's
older than we thought."
They waved to Suzie Walker as they passed the
desk, calling good night.
Rossetti looked admiringly back at her.
She was young and pretty, with fiery red hair and
wide green eyes. He'd been trying
to get a date with her for months.
"When're you gonna relent, Suzie, and go out
with me?" he called.
"When you grow up, Detective
Rossetti," she replied without lifting her
eyes from the notes she was reading.
Harry laughed. "Great technique,
Rossetti. Works every time, huh?"
"Win some, lose some, Prof. You just gotta
bet the numbers, that's all."
They pushed open the door and stood for a minute
on the steps looking out across the parking lot,
discussing the progress forensics was making.
"One more thing," Harry said. "They found
particles of nitrogen in the dust taken from the
Miata. Probably a fertilizer, the sort you
can buy at a garden store to use on your
roses."
Rossetti looked gloomy. "Are we
gonna have to check out every gardenersthandyman in
Boston?"
"Nope." Harry grinned. "In
Massachusetts. And the odds still are that he's an
ordinary family man who enjoys a bit of
gardening on weekends."
"When he's not enjoying killing, you mean."
Harry sighed. "You got it, Rossetti."
The man in the gunmetal Volvo wagon
watched them standing on the steps, through his binoculars.
He knew who they were. If he could lip-read,
he would have known what they were saying, the image was so
sharp. He'd bet a hundred they were talking about
him, though.
The idea pleased him, and so did the fact that
they had nothing on him. They didn't even know
what he looked like, and he had left them no
clues. Besides, they were still working on the past, while
he was already looking to the future.
He patted the Polaroid camera, waiting on
the seat next to him. It was like an old friend--it
always came through for him. He knew Suzie
Walker's shift finished in fifteen minutes and
he glanced anxiously at the two detectives,
still talking on the steps. If they didn't leave
soon, they would ruin his photo opportunity.
He breathed a sigh of relief when Harry
Jordan finally slapped his friend on the shoulder and
they yelled cheerful good nights.
Jordan was striding across the parking lot toward
him. The Volvo's windows were
black-tinted, but he wasn't taking any chances
on the sharp-eyed detective noticing him. He
slid down onto the floor and pulled the plaid
rug over himself.
He lay as still as his victims had, his breathing
quiet and even. He had no fear--he knew he
was cleverer than the police, he had already proven
that many times. The police didn't even know yet
exactly how many.
He heard the detective's footsteps, then
the sound of the Jag being unlocked. Suddenly there was
a ferocious barking--a dog was scrabbling at the
door of the Volvo. He held his breath
nervously.
"Squeeze, what the hell's gotten into you?"
Harry yelled angrily. He grabbed its
collar and hauled the dog away, running his hand
anxiously over the Volvo's paintwork.
Squeeze lunged forward against the wagon. He
stuck his nose in the slightly open window,
sniffing and growling.
Harry hesitated. It wasn't like Squeeze
to behave so aggressively. He peered into the
Volvo's window, but the tint was too dark to see
much. He noted that it was locked and wondered about the
alarm. He took a look at the license
plate--the tax sticker had been renewed
recently. There were no dents or scratches. It
looked like a perfectly normal well-kept
vehicle. It probably belonged to a family with
several children and a couple of dogs. That must be it.
The dogs would ride in the back where the window was
open. Squeeze had caught their scent and
didn't like it.
"You crazy mutt." Harry hauled him
back. "You could have cost me a new paint job."
Still growling, the dog jumped reluctantly
into the back of the Jag.
The door slammed; there was the sound of the engine
starting, then the squeal of tires as Jordan
drove away.
The man began to laugh, a great rumbling burst
of laughter as he thought of Detective Harry
Jordan's dog, who knew a killer when he
smelled one. He thought Squeeze was a whole
lot cleverer than his master.
It was almost time. He sat up, camera at the
ready. He was about to make Miss Suzie
Walker a star.

In the car on his way home, Harry
remembered he hadn't eaten anything since a
blueberry muffin at Ruby's at seven that
morning. He stopped off and picked up a
pepperoni pizza, eating a slice as he
drove. The dog was slobbering down his neck, dying
for some. He laughed.
"No chance, fella," he said. "I'll put
up with the bone on the antique carpet, but you're not
gonna slobber greasy pizza over my coach
hide."
When he got home, the red light was flashing
on the answering machine in the kitchen. He opened
a can of Alpo for the dog, took another bite of the
pizza, and pressed the play button.
There was just the faint sound of music in the
background. He cocked his head to one side,
smiling as he recognized the Elgar. Then her
voice came on.
"Thanks, Harry," she said softly.
He stared at the machine, waiting for more. But that
was it. He rewound the tape and played it back.
Then he threw back his head and laughed. Malone
knew when to be a woman of few but meaningful
words. And there was a definite purr in her voice
when she had said Harry.
Still smiling, he poured himself a shot of Jim
Beam, tossed in a few ice cubes, picked
up the box with the pizza, and walked into the living
room. He checked the VCR, then rewound the
tape.
Hurling himself into his old leather chair, he
switched it on. Mallory Malone's face was
right there in his living room. That same bright,
sunshiny smile that had been specially for him last
night now lit up the screen for millions of
viewers. Her eyes gleamed like wet sapphires
as she spoke movingly of the English
billionaire's brain-damaged wife, locked
silently away in an institution. And then she
showed stills of the old goat cavorting naked with
three young beauties.
"This man can forget," she said in her low gentle
voice. "But should we? Ask yourselves that question when you
lie sleepless in bed tonight, just the way I shall,
thinking about her. Ask yourself if there should not be some
justice in the world for abused women like her. Ask
yourself if this might not have been you."
She looked directly into the camera for a
second, then lowered her delicious
lashes, her eyes cloudy with unshed tears. In that
second she had taken the audience into her world, she
had involved them in the cause of the abused wife.
Harry thought she was either a great actress or
she really meant it. Then he remembered that
brief instant at dinner, when she had looked so
lost and forlorn. "The least interesting woman in the
world," she had called herself. At that moment, he
could have sworn she meant it.
Mallory was more than just an enigma: she was a
woman with secrets, and she was holding out on him.
Picking up the phone, he dialed her home
number.
"Hello?" she said in a sleepy voice.
He glanced guiltily at his watch. It was
eleven thirty. "Ms. Malone?" he said. He
heard her sigh.
"Call me Mallory."
"Mallory." He enjoyed saying her name.
"Yes, Harry?"
"I didn't realize it was so late. I'm
sorry," he said, smiling and not sorry at all.
"It's not late. I just went to bed early."
She shuffled upright against the pillows.
"I got your message."
"You did?"
He thought she sounded breathless. "It wasn't very
long."
"I thought it said it all." She was smiling,
enjoying him despite herself.
"Succinct," Harry said.
"That's me."
He could hear the smile in her voice. "What
does it feel like to be an enigma?"
"Oh, enigmatic, I guess." Then she
laughed. "The flowers were beautiful. How did you
know lilacs were my favorite?"
"I didn't, but I'm glad they are. I just
thought they suited you. Fresh and fragrant, like
spring."
"You're getting poetic, detective."
"It's Harry. Remember? Did you ever think
you might drive a man to poetry?"
"Or to music. I like the Elgar."
"It's romantic, over-the-top."
"And so, I suspect, are you, Harry
Jordan."
He grinned, imagining her lying in bed. "How
about giving me a chance to show you how romantic I
am? I could wangle a night off tomorrow."
She hesitated. He could almost hear her thinking
it over. "I'd like that, Harry. Only dinner's
on me this time. My place at eight?"
"Eight it is. Mallory," he added. "And
thank you for the invitation."
"I think I'm looking forward to it," she said
cautiously.
"Me too."
"Then I guess this is good night."
"I guess it is. After all, I'm in
Boston and you're in New York."
"Not much we can do about it, is there,
detective," she said, laughing. Then: "See you
tomorrow, Harry," and she hung up.
Harry was still smiling as he put down the phone.
He forgot that he was supposed to be finding out what
she knew about the man on the photo-fit. He
felt like a young guy taking out the prom queen.
He whistled for the dog, clipped on his leash, and
took him for a long walk. He wondered what
Mallory Malone wore to bed.
Mal lay back on the pillows, thinking
worriedly that she really should not have succumbed
to Harry Jordan's charm. He was a threat to her
--he could ruin her carefully constructed life.
But she couldn't resist him. And it was just this once.
She would have to be on her guard, that's all. Then
she turned on her stomach and buried her face in
the pillow. She was asleep within minutes.



Harry was happiest in comfortable well-worn
jeans, but for her he put on his one and only good
jacket and pants, a white linen shirt, and a
bright silk tie he'd picked up on sale
somewhere. As he tied it in the mirror, he thought
with a grin that this was twice he had dressed up for
Ms. Malone. He hoped she appreciated his
sacrifice.
He had taken a room at the Mark Hotel
on Madison and planned on catching the
early-morning shuttle back to Boston. He
felt like a kid playing hooky. As if to remind
himself that he was not here solely on pleasure, he
picked up the manila envelope containing the
photo-fit of the killer, folded it, and put it in
his pocket.
The concierge called from downstairs to say that his
flowers were waiting. He took one last
glance in the mirror, straightened the tie, ran his
hands through his too-neatly combed hair, and headed out.
The florist had done a terrific job,
filling an enormous wicker basket with parma
violets. Clutching it gingerly, he edged into a
taxi.
"You goin' to a funeral, bud?" the driver
asked sourly.
"I hope not," he said, "but flowers sure
smell better than this cab."
At the apartment building he gave the doorman
his name. "The penthouse floor, sir," the
doorman told him. "Ms. Malone is
expecting you."
In the elevator on the way up, Harry
checked his digital watch. He was right on time.
He smiled, anticipating what she would look
like, what she would say, being alone with her.
Carrying the enormous basket of violets,
he stepped from the elevator into a marble foyer.
There were expensive antique Venetian
mirrors on the walls, soft-hued French rugs
on the floor, and an attractive woman in a
red silk dress was smiling at him. It wasn't
Mallory.
He said uncertainly, "I think I'm in the
wrong place."
The woman had long black hair, laughing
dark eyes and a sexy smile. She looked him
slowly up and down, then shook her head. "Oh,
I do hope not." Then she laughed. "Who are you
looking for?"
"Mallory Malone."
She stepped closer to him, inspecting the
violets. He could smell her perfume over the
scent of the flowers, spicy and strong. "Then I'm
glad to say you are in the right place." She gave
him another sexy little smile, then led him to the
door.
"Mal," she called loudly over the babble of
conversation. "The delivery man is here. Come and
look at him."
Mal appeared in the doorway. She was wearing
a tight black lace sheath lined with gold satin.
The scalloped lace at the low neckline clung
to her breasts as though it belonged there, and the short
skirt and high-heeled black suede sandals
made her legs look impossibly long and
slender.
"Oh, it's you, Harry," she said,
putting her fingers to her mouth to hide her laughter
at the sight of him clutching his big basket of
flowers, and at Lara's introduction of him as the
delivery man.
The room was crowded with people, and waiters were busy
passing canap`es and drinks. Harry's eyes
met hers.
"You didn't mention a party," he said,
surprised.
She lifted one tanned slender shoulder in a
careless shrug. "We just heard the ratings for last
week's show were the highest yet. I decided
to throw a party to celebrate."
The woman in red watched them interestedly. "You
mean you're not the delivery man?"
Harry handed the basket to Mal. "These are for
you."
She buried her nose in them. "They're
heaven, gorgeous, like woods in springtime." She
smiled up at him, genuinely pleased. "And so
many of them, Harry, you must have plundered all the
florists in Manhattan. Thank you."
For some silly reason he melted when she
smiled at him like that. She looked as though he had
given her the world on a plate instead of a bunch of
violets. Still, he was disappointed about the party,
though he supposed he had no right to be. He had
no claims on Mallory Malone, and she had
none on him.
"Come on, Harry," the woman in red said
gaily, linking her arm in his. "You look like a
party animal to me, and personally I'll settle
for just the animal. I'm Lara Havers." He
could feel her warm body next to his as she
stepped closer. "And exactly who are you?" she
asked, half laughing.
"This is Homicide Detective Harry
Jordan of the Boston Police Department,"
Mal introduced him coolly.
"A cop? But how exciting. Tell me,
Harry"--Lara drew him into the buzzing room--
"are you here on business? Or purely
pleasure?"
Mal stood by the door holding the basket of
violets, watching them jealously. She felt that
sudden clutch at her heart that she used to feel as
a child when she had been the one not invited to the party,
or asked to sleep over, or chosen for the team.
For a minute she felt like Mary Mallory again,
the loner and the loneliest.
She shrugged it off. This was her party, her
home, her guests. It was her success that had
brought all these people together. What did she care if
Harry went off with Lara Havers, anyway?
He meant nothing to her--just a flirtation that's
all.
Then why had she woken up this morning with Harry
on her mind? Why had she hurried to inspect her
closet, filled to overflowing with beautiful
clothes, and decided she didn't have a thing to wear?
Why had she rushed out to Dean and Deluca and
picked up all those goodies to cook for him tonight?
She had even called the wine merchant and had him
locate the champagne Harry liked.
And why had she also dashed into Barney's, first
thing, and dithered like a teenager over whether to buy the
sexy black lace or the demure cream satin
shirt and black leather pants? She had been
determined not to be caught on the wrong foot--
sartorially--this time, so she had bought both.
And then she had told herself that she was crazy.
There were a dozen men she could go out with tonight. She
didn't need Harry Jordan or his serial
killer, and somehow she just knew he intended to bring
up that subject again.
She had been quite relieved when the ratings had
come in and the producer had suggested a party
to celebrate. "Let's have it at my place,"
she had cried enthusiastically. "You're all
invited, every one of you."
Beth had called the caterers, and she had
called her friends, and before she knew it, she was
stashing the Dean and Deluca goodies in the
refrigerator and changing into the little black lace,
and there was a party going on.
She watched Harry from across the room. He was
surrounded by attentive women, Beth and Lara
among them. Harry was telling them a story and they
were laughing and flirting with him. He looked as though
he was having a great time.
She walked to her bedroom and put the basket
of violets on the table under the window. She sank
into a chair, looking at them. They weren't just a
nice bunch of flowers--they were a sensitive and
thoughtful gift chosen specially for her. She
decided Harry really was sweet after all, under that
tough cop exterior. She got up, smoothed her
skirt, took a deep breath, and walked back
to her party.
It was eleven o'clock when people finally began
to leave and she still had not had a chance to say one word
to Harry. He had been the star of the evening,
entertaining her guests with stories of murder and
mayhem. He'd taught Lara and Beth and her
other friends how to dance to Gloria Estefan's
"Si Se@nor," and he had promised to show
them the perfect exercise for abs. He had
discussed basketball with the guys and talked about the
Moonlightin' Club and how well it was doing, and
that maybe they would build an ice-hockey rink
and get up a team. He was everybody's friend, and
she was the busy hostess.
Mal watched mockingly as every woman there
kissed Harry good-bye, and she laughed when Lara
whispered, "Isn't he the sexiest cop you ever
saw outside of TV? And so much more available,
darling. You won't mind if I call him, will you?
I mean, he said it was just a business thing between you
two."
"Go right ahead," Mal said airily. "There's
absolutely nothing between us."
Lara shook her head, amazed. "You must be out
of your mind, darling. But lucky me, then."
Mal said good night to the director and his
wife, and the producer, and then to Beth and Rob.
"Oh, wait just a minute," she said, running
into her bedroom. She came back seconds
later with a parcel. "Anniversary present," she
said, handing it over. "Sorry, I forgot. The
London trip erased all my memories."
As Mal waved good-bye, she was aware of
Harry's eyes on her. She turned and looked
at him. He was standing by the fireplace, his hands in
his pockets, leaning casually against the mantel.
His hair was rumpled, and his beard was growing in.
He looked like a man who wanted to take off his
jacket.
"What does a guy have to do to get some food
around here?" he asked with a grin.
She shrugged. "There was food. Good food, and
plenty of it."
"Tidbits," he said, still looking at her.
"Remember me? I'm the guy who was asked
to dinner."
"If you hadn't been so busy teaching my friends
to dance, you might have noticed the fine food from the
top caterers that most of the other people were eating."
"I only taught the women to dance. And dinner
doesn't count unless you sit at a table to eat
it. Preferably opposite the person
who invited you."
"What makes you think I invited you to dinner
anyway?" she said, amused. "I never mentioned the
word dinner. Or has your perfect cop's
memory let you down tonight?"
"Sure," he said casually. "The way yours
let you down over the photo-fit. Exactly
what was it about that picture, Malone? Did you
recognize him or what?"
She shrugged impatiently. "Don't be
silly. Of course I didn't recognize
him. Why should I?"
"Well, for one thing, it's your job
to recognize killers. You've met plenty of
criminals. I thought it might be someone you'd met
in passing. Or maybe it's your brother?"
"Are you out of your mind?"
"Okay, so it's not your brother. Then who the
hell is it, Malone?"
"How the hell do I know?"
They faced each other, glaring silently.
"Are we having a fight?" he asked her with a
grin.
"That only happens to people who know each other
well, and let me remind you, detective, that
we do not."
"I thought that was why you invited me tonight. So we
could get to know each other better."
She laughed. "If it weren't for the violets,
I might think you just wanted to ask me about the
killer."
"They were a small gift that I thought the
beautiful woman I was going to have dinner with would
like."
"You really think I'm beautiful?"
"Half of America thinks you're beautiful."
"And that means the other half doesn't." She
bit her lip, wishing she hadn't said that; she had
let her guard down in front of him.
He stared, astonished at her. "What does it
matter to you what they think? You know what you look
like. You're great at what you do, a big success.
Can you really be that insecure, Malone?"
She shrugged, avoiding his eyes. "I was just
joking."
He watched her puzzled. "No, you weren't,"
he said gently. "You want to tell me about it?"
"There's nothing to tell."
"Yes, there is." He cupped her chin in his
hand, forcing her to look at him. "You can
tell me, Mal," he said. "I promise I
can keep a secret."
"Oh, Harry," she said, laughing, "you sound just
like me."
"Sometimes you don't sound like you. And that's the
puzzle." He ran his fingers along the nape of
her neck, up through her soft hair.
Mal could feel the pads of his fingers against her
scalp and the warmth emanating from them. A tiny
frisson of pleasure ran down her spine, and
she leaned into him. He held her gently,
massaging her neck until she drooped with
sensual pleasure.
"Feel good?" he whispered.
"Mmmm. You're in the wrong career,
detective. Your true vocation is as a
masseur." She was melting and she knew it.
She tilted her face up to him. Their eyes
locked in a long deep look. His lips brushed
hers softly, and she sighed. Then she pulled her
wits together and stepped away from him.
She hitched up the bodice of her lace
dress, smoothed her hair. "I know that at
heart you're just an old-fashioned guy and not out
to take advantage of me," she said, throwing him
a flirtatious glance under her lashes, as she
headed for the kitchen.
Harry followed her. He took off his
jacket, then stood, arms folded, propped against
the kitchen door. "True," he said. "Only
thing is--and I don't know if anyone else has
ever told you this."
She looked expectantly at him.
"Your lips are as velvety as the violet
petals."
"Hmm. Is that so, detective?" She took
the bottle of champagne out of the refrigerator and
held it up. "Your favorite. I didn't
forget."
He nodded, impressed. "So you didn't."
He took the bottle from her, opened it without
spilling a drop, and poured the champagne into two
thin crystal glasses.
"Here's to a jolly evening, Detective
Harry," she said, back to her old mocking
self.
"You mean it's not over yet?"
She laughed. "I can't send you home
hungry. There's food in that refrigerator
too."
He pulled open the door and inspected the
contents. "Looks like you were planning a dinner
party."
"I was, until I chickened out."
He took out the boned quail. "You were going
to cook these? For me?"
"Yup. And the stuffed zucchini flowers. And the
couscous with scallions and spinach and lemon."
He raised his eyes to the heavens. "She can
cook too," he said in an awed voice.
"How about a sandwich? It's quicker. Mayo or
mustard?" She held up the jars.
"Both."
He watched as she fixed the sandwiches and put
them on bright blue and yellow plates.
"Matisse would have painted them just like that," he
said admiringly. "Still life of two turkey
sandwiches in Manhattan."
"Don't forget the bottle of champagne."
She snatched up the glasses and led the way
back into the living room. She put the champagne
on the coffee table, kicked off her sandals, then
sat on the rug in front of the fire and pushed the
CD button. Elgar's Enigma Variations
wafted through the room.
She glanced at Harry, sitting opposite
her. "I'm wondering how a man who can compare a
turkey sandwich to a Matisse painting ended up
as a detective."
"You already know how. We went over it on our
last date, remember?"
"Our last date?"
"What else would you call it?"
She took a bite of her sandwich, thinking about
it. "A meeting. That's what it was."
"Maybe for you."
"And "velvet violet petals." That's not
cop talk."
"How do you expect a cop to talk?"
"Oh, you know. Hard, tough, down to earth.
Black and white, and no nuances."
"I'm known for my nuances."
She laughed. "I see you're enjoying the
sandwich."
"I missed Ruby's tonight. Still, everything
considered--the luxurious surroundings, the high
quality of the sandwich, the yellow and blue
Matisse plates, the velvet lips--I'd rather
be here."
He didn't say "with you," but she
knew he meant it. Pleased, she sat back on
her heels, sipping her wine, watching as he
finished the sandwich.
He glanced around the room. "It looks as
though you've lived here forever. The ancestral
home, forebears on the walls, family photos
in silver frames."
He picked up a photograph from the side
table and inspected it. It was a picture of a
couple. The man was tall and good-looking in a
burly outdoors way, and his arm was draped around
the shoulders of a petite, preppy-looking
blonde with a big smile. It had been taken on
the wooden deck of a substantial home
overlooking a lake, and they looked happy and
comfortable with each other.
"Your parents?" he guessed.
She lifted a shoulder. "Do I look like
them?"
He studied the photograph. "I think so."
"That's why I chose them."
His head shot up. "You chose them?"
"Of course I did. In a junk shop. I
chose all the people you see here, in the photos and
paintings. When I was reinventing my past."
Harry put the silver-framed photograph
down carefully. "You want to tell me about this,
Malone?"
"No. You know what I mean."
Her mouth was suddenly tight, and she had that
bruised look.
"I don't think I really do know what you
mean." He walked over to her and took her hand.
"But I think you need to tell somebody about it.
Why not me?"
She shrugged. "Oh, I don't know. It's a
commonplace enough story. It's just that I've tried
so hard to put it all behind me. To become someone
else." He frowned, puzzled, and she said, "The
truth is, I didn't really exist until I
invented myself." And then suddenly she was telling him
about her childhood--about her brutal father and
depressive mother, and about them running away to the
seaside, and Golden.

"A bitch of a little town," Mary's mother had
called it when they first arrived there with all their
worldly belongings piled into the ancient turquoise
Chevy with the chrome fins. And she was right.
Golden's gray weather-scarred
wooden buildings clung with ferocious tenacity
to the windswept shore. There was a Kiwanis
Lodge and an Elks; a Veterans War
Memorial and the Midway Supermart; a diner
masquerading as the Lido Caf`e; and old
folks growing older. It was a cheap little place that
flirted briefly with the stray summer visitors,
struggling under faded, festive buntings to look
prosperous and inviting. But these visitors who
stopped to look never stayed. They drove quickly
on, searching for livelier, gayer venues.
Golden's residents had all been born
there, and their fathers and grandfathers before them and they quickly
labeled the Malones trash and locked them out of
their clannish little society.
Mal had no words to describe the terrible
loneliness of those years. The sheer bleak aloneness
of it, stretching endlessly behind her, infinitely in
front of her. The only person close to her was
her mother, but only because they lived together, not because her
mother cared; she cared about nothing. Sometimes, lying in
the orange vinyl sofa, trying to sleep, Mary
Mallory would be overcome with terror, because she
knew if she died that night nobody on God's
earth would care. She was truly no one.
Mal could still see the drafty old trailer,
smell the sea and rotting garbage and the sour odor
of poverty. In that instant, she was there again--living
it, breathing it, hating it.
The trailer was meant to be a summer rental.
It was small and worse than shabby--it was ugly.
Everything in it was worn and gray, except for the
vinyl sofa, and even that had faded from red to a dull
blood-orange. Her mother occupied the one
bedroom at the rear, with a small window that
refused to open even on the hottest days, though
Mary Mallory had done her best with the
screwdriver, prying and hammering to no avail.
So when it was hot, her mother simply sat in the
living room with the door wide open and the TV set
on all night, while Mary Mallory gave
up hope of getting any sleep.
Her mother was addicted to TV. She watched
everything, all the late-late shows, though Mary
Mallory swore she never heard a word they said.
It simply passed in front of her eyes--people,
places, events--while smoke wreathed endlessly
up to the ceiling as she lit cigarette after
cigarette. Mary Mallory doubted her mother
lived vicariously through TV, the way
she herself did through movies; it was just there to remind
her she was alive. She never even switched
channels. Whatever was on the channel when she
turned it on, that was what she watched.
Mary Mallory would try to coax her to bed.
"Come on, Mom," she said, placing herself in
front of the set. "It's awful late, and I've
got to get some sleep." Her mother glanced
vaguely up at her and lit another cigarette.
"I'm watching TV," she said mildly. But
looking into her mother's desolate blue eyes,
Mary Mallory knew she had her own
soundtrack running in her head.
Her mother never did get a job. They were living
on welfare, and it was Mary Mallory's duty
to go the welfare office every Monday after school and
pick up food stamps.
"You again," Miss Aurora Peterson said,
looking down her long nose at Mallory and
adjusting the string of small cultured pearls at
her scrawny but respectable throat and reached for the
Malone file. Even though Mary Mallory was
certain she knew the details of their poverty
by heart, the supervisor still made a great show of
flicking through the papers, glancing up every now and
again, and saying, "Hmm ... hmm ... I see."
Mary Mallory often thought it was a great pity
that the welfare office was not staffed by the same people who
needed the help, because they surely would have been
nicer and had more genuinely charitable feelings in their
hearts for unfortunates like herself.
But Miss Aurora Peterson lived in a
nice white-painted house, shaded by old oak
trees, on the right side of Golden's tracks
--the very same house she had been born in and that
had been left to her by her father. She wore pale
blue twinsets and had her hair permed three
times a year at Jody's beauty salon, where
they also painted her nails a safe clover pink.
She drove an almost-new white Buick, took
her two-week vacations at the same resort in
the mountains each year, and attended St. John's
Presbyterian Church in Golden every Sunday,
even though she had no love in her heart for
anyone--and Mary Mallory suspected that that
included Jesus--but it gave her an
opportunity to wear her latest hat.
Mary Mallory stared down at the scarred
linoleum floor and the shabby shoes of the other people
standing in line while Miss Peterson
examined her file as intently as if she were
cracking a mysterious code. After five minutes
or so, the woman glanced up and said wearily,
"Oh, you Malones. When is your wretched mother
ever going to get herself a job instead of letting us
taxpayers take care of you?"
She took out a big rubber stamp and banged it
down on the page, then finally counted out the food
stamps and pushed them through the little opening at the
bottom of the glass window that separated her from the
roughness and uncouth manners of those who had fallen
on hard times. And not once did she even glance
at Mary Mallory.
Her cheeks burning with embarrassment, Mary
Mallory walked to the Supermart at the other end
of town. She grabbed a cart and walked quickly up
and down the aisles, picking up cornflakes,
milk, margarine, Velveeta cheese,
bologna, and sliced Wonder Bread. She
picked up a can of beans, and half a pound of the
cheapest hamburger meat, and whatever instant
coffee was on special. She went to the produce
section and bought two baking potatoes and, for a
treat, two green apples. Then she went and
stood in line at the checkout and prepared herself for the
second humiliation of the day.
Her cheeks flamed again with the shame of it as the
manager counted her food stamps. She was always
terrified that she had spent too much and would have
to put things back. Clutching her brown paper
bag, she walked down the street to the little gas
station, where the owner let her buy cigarettes for
her mother even though she was underage. It was the one
act of kindness in her day, though he was doing it because
he never let a sale pass him by, not because he
took pity on her. Still, it saved a lot of
trouble because after that first optimistic year, her mother
had practically stopped going out of the house at
all, and without her cigarettes Mary Mallory
was sure she would have gone really mad.
The only time her mother left the house was when the
very blackest of depressions came over her.
Then, when she came home from school her mother would
be gone. She would find her mother on the cliffs,
staring out to sea, or walking slowly along the beach,
oblivious to the storms and the rain and the giant pounding
waves roaring in with the sound of an express train,
making the earth tremble beneath her feet.
Eventually, she would return home. She would
dry her rain-soaked hair and fix a
cup of coffee and turn on the TV. It was as
though the violent storm had soothed whatever it was that
tortured her.
Once, on her way home from the market,
Mary Mallory passed girls from school. They
were wearing smart new sweaters and riding
metallic-red bikes, and their mouths were bright pink
with a kissy-looking new lipstick color. They
didn't seem to notice her, though, or if they
did, they avoided looking at her. They were busy
chatting with one another about boys as they cycled
aloofly by in a heavy cloud of perfume, just
purchased at Bartlett's Drugstore on
Main.
Mary Mallory shifted the grocery bag to the
other arm. She adjusted her owlish plastic
eyeglasses and peered enviously after them. She was
blind as a bat, and the lenses were so thick, they
looked like the bottoms of Coke bottles. She
felt hidden behind them, and that the girls couldn't
really see her, or else why wouldn't they have said
hello at least. But then, no one ever said
hello.
She remembered her first terrible day at
school. The secretary had escorted her into the
homeroom and pushed her out in front of the class.
Thirty pairs of eyes had bored into her, taking
in her washed-out dress that was too short, her
worn sneakers, and her ugly glasses. With the
well-honed instinct of the pack, they knew
instantly that she was an outsider--"a weirdo" and
"ugly," the girls whispered to each other behind their
hands, giggling.
"Say hello to Mary Mallory," the teacher
ordered, glancing impatiently at her, still standing
forlornly in front of the class.
"Hello, Mary Mallory," they chorused,
then collapsed into giggles.
Mary Mallory muttered a quick hi, then
hurried to the desk the teacher had pointed out.
She was dreading recess, but she needn't have because
no one spoke to her anyway. No one offered
to show her around or be her friend. No one even
bothered to stare at her or make fun of her. For
all the seventh grade of Golden Junior
High cared, she might have been invisible.
It was the silence that got to her. At home her
mother rarely spoke, she was always lost in her own
world. And at school, apart from occasional questions from the
teacher, no one even greeted her. She
had always been shy, but now she became inhibited.
She told herself it was because she was ugly, because she was
poor, because her mother was a "crazy woman," because
she had to line up in front of patronizing
Miss Aurora Peterson and then hand over her
humiliating stamps in the Golden Supermart.
Because her clothes were cheap and purchased from the
second-hand store; because she could never buy
Glamour magazine and a soda and try out all the
new lipsticks and perfumes at Bartlett's.
Because she was no one. Nothing. The invisible girl
of Golden Junior High.
She took home the groceries and put them
away in the cupboard. She gave her mother the
cigarettes and saw a hint of pleasure in her
vacant eyes. "Thanks, Mary Mallory,"
she said in a voice that cracked from disuse. And that
was all she said for the rest of the night.
Mary Mallory put on a sweater and walked
along the cliffs, staring at the heaving green ocean,
remembering how thrilled she had been that she was coming
to live at the seaside, in Golden pop. 906.
She'd bet they hadn't even changed it to pop.
908 now that she and her mom lived there. They
weren't real citizens like Miss Aurora
Peterson; they were just trash living on decent
taxpayers' good money, that's what.
Down below on the beach, she saw a couple of
boys running with a dog. They were having such
simple fun, hurling pebbles into the sea while the
dog chased them, that she longed to join in. She
felt like screaming, "I'm here, can't you see me?
Inside of me is a real person who wants
to be like you. I want to laugh and have fun and be
friends."
She wondered what they would say if she did,
but she couldn't do it anyway. Her shyness was like a
crippling disease. She was on the outside and always
would be.
Except in her dreams. When her mother finally
went to bed, she lay awake dreaming of security.
She dreamed of having a white-painted house like
Miss Aurora Peterson's, filled with
solid pieces of oak furniture. She
dreamed she was driving a white Cadillac
convertible with the top down and the wind in her wavy
blond hair, instead of the old turquoise
Chevy and her straight mousy locks. She
dreamed there was chicken on their table for Sunday
dinner and fresh-baked apple pie, and of
her mother in a new hat and herself in pink lipstick,
attending church, stopping afterward to chat with their
neighbors, maybe getting an ice cream soda
at the drugstore later.
As she grew older, her dreams grew bigger.
She dreamed of success. She knew there were other
places, other worlds, where people did not live the way
she did, or even Miss Aurora Peterson,
and she fantasized that one day she would be part of that
world. Then she would buy her mother a new home
overlooking the ocean, any place she wanted--
anywhere except in Golden. She would buy her
pretty clothes, diamond earrings, make her
smile again the way she had that one time when she had
realized she would never have to see her sadistic
husband again. Mary Mallory wanted to make
all her mother's dreams come true. And her own.
But the next morning, when she woke, she was still
the girl who didn't exist.

Mal dragged her thoughts back from her painful
childhood. She lifted her head and looked at
Harry. She saw the sympathy in his nice gray
eyes. "I've never told that to anyone before," she
said sadly. "I was too terrified to go to a
psychiatrist. I just couldn't verbalize it,
admit it. I was afraid if I did, I would
revert back to being Mary Mallory again, and
everything I've fought for, everything I've become,
would disappear."
Harry reached out and took her hands. They were
cold, and her lovely face looked pinched and
pale. He turned her hands palm up and kissed
them. "You were brave, Mal. You won," he said
admiringly. "However did you do it?"
She shrugged. "The usual. I was clever, a
hard worker. I studied, got a scholarship
to college. That's all my life consisted offor
years--study and hard work." She sighed,
remembering the long, hard, poverty-stricken
years. "Then I graduated, and--well, you know
the rest."
She scrambled to her feet, tugging down her
pretty lace skirt, hitching the straps onto
her shoulders, suddenly afraid she had
embarrassed him. "I'll bet you're sorry you
asked," she said, managing a smile.
He shook his head. "Oh no, I'm not."
She was so aware of him standing next to her, she
felt she was drinking the air he breathed.
"Don't go, Harry," she said suddenly, resting
her head against his arm. "I'm afraid."
He pulled her to him, smoothed back her
hair. He thought she looked shattered, as though
she had just relived her long ordeal. He said
reassuringly, "There's nothing to be afraid of.
It's all over, gone. That's what the past is.
Sometimes we're sorry we lost it. And sometimes
we just thank God we don't have to live through it
again. Believe me, I know."
She looked at him, big-eyed, wondering what
he meant. Then he said, "But I shouldn't stay,
Mal. It's the wrong moment, wrong timing."
She clung to his hand--she couldn't bear to let
him go. "I know. It's just that I'm afraid to be
alone."
He traced the contours of her face with his finger.
"There's nothing to be afraid of, Mary
Mallory, I promise you."
She looked away. Suddenly, a fat
crystal tear rolled down her cheek.
He caught her to him, shocked: The steely
wonder woman of television was crying. He
held her close, told her everything would be all
right, that of course he would stay. He stroked her
hair, wiped her tears, gave her his handkerchief
to blow her nose.
She smiled shakily at him. Her eyes were
swollen, and her nose red. He guessed he
shouldn't have, but anyhow, he kissed her. Her mouth
opened under his and he lingered. He had been right the
first time--her lips were like velvet.
He held her away from him, smiled at her.
"I guess I'll sleep on the sofa."
"There's a guest room, but I don't think the
bed is made up."
"Just give me a pillow and a blanket and
I'll be in dreamland before you know it."
He let go of her hand. She hesitated for a
moment, then went to her room.
He followed her. "Mmm, cozy," he said,
looking around. "When I'm alone in my own little
bed, I can think about you alone in your big one."
She tossed the pillow at him, and he caught
it deftly. "Don't let your imagination run
away with you, Jordan."
"It may be tough, but I'll try not to."
He grasped the pillow to his chest instead of her.
"Sleep well, Mary Mallory Malone. And
promise me, no bad dreams."
"I promise." She crossed her heart with
her finger, the way she used to when she was a kid.
"Good night, then." He dropped a quick kiss
on the tip of her nose.
"Good night, Harry."
As the door closed behind her, he wondered why
there was that little purr in her voice again when she said
his name. But later, tossing and turning and wide
awake, he wondered why he still had the sneaking
feeling that she had not told him everything. That she still
had secrets she wasn't yet prepared to let go
of.

Mal sat up with a jolt. She looked at the
clock: five A.m. She closed her eyes,
listening. There it was again--the sound of water running.
She smiled, leaning back against the pillows,
clutching the sheet under her chin. The detective was
an early riser.
She swung her legs over the edge of the bed,
slipped on a short pink cotton robe, and
padded barefoot to the kitchen. She stood in the
doorway watching him. He was wearing dark blue
boxers and nothing else; his body looked lean and
hard, his hair was standing on end in cute little
spikes, and he was attempting to make coffee in
her machine.
"Your hair looks as though you've slept in
it," she said.
He turned and looked at her. "Sorry, I
didn't think to bring a comb. Nor a
toothbrush."
"I can provide both."
"Such efficiency at five in the morning. I
didn't mean to wake you."
"That's okay. I wouldn't have missed the sight
of you in those shorts for anything."
She grinned. The past was behind her, and she felt
like Mal Malone again. Better than that, she
felt happy, confident. She took the coffee from
him and scooped it into the filter. "I'd have bought
bagels, had I known."
"I would have bought them, if I'd known."
They looked at each other and laughed. He
linked his arms lightly around her waist. "Would this
be an appropriate moment, Ms. Malone,
ma'am, to ask for a date? A real date this time.
No fooling."
She leaned back, a finger to her lips,
considering. "I think we know each other
well enough now. Why not?"
"My place or yours?"
"Yours this time. It's my turn to find out how the
other half lives."
"It will be my pleasure to show you, Ms.
Malone, ma'am," he said. "Unfortunately,
first I have to consult my work schedule."
"Me too."
"Then I'll call you later today."
The coffee machine burped and gurgled. She
swung from his arms and took out mugs and milk and
sugar.
"Only skim, I'm afraid," she said,
pouring coffee.
"I take it black."
Her eyes connected with his. "I learn new
things about you all the time."
"True." He moved closer, took the mug
from her. She could smell his freshly showered skin,
see the hair curling on his throat and chest. He was definitely dangerous.
"Your stubble is showing." She turned away,
poured milk into her coffee.
Harry ran a hand ruefully across his dark
bristled chin. "A dead giveaway," he said.
"Whatever will the doorman think?"
She laughed. "He can think whatever he
likes."
"Then you're not afraid he'll sell his story
to the Enquirer?"
"I'm a modern woman." She shrugged.
"I'm not supposed to be celibate."
He tasted the coffee. "I have to get my things
from the hotel and catch the six o'clock shuttle from
La Guardia."
"Then you'd better get a move on."
"True." He lingered, sipping the coffee.
"Mal, thanks for trusting me last night."
She nodded. "You'll miss that flight," she
said, not wanting to remember how much of her
private self she had given away to him.
He went back to his room and dressed
quickly. She was waiting for him when he emerged.
"I feel like the other man," he said, "sneaking
out into the dawn."
"Except, thank goodness, there's no husband."
"I'm glad. I like my women free and clear
of all encumbrances."
"Just in case you get serious," she teased.
"Just in case." He put his arms
around her.
She could feel the hardness of his body against
hers, and that faint masculine scent was in her
nostrils. She leaned against him, wishing he
didn't have to catch the plane. Then he kissed
her.
The same long, gentle kiss as last night.
He let go of her and walked to the private
elevator. She said jealously, "Lara Havers
is going to call you."
"Too bad my number's unlisted." She was
smiling as the elevator doors slid open.
"I'll call you," he said.
The smile was still on her face as the doors
slid shut and he disappeared from her sight. She
went back to her bedroom to prepare for the busy day
ahead, glancing at the basket of violets on
the table under the window. Next to it was a
creased-looking manila envelope that she had not
seen before. Puzzled, she opened it. She stared
into the dark menacing eyes of the serial killer in the
photo-fit.
"Oh, Harry," she whispered, shocked. "You
did it after all. You lousy, cheap-trick
bastard."

NOW OR NEVER



Thunderstorms and a torrential downpour with
severe winds delayed Harry's flight back
to Boston--the TV news said it was a tropical
storm. He mooched around the departure lounge at
La Guardia, sipping the free coffee and thinking
about Mal Malone. She was still an enigma, though
now he understood her better. What he still did not
understand, because she had avoided it, was about the
photo-fit.
He wondered what she would do when she found the
picture of the killer. He hoped it would trigger
her memory. Or if not, that she would at least come
clean and tell him what it was about the man's
image that affected her so deeply.
For the first time ever, he was late for his shift.
He didn't even have time to get home and see
Squeeze, who had been left in the tender loving
care of Myra, the dog-walker. Myra was a
sixties person with a comfortable figure, untended
coppery hair flowing past her waist, long
skirts, Birkenstocks, and love beads. She
looked like a human version of the red setter down the
street that she walked every day.
"You sure chose your moment to be late,"
Rossetti said when Harry finally walked in.
"The chief called a meeting at eight. He was
pissed off beyond belief when you didn't show up.
And I got the full brunt of his rage. "How
can I expect you guys to catch a moving
violation, never mind a killer" was about the gist of
it."
Harry grinned. The chief knew his record.
Sure there were unsolved crimes on it, but his
score was good, and the chief knew he was a
dedicated cop and a hard worker. And that he never
let go of a murder case: he worried at it like
Squeeze unearthing a bone in the backyard--
carefully, systematically, layer by layer. He
wasn't about to let Summer Young's killer
remain free. Not if he could help it.
"Have a nice vacation, Prof?" Rossetti
tilted his chair back. He folded his arms,
grinning at him, one bushy dark eyebrow raised
in a question.
"You may have perfect teeth, Rossetti, but
your mind's in a rut. A night off hardly
constitutes a vacation."
"In your world it does. She must be pretty
special for you to skip town."
Harry met his brown eyes squarely.
"Yeah, she's special."
"Do we know her name?" The chair teetered
back and forth as Rossetti rocked it, still
grinning.
"You don't. I do."
"And that's the way it stays, huh?"
"Yup." Harry sorted quickly through the mass of
paperwork on his desk.
"It wouldn't be Malone, by any small chance?"
Rossetti pushed the chair too far. There was a
loud crash, and Harry turned to look at him
lying on the floor. He laughed as Rossetti
sat up, rubbing his elbows.
"They don't make chairs the way they did
when I was a kid," Rossetti grumbled.
"They don't make detectives that way,
either. They broke the mold with you, Rossetti.
Instead of fishing for information about my private
life, why don't you bring me up to date on the
situation with the chief."
Rossetti did just that, efficiently. Then
all hell broke loose as a call came in
about a shooting at a 7-Eleven. They were out of
there in seconds, with no time even to think about Ms.
Malone.
Uniformed cops were cordoning off the forecourt
of the 7-Eleven store when the homicide squad
screeched to a halt, sirens wailing. A
police helicopter hovered overhead as Harry
and Rossetti leaped from the car and surveyed the
scene.
The emergency ambulance pulled in right behind, and the
paramedics ran past them, carrying their equipment.
Behind them came reporters from the Herald and the
local television news crews, who were filming
within minutes. Rossetti went to talk to the cops
in the patrol car who had been first on the scene,
while Harry made his way through the crowd to the
entrance.
"Detective Jordan!" It was the reporter
from the TV station. "How many victims are there,
detective? And what do you know about the killer?"
He held up his hand. "Give me a break,
will you, Lucia?" He was walking away from her.
"I'll tell you what happened as soon as I
know myself."
The sound man swooped on Lucia with
his boom mike, and she turned to the camera.
"News just breaking of a shooting at a local
convenience store," she began, competently taking
over. "We are not yet sure how many victims,
but word is there may be more than one. And no news
yet on the perpetrator, though we expect more
on that soon. What we do know is that it was a
robbery and several shots were fired. We'll keep
you up to date on the story as it breaks."
Inside the store Harry stared down at the
victims. One was only too obviously dead--
the top of his head was blown away. The paramedics
were bending over the other, a young black guy,
inserting IV'S into his arm. There was not much
blood--just several neat round holes in his chest--
but when they picked him up to wrap him in
shock-foil, there was a pool of blood under his
back. He was unconscious as they shifted him
gently onto a gurney.
"The other guy's all yours, Prof," the
paramedic said as they rushed the younger man into the
ambulance.
Rossetti came in. He stood next
to Harry, looking at the dead man. He said,
"Prof, do you ever think you chose the wrong
profession? You should have stuck with the law. Nice and
clean and simple. It pays better too."
Then the medical examiner arrived, and then
forensics, and the all-too-familiar routine that
followed a homicide began.
Outside in the forecourt the police were questioning
two eyewitnesses who had seen the killer running
from the shop. They said he was toting a gun and had
jumped into a waiting car and taken off. The injured
young man worked at the store; the older man who had
died must have been a customer.
"For him, it was just the wrong time, wrong
place," Harry said bitterly as the medical
examiner concluded his examination. Forensics drew
a chalk outline around the victim. Then the
remains were placed in a body bag and zipped
up. Harry thought sadly that there was nothing left
when a person was murdered, not even the normal
dignity of death.
"It was an assault weapon of some sort," the
ME said briskly. "Probably an Uzi.
Forensics will tell you exactly which model."
The cops had a description of the escape
vehicle--a white utility van. Harry's
ears pricked up, and he questioned the two
eyewitnesses closely. One, a middle-aged
woman, said she had been on her way into the store
when the man had come running out.
She was pale and breathing heavily, but she
managed to give them a good description. "It
coulda been me," she repeated over and over.
"Two minutes earlier, it coulda been me."
The other witness was a homeless guy who hung
around convenience stores searching garbage cans for
soft drink cans to trade for a few cents
deposit, maybe make enough to buy a cheap
bottle of liquor to ease his woes. But it was
early, he hadn't yet made enough for the day's
booze, so he was coherent about what he saw.
"A white Ford utility," he said firmly.
"Old and beat-up lookin'. Kinda rusty. A
car like that shouldn't be on the road, detective.
No sir, you should get that scum off the streets."
"You're right, buddy." Harry slipped him a
couple of dollars when no one was looking. He
wished he could have gotten him off the streets, never
mind the rusty van.
An all-points was put out on the utility, but
Harry knew it would have been stolen, and anyway the
shooter would have dumped it as soon as he could.
He'd bet his boots it was a drug-related
killing. And that it was linked to the other killing a
couple of weeks ago--the supposed
hit-and-run. He would go to the Moonlightin'
Club that night and ask around a little. Not that the
kids were informers, but if their own were being
slaughtered, someone might be willing to pass on
what they knew.
Forensics got on with their job, and he and
Rossetti took off for the precinct.
A second call came over the radio as they
were heading back: a homicide in an old
warehouse on Atlantic Avenue. An
Asian man decapitated. Harry figured it
was drugs again--it almost always was.
"Drugs, sex, and money," Rossetti
agreed. "Pick any one, and you've got your
motive."
It turned out to be a long, hard, gruesome
day, the kind that left memories like sores in the
mind, if not in the soul, the way Summer Young's
death had.
Harry's only break came much later, back
at the precinct, when a call came through with the
results of the DNA tests on the semen
found on Summer Young. It was a match with that found
on the two other victims. They were definitely
looking for a serial killer. He thought
triumphantly of the photo-fit. He was certain
the national networks would cooperate now and
broadcast it. And that meant he was off the hook with
Ms. Malone.
By evening, the thunderstorms had spread to New
England, rattling the city, lighting it up like a
Fourth of July fireworks display. Until the
power went out downtown, that is. As well as in some
of the suburbs, causing multiple pileups as
vehicles hydroplaned and trucks jackknifed
on the expressway. The emergency room at
Mass General was chaotic, with victims rushed
from the ambulances, lined up on steel gurneys
for a doctor's attention.
Suzie Walker worked steadily alongside the
other nurses, helping stabilize the patients,
doing whatever was needed, while the doctors
rapidly assessed the extent of their injuries and
listed the priority cases for emergency surgery.
It was all hands on deck--the chief
gynecologist was helping out, as well as Dr.
Waxman. Even Dr. Blake, who had been
on his way home and hadn't had time to put on a
white coat, was working alongside the others.
"Wouldn't you think they'd have the sense to drive
slowly," he muttered, carefully cleaning a long
gash across a woman's forehead. "God, it's so
senseless, people killing themselves on wet highways."
He inspected the patient and the wound critically.
Her eyes were open, rolled up into her head with just
the whites showing. She was breathing slowly andwitha
terrible rasping sound.
"Fractured skull," he said with a sigh, "and a
bad one. Get her to the scanner," he said to the
male attendant, "fast as you can. I'll alert
the surgeon."
He turned to the next gurney, where a small
boy, maybe six years old, lay watching him
with dark shocked eyes. "Mommy," the boy
whispered, his eyes following the gurney being
wheeled away.
Dr. Blake shook his head. The odds were,
the kid would not have a mother by morning.
"It's all right, baby," Suzie said
soothingly. "The doctor's taking care of your
mommy. And now he wants to make sure you're
okay. All you have to do is tell him where
it hurts."
Dr. Blake sighed again as he got down
to business. Scenes like this only reinforced his
decision to specialize in forensic pathology.
His patients were a fait accompli by the time he
saw them. Their children already knew their mothers were dead;
all he had to do was tell them how she died.
Rossetti pushed his way through the door and
surveyed the scene. It was like a war zone. A
forty-car pileup, an eighteen-wheeler
overturned on top of two automobiles, and
innumerable single-car accidents, with people crushed
by falling trees or skidding into walls.
"You'd think some folks never saw rain before,"
he marveled to the fraught nurse at the desk.
"This makes my task look piddling. I'm
talking about the shooting at the Seven-Eleven."
She punched the computer, checking her records.
"Trauma ward, the usual."
"Is he gonna make it?"
She checked again. "They removed three
bullets from his chest. Two others passed through
him. No, detective, I wouldn't bet on him
making it."
Rossetti shook his head soberly. The man
who had been shot was African American,
only twenty-five years old, with a wife and a
young son. Bitterness surged through his heart as he
remembered his own big, vital Italian
family. His father ran a small pizza parlor
in the North End. Fast-food and takeout
establishments were the hardest hit in robbery and
violence, and he didn't like it one little bit. It
hit him too close to home.
He walked through the waiting room to the stairs
at the end of the hall. There were no seats left as
frantic relatives flocked in search of their
loved ones. Their faces were white and strained,
big-eyed with fear.
Suzie Walker was walking toward him. There was
blood on her white overall and she looked
exhausted. She nodded to him, unsmiling, as they
passed. There was no banter tonight. As she opened a
door, he glimpsed a child on a gurney and
Dr. Blake in civvies, tending to him.
"It's one of those nights," he thought
gloomily. "Just one of those awful fuckin'
nights that happen in a city every few years."
When he came downstairs again half an hour
later, the waiting area had
miraculously cleared and calm had descended
once more.
"A lull before the storm?" he asked the duty
nurse.
"I hope that's the end of it," she said. "Some
of our staff have been on duty since this morning."
Rossetti glanced at the clock on the
wall. It was after midnight. "Good luck," he
said as he left. But luck had already run out for the
victim at the 7-Eleven, and it was his job
to tell the young wife that she was now a widow. He
did not look forward to it.
Harry had just got home when Rossetti
called with the news. It was what he had expected.
He wished he had a stronger word to use than
bastard for the shooter. And he was glad it wasn't
him who had to break the bad news to the widow tonight.
He dropped his overnight bag on the hall
floor, then took the excited Squeeze for a
splashy walk around the block, not caring that he
left muddy footprints all through the hall when they got back. He felt glad to be alive.
He thought regretfully, it was too late
to call Mal, and decided to do it first thing in the
morning. He imagined her asleep in the
luxurious antique French bed. There was a
smile on his face as he stripped, took a
long shower, and put on a pair of sweatpants
and a white T-shirt that said "Fuzz-Buster" in
red on the front. He peered hopefully into his
refrigerator. There was a carton of milk with an
expired sell-by date, a box of
three-day-old pizza, and a couple of cans of
Heineken.
He warmed up a slice of pizza in the
microwave, opened a can of beer, and carried it
all into the living room. He broke off a
piece with pepperoni and gave it to the dog. It was
like giving Tic-Tacs to an elephant--it
disappeared as though it never existed.
He set the beer can on a side table and
switched on the TV. Headline News was
full of the storm front--a hurricane they
called it now--and the numerous accidents and
fatalities it had caused along the eastern
seaboard. He hoped, worriedly, that Mallory
had not been caught in it. His eyes drooped and
he leaned back in the comfortable old chair. He was
asleep within minutes.
Squeeze sat at his feet. He
cocked his head to one side, waiting. When Harry
didn't move, he turned his attention to the
pizza on the side table. The can of beer toppled
to the floor as he grabbed it, dribbling crumbs,
melted cheese, and beer onto the carpet.
He checked Harry again. He was fast
asleep. With a satisfied sigh he dropped down
next to him, rested his head on Harry's bare
feet, and closed his eyes. It had been a long
day.

The gray Volvo was parked at the end of the
street, half hidden under the sweeping branches
of a red maple.
He parked here most nights now, waiting for
her. He needed to track her movements as
precisely as an air traffic controller
tracks incoming flights. He needed to know her
daily routine and her work schedule, when she would be
working nights, and when she was likely to be alone.
She was different from his other girls in that she had
a busy social life as well as working. He
would have preferred a student--they were younger and easier
prey. But it was too risky. There were too many
alerts out, and the college girls were on their
guard.
Of course, he already knew she lived alone in
a small one-story cottage. That was necessary for her
to qualify. It was too dangerous to have to climb
into second-floor windows or get in and out of a
busy apartment building. There were always too many people
around, and you never knew who might notice. Even
though he had the kind of ordinary prosperous look
that seemed to blend in with the everyday background of
life, he had to be careful.
He had been there tonight, in the emergency room
along with the hundreds of others. He looked no
different from them, just another anxious face in the
crowd. He had seen Suzie Walker there,
tense-faced and hurried like everyone else. It had
been easy to slip behind her desk when she was
called away. He already knew that she usually
kept her purse in the cupboard underneath, and
he'd had her keys out of there in seconds.
He laughed to himself, thinking about it. He could have
had a career as a cat burgler, stealing rich
women's jewels--he was that good. Wait a
minute, though--didn't they used to be called
"second-story men" in the old days? Like Cary
Grant in To Catch a Thief?
He wouldn't have been any good after all--he had
no head for heights, and it was too risky. He
might get caught. He smiled again at the very
idea; he was invincible by now. He knew it.
Pulling a tissue from the box of Kleenex in
the console, he wiped the mist from the side window.
He couldn't turn on the demister, because he would have
to run the engine and draw attention to himself. He
opened the window a crack instead, letting in a
blast of cold wet air.
Headlights flickered through the rain, and he
quickly picked up the night-vision binoculars. It
was the electric-blue Neon.
Suzie Walker turned the car into the concrete
parking area that had once been the garden of the little
clapboard cottage. She sighed with relief as
she switched off the engine. It was one o'clock in the
morning, and she had been on duty since noon.
She didn't grumble--nursing was the profession
she had chosen, and it was her job to be available in
emergencies. But she was exhausted, dead on her
feet. All she wanted to do was fall into bed.
She climbed from the car, slammed the door, and
locked it. She fiddled in her purse for her
housekeys. She never kept them on the same ring
with the car keys because there were just too many, and they were
too bulky. She had a front door key, a
back door key, a locker key at the gym,
and a key for her safety deposit box, where she
kept her only possession of value--a gold
watch given to her by her parents on her twenty-first
birthday.
Usually, the keys were easy to locate in the
dark because of their bulk, but tonight she was having trouble.
She frowned, peering into the recesses of the black
leather bag, sweeping her fingers along the
bottom. They were not there.
She glanced nervously over her shoulder. Not a
soul was in sight. Apart from the sound of the rain
bouncing off the sidewalk, there was silence. She
checked the neighboring houses, but no lights were
on. She hesitated, uncertain what to do,
wondering where she could have lost the keys. The wind
rattled the branches of the big old maple down
the block, startling her. Fear pricked her
spine. She glanced quickly over her shoulder, and,
remembering the recent murder, her skin crawled.
You never knew who was out there, watching, waiting.
Her fingers trembled as she unlocked the car
door and climbed quickly back inside.
She pressed the central lock and began to breathe
again. She wished she had listened to her father when he
had said she should get a cell phone in case of
emergency. She switched on the engine, backed out
of the parking stand, and spun out into the slick wet
street. Driving too fast, she shot down the
road, past the parked cars and away.
He watched her go, smiling. Then he put
down his binoculars and slipped on his raincoat.
Of course he could have taken her then. She was there
for the picking, ripe as a plum in summer.
Except that wasn't his way. He needed to know more
about her first in order to enjoy her properly.
That was what the public never understood about him,
he thought as he walked quickly through the rain and
turned in at her gate. It wasn't just the final
act that was the pleasure. It was the buildup to it,
the careful preparations, his cleverness at gaining
access to the girl's home, his peek into her
life, into her personal things, into her cheap
feminine soul.
He smiled with pleasure as he put her key
into the lock and walked into her house. He stood in
the dark, listening. There was no sound. He took a
mini-flashlight from his pocket and shone it
cautiously around. A cat's eyes beamed redly
back at him for a second. Then there was a faint
scuttling sound, and it was gone.
He unbuttoned his raincoat and put on the
thin rubber gloves, perfectly at ease. He
would take his time, do a thorough job. Tomorrow, first
thing, he would have a copy made of the keys. Then
he would go back to the hospital and drop them in the
parking lot in the spot where she had parked tonight.
Someone would find them and hand them in. She would think
she had dropped them carelessly. And he would be
free to come and go in her house as he pleased.
Until he decided her time was up, of course.



That same morning, after Harry had left for
Boston--and left her the photo-fit--
Mallory had gone to the gym and burned off as much
of her anger as she could, fighting for those wholesome,
calming endorphins that were supposed to flood your
body and your head with a sense of well-being--if you
worked hard enough at it. It didn't work. When she
set out to walk to the office, she was still fizzing with
rage and disappointment.
The aroma of roasting coffee slowed her
footsteps. She hesitated. Then with a
what-the-hell shrug of her shoulders, she stepped
into the steamy little deli and ordered lox and cream
cheese on a toasted sesame bagel and a large
coffee. Then she waited, drumming her fingers
impatiently on the counter, thinking how stupid she
had been to trust Harry with her most personal
memories, her deepest fears.
When the bagel came, she devoured it without a
scrap of guilt, then continued on her way,
blaming Harry for her indulgence with every step.
Her mood fluctuated between anger and sadness
all day. Of the two, she preferred the anger.
At least it was positive, though it was hard on
her staff, who took the brunt of it.
"It's not you," she kept apologizing. "It's
just one of those days."
"Morning after the night before," Beth said, wagging
a knowing finger at her. Mal was wearing a
dark-green sweater and skirt and black
high-heeled boots. She looked good; if you
discounted the shadows under her eyes and the tense body
language. "So what time did he go home?"
"Who?" Mal asked too innocently, and
Beth laughed.
"That may be your worst performance yet. But
okay, if you don't want to tell me, you
don't have to. I can wait." She shuffled the
papers on her desk into a tidy pile. "But this
can't, sweetheart. We've got some work to do, and
I have to ask you to get your mind off whatever
happened--or didn't happen--last night, and
switch over to Tuesday's taping. You ready
now?"
Mal nodded, but she said enviously, "You're so
lucky with Rob. You're so well suited, so
nice to each other."
"Hah! You haven't seen us going at each
other. Like over who promised to pick up supper
on the way home, when neither of us has done it, and
we're both tired after a long day, and there's
nothing in the house to eat, and I'm too exhausted
to drag myself out and order something in a mediocre
restaurant and then wait until it comes and finally
not enjoy it when it does. That's when a marriage
can go on the rocks. Believe me."
Despite herself, Mal laughed. "I think
I'm glad I haven't seen you."
"You should be. It's not a pretty
sight." Beth looked at her curiously, then
patted her hand. "Sure you don't want to tell
me about it?"
Mal shook her head.
"I know Harry was still there when we left,"
Beth persisted. "And Rob and I were almost the last
to go."
"He stayed over," Mal admitted.
"Wow." Beth's eyes widened. "Was it that
bad?"
"Of course not. Nothing happened. I just
didn't want to be alone. And no, it wasn't
bad. He brought me violets."
"I saw them. Enough to stock a shop."
"He's not a man who thinks small."
"That's good. So what was the bad part?"
Mal shrugged. "He's not interested in me,
Beth. He's interested in what I can do for him.
So when he calls today, would you please tell him
that I'm out, or I'm too busy to come to the
phone, or some excuse like that?"
"Oh, come on, Mal, give him the benefit
of the doubt. I mean, any man who buys you a
whole basket of violets can't be all bad."
"How about if he leaves the picture of the
serial killer next to the violets--for me to find
after he's gone?"
"He did that? Poor devil." Beth shook
her head sympathetically. "He's really on the
outs. But what a waste of a lovely man."
Mal glared at her. "Oh, for God's
sake, he teaches you to salsa, and you're a
pushover, just like Lara and the others."
Beth stood up and gathered her papers. "For a
woman who never wants to see the guy again, it
seems to me you're shouting about it too much. And
isn't that a touch of green I see in your
eyes?" She slammed the door behind her as she
left.
Nerves snapping, Mal got through her day.
At six she put on her lipstick and her
jacket and walked through to the outer office. Beth
had not mentioned Harry again.
Mal stopped at her desk. "Any
messages before I go?" she said too casually.
"He didn't call, if that's what you mean."
"That's good," she said, not meaning it.
"He's still getting to you, isn't he?" Beth
said shrewdly. "Maybe you'd better take his
call, after all."
"What call? I can't even trust him to do
that!"
Beth stared curiously at her. "Seems to me
it's yourself you can't trust. What's the matter,
Mal? Seriously, what's up?"
Mal swung her little black purse nervously
by the strap. "It was so--so good last night, you know,
friendly, nice. And then after he's gone, I find
the photo-fit. He didn't mention he was bringing
it, he didn't say he was coming over to discuss it
again. He just left it there for me to find. Afterward."
"So what's wrong with discussing the photo-fit,
anyway? I mean, this was a terrible murder, and
if it turns out that there is a serial killer on
the loose, maybe you should try to help him."
"But the photo-fit is no good."
Beth frowned, puzzled. "Tell me,
Mal," she said, "how do you know the photo-fit
is no good?"
"I--oh, I don't know." Mal subsided
into a chair. She put her elbows on the desk,
hiding her head in her arms. "I don't know if
the photo-fit is accurate, of course I
don't," she repeated. "It--well, there was
something about it that upset me. The expression in his
eyes. It was too creepy, sinister." She
shuddered. "I don't know if I'm ready to take
on a serial killer, Beth."
"I can understand that. But why on earth don't you just
tell Harry? I'm sure he'll understand too."
Mal doubted it. "Harry Jordan is a
cop first and a man second. I believe the only
thing on his mind is catching the killer."

Mal thought Harry would call her that evening, so
she made a point of being out. She had a date with
some friends--a newscaster, his wife, and their new
baby.
She brought flowers and a huge cuddly toy
tiger and hovered over the baby. He was adorable,
with a tuft of black hair and shoe-button dark
eyes, and he lay quietly in his bassinet by the
table while they ate. They quaffed a good bottle
of wine, talking of their hard times on the climb
up the TV ladder to fame and fortune.
"Sometimes, though," Josh said thoughtfully, "I
think that those early years were the fun times."
"Only in retrospect," Jane reminded
him. "Sure we had fun, but isn't it better
when you've finally made it? I mean, you
should know, Mal. You're the big success."
"It was no fun on the way up," Mal said
vehemently. "In fact, it was hell." Then she
laughed, embarrassed. "You know how it is when
you're a woman--discrimination, harassment."
"I'm just glad I have all this instead," Jane
said, yawning from lack of sleep and the demands of her
new way of life. "Everything's a learning
process, but I can tell you, Mal, this one is
best of all."
Later, when she left, Mal took the
memory of the evening with her. It was a soundbite of
reality in her unreal world. A woman as a mother,
a baby to care for, the animal warmth of the
relationship between the couple. Their apartment, once
done up in cool minimalist chic, had evolved
into a proper home, as solid as any in
suburbia. Compared with theirs, her own busy life
seemed empty. She envied them their happiness and
their child.
Back home again she checked her messages.
There was E-mail--all business--but no friendly
red blink on the answering machine. Harry hadn't
even called.
The photo-fit was still on the table where she had thrown it. She picked it up and studied his face
again. Then, shuddering, she ripped it to tiny pieces
and threw them into the fire. Black smoke curled
from the paper, finishing forever something that had never
begun.
She took a shower, put on a T-shirt and a
pair of pink boxers, and brushed her hair and
creamed her face. The TV news flickered in
the background, detailing the daily horrors, but
she wasn't listening.
Then the newscaster said, "The City of Boston
is on the lookout for a serial killer today, after the
DNA samples found in the bodies of three young
women victims were proven to match."
A photograph of a pretty young woman
took the place of the newsreader.
"The latest victim, Summer Young, was
twenty-one years old, class valedictorian
at her local Philadelphia high school, and
premed at Boston University. Like Mary
Jane Latimer and Rachel Kleinfeld, she was
abducted and raped. She was left for dead on a
lonely beach.
"The Boston PD have issued a photo-fit
of the suspected killer. They ask that if
you know this man, or have seen him, please contact
them at the number appearing now on your screen.
All calls will be treated with utmost
confidentiality."
Suddenly the screen was filled with the
photo-fit, while the newscaster gave
details of his estimated height and build and the
vehicle he was driving.
"The face of the suspected murderer of Summer
Young, Mary Jane Latimer, and Rachel
Kleinfeld," he concluded. "Again, anyone who
can help trace him, call the Boston PD
immediately."
Mal realized now why Detective Harry
Jordan hadn't called her. He had gotten the
killer's picture on national TV. He
didn't need her anymore.



At seven the next morning, Harry wheeled the
mountain bike back through Louisburg Square.
Squeeze trotted, panting, at his heels.
They had taken the eight-mile Greenbelt
Bikeway from Boston Common, ending at the
Franklin Park Zoo. He would have liked to have
gone on longer, but as usual there was no time.
He left the bike in the hall, got a bowl
of water for the dog, who drank it noisily, then
grabbed the phone and called Mal. He couldn't
wait to tell her about the networks picking up on
the case. He frowned, disappointed, as the machine
answered.
"I called," he said quickly. "Catch you
later."
Then he leaped into the shower, ran an electric
razor over the stubble, dressed quickly, and whistled
for Squeeze. He was walking out of the door when
he remembered. He strode back to the
bathroom, ran a comb quickly through his hair, and was
on his way out again in seconds.
Ruby's was still full of last night's
nicotine as well as the beginning of today's quota.
He took a seat at the counter and ordered
coffee, two eggs over easy, ham steak, and
home fries with a toasted bagel, wondering
exactly how much secondary cigarette smoke
he inhaled daily with his breakfast. And with the odd
snack during the day and the occasional after-hours
beer, and sometimes at supper as well.
Then he told himself it was irrelevant because he
wasn't about to give up Ruby's. He didn't
remember eating yesterday, and he was starving.
Doris wasn't on duty this morning, so the
dog went without his tasty treat. He squeezed
into the narrow spot between the stool and the counter and
settled down to wait.
Harry gulped down the coffee, asked for a
refill, then walked to the pay phone near the
entrance. He called Mal's number again, and again
he got the machine.
He smiled; she always sounded as though she were
hoping someone would call--please leave me a
message, even just a little one. She was terribly
insecure, though you would never know it to look at
her. It was her own well-kept secret that she
had shared with him and no one else.
"It's seven thirty, earlybird," he said.
"I guess I missed you. Hope you survived
the mini-hurricane yesterday. I'll catch you
at the office later."
As he devoured the eggs and home fries, he
thought that if she would only share the rest of her
secrets with him, she might be a happier
woman, and he would certainly be a happier man.
He called several times that day and left
messages. He couldn't get her at the office
--they said she was out. And no, she could not be reached.
He called her in the evening and got the machine
again.
"Listen," he said, exasperated, "you're so
damned elusive, I'm running out of coins for the
pay phones. I wanted to ask you about that date.
You remember, the one we were supposed to have?
"I know this may sound a bit sudden, but it's
my mother's birthday on Friday, and she's having
a party. Of course I have to go, and I was wondering
whether you might like to come with me. It's a bit
soon to spring the whole family on you, but you've
already met my dog, so you may as well meet the
rest, and then you'll really know everything about me.
"I thought maybe afterward I'd take you to a little
club I know, and one or two other places.
Then the next day we could take a drive out
to Vermont. I have a cabin there, in the mountains.
We could get in a little hiking, spend the night.
No strings. Honest," he added with a grin.
"Call me, Ms. Malone, ma'am, if you
would. Please. I'll be home after nine this
evening. With a bit of luck.
"Oh, by the way, did you catch the photo-fit
on the networks? The bastard is a serial killer
after all."
Harry got more news from the crime lab that day.
The sweater was a Scottish label, Pringle, that
had been sold at Neiman-Marcus in
Boston. It was a single-ply black cashmere
turtleneck and had cost $365. The sweaters
had sold well and had never been reduced and
placed in a sale. Unfortunately the store had
not stocked them for a couple of years, and they had no
record of who might have purchased it.
"Our man is definitely well-heeled,
Rossetti," Harry said that night over a beer
at the Sevens pub on Charles Street. In
fact, Harry was the one drinking the beer.
Rossetti had ordered a vodka martini--
shaken, not stirred, and with an onion, not an
olive.
Harry threw him a sideways glance. "You
think you're James Bond tonight, Rossetti,
or what?"
"You're behind the times, Prof. Martinis are
what the smart set are drinking these days. Women
like 'em, y'know. They think they're glamorous."
"Whatever happened to the glass of white wine?"
Rossetti laughed. "That's what I mean.
You're behind the times. You haven't even caught up
to margaritas yet. What are you gonna offer
Malone if she ever takes you up on that date?"
"Champagne," he said. "It suits us
both." He wondered if she had called him
back, and whether they were destined to miss each
other's calls and never actually speak to each other
again. He had meant to go home and get an early
night, but Rossetti wanted him to meet his new
girlfriend.
"My new woman," Rossetti corrected
him. "And here she is now." He adjusted the
knot in his yellow silk tie, smoothing back his
hair with both hands.
The woman threading her way to the bar was
petite, dark-haired, very young, and very pretty.
Rossetti grabbed her possessively by the hand,
deposited a kiss on her mouth, then slid his
arm around her shoulders, drawing her forward.
"Vanessa," he said proudly, "I'd like you
to meet my buddy on the force. His name's Harry
and he usually comes with a sidekick by the name of
Squeeze, except they don't allow
dogs in here. And anyhow, Squeeze is too
good for this joint."
She laughed at him. "What about me, then?"
"You're too good for almost every place except
heaven," he said, looking admiringly into her
eyes.
"Good to meet you, Harry," she said, offering her
hand. "It's a pity about Squeeze."
Harry thought she was nice as well as pretty.
"It's a dog's life, all right," he said,
taking her hand and holding it to his lips.
Rossetti gave an astonished whistle.
"Hey, hey, I'm the Latin lover,
remember? Okay, Vanessa. What'll you have?"
"Perrier with lime, please."
Rossetti raised an eyebrow, glancing
questioningly at the martini.
She said, "Just think how it would look for a cop
to be caught purchasing liquor for an underage
female."
He clapped his hand to his forehead. "I
forgot! No, I didn't. I never knew. How
long have we been seeing each other?"
"Two weeks."
"And how old are you--exactly?"
"Twenty-one next month."
"Great," he said, relieved. "We'll have a
party. And you can invite Harry. He could use a
little social life."
She measured Harry in a glance. "I think
Harry is perfectly capable of finding his own
social life. But if there's a party, he's
welcome to come."
Harry downed his beer. "Thanks for the vote of
confidence, Vanessa. I'll leave you two to work out
the party details. It was nice meeting you."
He said good night, then walked back down the
street to where the Jag was parked. Squeeze poked
his nose hopefully out of the window, and he took
him for a quick walk around the block. He spotted
the gunmetal Volvo again and instantly
recognized the license number from the hospital
parking lot. Boston really was a small town,
he thought, noting the name of the restaurant it was
parked in front of. You tripped over someone you
knew around every corner.
He stopped off at Au Bon Pain and bought
a turkey and Swiss on sourdough, remembering
the sandwich Mal had fixed for him the other night.
Then he drove quickly home and checked
the answering machine. It was blinking, and he pushed
the play button impatiently.
He smiled when he heard her voice.
"Thank you for the invitation, detective," she
said in a tone as brittle as frost on a
windowpane. "Unfortunately, I'm planning
on being extremely busy this weekend. Just one
thing--the photo-fit you left at my place? Was
it meant to get you on my show? I suppose the
question is irrelevant now, since you have already
succeeded in covering every network. Nice work,
detective. Just shows it pays to cover all
bases."
He groaned out loud. "Aw, Harry, now
look what you've done." He replayed it just
to make sure he'd heard right. It sounded even more
final than it had the first time.
He stalked gloomily into the kitchen and poured
Jim Beam liberally. Chucking in some ice
cubes, he paced the floor, taking a slug every
now and again, asking himself how he was going to get out of
this one.
"What the hell is wrong with her, anyhow,
Squeeze?" he demanded. The dog looked back
at him, his pale-blue eyes anxious.
"She's crazy," Harry said, stalking the
perimeter of the kitchen again. "Out of her head. First
I ask for her help, and she turns me down,
no explanation. Then I ask her for a date, and
she acts like I'm an impertinent upstart for even
mentioning that I'd like to see her."
Blazing with anger, he picked up the phone and
dialed her home number.
"Hello?" Mal said.
After getting the answering machine for two days,
he was stunned into silence.
"Hello?" she said again.
"What the hell do you mean by leaving a message
like that?" Harry yelled. ""Unfortunately you
are planning on being extremely busy this
weekend." What does that mean, Miss Star
Malone, ma'am? That you're pissed off at me
for leaving the photo-fit with you? Then why don't you
just say so?"
"I'm saying so," she yelled back. "Now
I'm saying so!"
"Why don't you tell me what it is about the
goddamn picture? Just get it off your chest."
She clenched the phone tighter and said through
gritted teeth, "It's nothing. And
anyhow, it's nothing to do with you."
He paced the floor, phone clamped to his
ear. "So all this fuss is about nothing, huh?
Well, I've about had it with your nothings
Malone. I asked you for a date, and you accepted.
I called--a bit late I admit, because
circumstances were against me. But I called. And
I invited you for the weekend. Now are you going to come
or not?"
Mal was hunched in her favorite chair in
front of the fire. She looked at the place at
the other side of the coffee table where Harry had
sat just the other night, and she remembered how good
it had been.
"Yes," she said quietly.
"Yes ... what?" Harry ran his hand through his
hair, scowling. He didn't understand whether she was
accepting his invitation or not.
"Yes, please, Harry."
He held the phone away, he stared at it,
then at Squeeze. He couldn't believe what
he was hearing. He said astonished, I was right, she
is crazy. Then he said to her, "You mean it?
You'll really come, Friday?"
"I would like to come, Harry," she said in a
small voice. "I know you must think I'm
crazy, but there was something about that picture and it being
a serial killer. I just couldn't do it. You
don't need me for that now, anyway."
"Was that what you thought? That I was using you?"
"Weren't you?"
"Maybe it started out that way. But not afterward. Not
now."
"I believe you," Mal said. And she told
herself this time she really did.
Harry stopped prowling. He sank into the
chair, and Squeeze subsided thankfully onto
the floor next to him. There was a smile in his
voice again. "Malone, why do we always fight?"
"It's you. You just seem to rub me the wrong
way."
"Funny, I thought it was you."
Mal leaned back in her overstuffed
rose-patterned chair, feeling the tension in the
back of her neck beginning to relent. "Do you think
we'll fight this weekend?"
"Not if I can help it. Do you approve of the
itinerary?"
She thought for a minute. "Party, nightclubs,
a cabin in the mountains? It may be the
most adventurous weekend I've had in a long
time." She curled her bare legs under her,
snuggling further into the chair.
"Well, let's not make too much of it. My
mother's parties are black-tie stuff--all the
old die-hard New Englanders--stiff as they
come. And the nightclubs are not exactly
high-style--more like local hangouts. And the cabin
in the mountains is just that--a log cabin. So bring
your warm pajamas and your hiking boots."
"I'll remember to do that."
Harry hesitated, uncertain how to phrase
it. He didn't want her to think she was committed
to anything just because they were going to be together for the
weekend. There was still that unknown element to her that he
didn't yet understand, and he didn't want
to scare her away.
"When I said "no strings," Mal, I
meant it. This is a just-friends weekend."
"Okay," she agreed, but he could tell she was
laughing. "By the way, what time is the party?"
"Eight, for an eight-thirty dinner. And as
my mother told me, that means prompt eight
o'clock, prompt eight thirty. She's a
stickler for punctuality."
"A woman after my own heart."
"Mine too, I guess, though not for the
punctuality."
"I'll be at the Ritz-Carlton," she said.
"I'll meet you in the bar. Just tell me what
time."
Any stray thoughts that she might want to share his
bed quickly disappeared, and he said with a tinge of
regret, "At seven, then."
"Harry."
Her voice had that purr in it again, and he
grinned. "Yeah, Malone?"
"I can't wait."
Mal put down the phone, smiling. She felt
as though a weight had been lifted from her
shoulders. It wasn't what she had intended. In
fact, she had meant very definitely not to answer
the telephone. But somehow her hand had just reached out
and done it. It had had nothing to do with her at all.
And she had gotten it all off her chest in a good
shouting match.
She laughed, remembering. She was a woman
known for her control, but Harry Jordan had a
knack for making her lose it. She really couldn't
wait to see what the weekend held.



Miffy Jordan was not your average-looking
woman and certainly not your usual mother figure.
She was tall with good long legs and an elegant
body that had barely changed its shape since she
was a trim, athletic twenty-one year old and
had married Harry's father. She kept it
effortlessly in shape doing the things she had always
done as a way of life: sailing, playing
tennis, going for long walks, and gardening.
"I'm a low-maintenance kind of woman," she
told her friends briskly when they inquired
jealously how she managed it. "My mother was just the
same, and my grandmother. It's in the Peascott
genes."
The Peascott genes went back a lot of
generations to the original settlers of Boston,
although it wasn't something she ever boasted about. It was
simply a fact. But when Miffy looked in the
mirror in the morning, she always thanked God for the
good Peascott bones.
She was about to turn sixty-five years old,
yet she had no need of a face-lift. She had
been sailing since she was a child--her own father had
taught her--and those lines around her eyes from
squinting into the sun and the wind were her personal
reminders of a happy life. And her cheekbones
still supported their light burden of smooth flesh
very nicely, thank you.
She had thick smooth hair that had once been
blond and that had naturally, with the years, turned
into the kind of muted platinum that women pay smart
hairdressers a fortune to achieve. It was cut
to just below her ears, and she wore it swept off her
face in a smart bob.
She dressed neatly and conservatively in what
she called respectable clothing, bought from the
expensive stores and boutiques whose staff knew
her well and understood exactly what suited her.
Her everyday jewelry was a single strand of huge
creamy pearls with matching earrings, a diamond
wedding band, and the gold Cartier tank watch that her
husband had given her thirty years ago.
In fact, Miffy Jordan looked as
preppy as they came, but the truth was, she was as
unconventional as her son. She traveled the world
alone, trekking in the Himalayas; driving a
four-ton truck through the Sahara and
getting hopelessly lost; racing Ferraris in
Monte Carlo; spending a month in a Buddhist
retreat in Vietnam; and paddling the length of the
Amazon from Brazil to Colombia. She had
narrowly escaped death en route from poisoned
darts, as well as from a bomb meant for a member
of a drug cartel in Bogot@a.
"I'm not the velvet-hairband type. I can't
while away my days playing bridge and sipping
iced tea," she told Harry when he had
suggested she cool it--after all she wasn't
getting any younger. "I'm not meant to die in my
bed. Peascotts never do."
Remembering her family history of whaling
captains and explorers and seafarers, as well as
bankers and pillars of society, Harry
guessed she was right. "Whatever makes you
happy," he told her. "Just, for God's
sake, be careful."
Her gray eyes, exactly like his, raked
him scathingly; "Give me credit, Harry,
please. I've gotten to this age without too much
trouble, and I'm more likely to be run down on a
Boston street than in the Sahara."
Nevertheless, she was sixty-five, and her
contemporaries had long been surrounded
by daughters-in-law and babies. She wanted
Harry to marry again and give her grandchildren.
She had liked Harry's first wife, even though
she was not exactly the girl she would have chosen for
him. But Harry was an independent cuss--always
had been, always would be. It was a nice
surprise, therefore, when he called and told her
he was bringing a date to her birthday party.
"Do I know her?" she asked, still thinking
hopefully of her friend's charming daughter whom
Harry had taken out a few times before his job got
in the way, as usual.
"Perhaps you do, though not intimately" was his
cryptic reply, which immediately set her to thinking of
everyone she knew's daughters. So as she
prepared for her birthday party, she anticipated
more than just blowing out the candles, seeing old friends
all together again under her roof, and opening her
presents.
The party was to be held at her weekend house,
an hour's drive out of town. It was a sprawling
old place--a Jordan home, not a
Peascott--and it brought back memories of her
husband. It was the greatest pity, she thought
as she did every year at this time, that Harald could not
be there with her to celebrate, but they had both known
when they married--he was in his forties and she just
twenty-one--that they would not see out their old age
together. Still, it had been worth it for the love and
satisfaction their marriage had brought her.
Harald would be there, in spirit, to wish her happy
birthday, she knew it.
The white clapboard heart of the house had been
a farm in the early eighteen hundreds. Dormers
and wings and extra bits had been added
hapazardly over the decades until it was a
hodgepodge of oddly-shaped rooms, with strange
staircases that sometimes led to nowhere more than a landing
with a window and a view; as well as a generous
supply of comfortable bedrooms and well-appointed
bathrooms.
It straddled a small hill whose sloping
pastures were dotted with horses and a flock of
Jacob sheep. The long wooden "sunset"
porch overlooked a rushing little stream where visiting
children liked to sit, with a miniature rod and line,
hoping to catch brown-speckled trout.
Of all her houses--and she had three,
including the old Peascott mansion on
Boston's Mount Vernon Street and a seaside
villa on Cape Cod--Jordan's Farm was
her favorite.
An enormous tent lined with yellow taffeta
had been erected on the back lawn. The round
tables had matching pale yellow cloths, trailed
with dark green ivy and full-blown cream roses.
There were Georgian silver candlesticks on the
tables and plain but elegant sterling flatware, and
Lenox crystal next to the Henredon plates,
even though she had been warned by the caterers that some
would surely get broken.
"Let them," she said, as carelessly as her son
had of his antique rug when the dog chewed a bone
on it. "They're only plates. All they're
meant for is to give us pleasure. Just see that you
have extra staff to wash whatever is left by hand,
that's all I ask."
Her top-notch team of caterers, butlers, and
waiters were busy in the kitchen and in the tent. The
vintage champagne was on ice in the old wooden
milking pails. Every room in the house was filled
with her weekend guests, and more were en route in the
buses she had chartered to transport them.
A string quartet from Boston's
Berklee School of Music was rehearsing in the
center hall, the canap`es were arranged on
silver trays, and a band, which would play the
nostalgic tunes Miffy was so fond of, was set
up for dancing later. It promised to be a great
evening, and she could hardly wait.
All she had to do now was to put on the
sea-green Valentino that she had picked up in
Rome a couple of months ago on her way
back from Turkey. And then to wait and see
exactly whom Harry was going to surprise her
with.

Harry was in the Ritz bar at precisely ten
minutes before seven. He settled in a corner
table where he could see the door, remembering when
he had done this at Ruby's and Mal had stepped
in out of the rain looking like a tropical flower in a
bunch of weeds. He straightened his black bow
tie and ran his hands through his hair. It was still wet
from the shower, and he wondered vaguely whether he
had combed it. At least he had remembered
to shave.
Thinking of Rossetti, he summoned the
bartender and ordered two vodka martinis, but with
olives--not the onions his buddy preferred--and
he didn't add the shaken-not-stirred bit either.
The waiter set the martinis on the table along
with a dish of pretzels and nuts. When Harry
glanced up, Mal was standing in the doorway,
looking at him.
She was wearing a long taupe-colored slip
dress in some sheer material, swirled with the
tiniest golden beads and cut to a very low V in
front. It clung to the right bits of her as though
it had been designed specially to show off her
graceful body. What there was of the dress was
held up by two barely visible straps. Harry
figured they must have sold it by the ounce.
He loped across the room and took her hand, then
gave her a courtly little bow. "You look
sensational," he said, dazzled. "Whatever do you
wear under something like that?"
She gave him a smiling sideways glance as
they walked to the table. "Don't even ask."
The back of the dress was cut even lower than the
front, and as she walked, it slithered smoothly
over her beautiful butt like cream over peaches.
Harry took a deep, amazed breath, running his
hands through his hair as they sat down.
She looked severely at him. "You shouldn't do
that. Now it looks as though you forgot to comb it."
Then she laughed. "Come to think of it, I've yet
to see you with your hair combed." She eyed him up and
down, considering. He looked handsome and totally at
ease in a well-cut dinner jacket. In
fact, he looked like a man in a Ralph
Lauren ad--the kind who made women's hearts
beat a little faster. "I thought you'd been born
wearing Levi's and black leather. I'm glad
to see I was wrong."
"Classy, huh?" He fingered his satin
lapels, grinning confidently. "By the way, I
ordered drinks."
She eyed the two martinis with raised eyebrows
and he said, "I've been informed by a reliable
source that martinis are the drink of the moment. And that
women consider them glamorous."
She tasted the drink cautiously. "I've
never had a martini before."
"I never even got as far as margaritas."
Their eyes met, and they laughed. "Wouldn't you
rather have a beer?" she said.
He shook his head. "This is definitely a
champagne occasion, and as Doris noticed the first
night we met, at Ruby's, you are
definitely a champagne woman. I just ordered
the martinis to impress you with how au courant I
am in the fashionable world of drinking and dating."
"Is this really a date?"
"If it isn't, I don't know what is."
"Then I intend to enjoy myself."
"Okay. So do I." He took her hand, and
they smiled happily at each other. "We've
been together five minutes and not one cross word."
"Must be some kind of record."
He nodded. "Are you going to drink that thing?"
She shook her head. "I'm saving myself for the
good stuff."
"Very wise." He signaled the barman for the
check. "We'd better get going."
She looked surprised. "I thought you said
eight o'clock."
"I forgot to tell you it's out of town. Mom
always throws her birthday bash at the farm."
She glanced at her dress, dismayed, imagining
a country barbecue. "I'm not dressed for a
farm."
"Don't worry, they'll lend you some
overalls and gumboots when you get
there."
He paid the bill and swept her out of the bar and
through the foyer.
She stopped at the front desk and picked up
a gold-wrapped parcel. "Birthday present,"
she explained, when he looked questioningly at her.
He groaned. "I knew I forgot something."
An enormous white stretch limo was waiting
at the curb. Mal laughed. "Nice going,
detective," she said. "I feel like a
Hollywood starlet."
"Detectives and starlets never drink and
drive. And let me assure you that the last time
I did this was on prom night. With Jessica
Brotherton in strapless shocking-pink taffeta that
shocked the hell out of me--I'd never seen so much
bare skin. We necked all the way home, and
she let me put my hand inside her dress."
He grinned at her, and she said crisply,
"Don't bet on lightning striking twice,
detective."
He clasped his hands to his heart, gazing
to heaven. "Oh, Malone, you don't know how those
words wound me."
She gave him a scathing look. "Now I know
you're crazy."
"Me? I thought it was you."
She looked around for the dog. "What, no
Squeeze?"
"He's not good at parties. He's staying with
Myra tonight." She raised her eyebrows.
"Myra's the other woman in my life."
"I should have known there'd be another woman," she
said resignedly as the limo edged its way out of the
city.
Harry took a bottle of his favorite
champagne from the ice bucket and poured her a
glass. "Welcome to Jordan's Farm, Mal
Malone," he said softly. And he meant it.
It was a magnificent night: balmy,
cloudless, a full moon. The string quartet was
playing Haydn, and white-jacketed waiters were
crisscrossing the wide flower-filled porch
serving canap`es and champagne. Guests milled
on the lawns and lingered by the stream. Miffy
Jordan drifted elegantly around, greeting the
new arrivals with little shrieks of delight,
kissing everyone soundly.
"None of this air-kissing rubbish," she said,
handing them a Kleenex from the box she
carried. "You just have to wipe off the lipstick, or
else live with it like a badge of honor given you
by your hostess."
The long white limousine looked out of place
as it rolled up the lane behind the chartered bus.
"Now I really feel like a starlet," Mal said,
glancing uncomfortably at the sedate black
Mercedes and Saabs parked in the yard.
"Old guard New Englanders don't belong
to the if-you've-got-it-flaunt-it category,"
he explained. "Except for my mother. Wait,
you'll see what I mean."
Miffy was in the hall asking the classical
musicians if they could play "Smoke Gets
in Your Eyes." "It's my favorite song,"
she explained as they stared blankly at her.
Mal thought she looked exactly like the
Hollywood version of a well-brought-up rich
woman of a certain age: flawlessly dressed in
Valentino couture, every perfect natural
platinum hair in place, cheekbones to die for,
and a tight elegant body.
Harry gave her a big hug, then took
Mal's hand and introduced them. "Mom, this
is--"
"Mallory Malone," she said, astonished.
"Well, I never. What a pleasant
surprise. And so much lovelier even than on
television. Welcome, my dear, welcome
to Jordan's Farm."
She gave Mal a lipsticky kiss, then
handed her a Kleenex. "I don't care what they
claim, nothing is kissproof," she said, taking
Mal by the arm and leading her into the throng. "Now,
I want you to meet my guests, all family and
old friends." She glanced shrewdly at Mal.
"You needn't worry, I shan't let them pester
you with questions."
"Besides, Mom's the star of this particular show,"
Harry said. "She doesn't need you stealing her
thunder."
"Is that a gift, dear?" Miffy said,
ignoring him. "How kind of you. I expect
Harry forgot again. He always does. Harry,
put it on the table with the rest. I'll open them
later."
"After midnight." Harry remembered the
annual routine from his childhood days. His mother
had been born at midnight, and she claimed
both days as her anniversary. The
candles were blown out on the stroke of twelve, and the
presents were opened after that.
Miffy had her arm around Mal as she
introduced her to her friends. She turned and looked
over her shoulder at Harry, beaming and nodding
approvingly. He groaned--he only hoped his
mother wasn't going to read more into this than there was,
because at the moment, there wasn't much. Besides, he
had promised Mal no strings, and he meant
to keep his promise.



At about the same time that Miffy Jordan's
birthday guests were sitting down to dinner, the man
parked the gunmetal Volvo on the shabby little
street in South Boston where Suzie Walker
lived, in the turn-of-the-century cottage that, like
so many others, had become a rental unit.
The upstairs portion of the house had been
vacant for several months, which was quite a relief
to Suzie, because when she worked nights, she needed
her sleep and the previous tenant had been a
student who liked to play Whitney Houston singing
"I Will Always Love You" at full blast,
any hour of the day or night.
She relished the peace and quiet. Besides, it
meant she could give a party--and play her own
choice of music as loudly as she liked--without
having to consider the upstairs tenant or, worse,
invite him.
She was working the night shift this week, and she
had spent a pleasant afternoon having her hair
styled and doing a bit of shopping, finding a couple
of bargains at the Gap and a terrific little silk
dress that she could have sworn was Anne Klein
II in Filene's Basement. Her sister,
Terry, was having a party next week, and it would
be exactly right.
She puttered about the cottage, hanging her
purchases neatly in the closet, tidying up.
She preferred living alone in a cheaper area
to living with a couple of roommates in cramped
quarters nearer the hospital, sharing a bathroom
and getting on each other's nerves.
The night was warm and she opened all the windows
to let in whatever breeze there might be. She
fixed herself a cup of herbal tea and took two
Tylenols for the headache that had been bothering her
all day, then heated the packaged
low-fat-chicken-with-pasta she had picked up in the
supermarket. She ate it standing at the kitchen
counter, rereading a letter from her sister that said she was
getting engaged to the young man she had known since
high school, and that the wedding would be in July and
would she be the bridesmaid.
Suzie wondered if bridesmaids could wear
black--at least it would be useful afterwards.
After she had eaten, she called her mother, as she
did every Friday at this time unless work prevented
it. They always had a nice chat about the weekly
events and this time about Terry's wedding.
"You will be able to come to the party next week,
Suzie?" her mother asked hopefully.
"I wouldn't miss it. I even bought a new
dress," she promised. "In fact, I'm
seeing Terry tomorrow, but I'll call now and tell
her."
Terry wasn't home, so she left a
message on her machine saying she would call
back later. Then she hurried into the bathroom
to shower. She hadn't noticed how the time was flying,
and now she would have to rush or she would be late.
The bathroom was at the side of the house, right in
his line of vision. He had the binoculars trained
on the window the instant the light came on. The
glass was frosted, but tonight she had opened it a
crack because it was so warm, and given him an
unexpected treat.
A stream of obscenities spat from his mouth as
he caught a fleeting glimpse of her stripping
off her clothes. She stood there in her bra and
panties, glanced doubtfully at the window, then
stepped across and closed it firmly.
"Cunt," he muttered, "bitch, whore,
cunt ..." The words tumbled over each other in a
vicious litany of hate.
Suzie dressed quickly in her white uniform,
then picked up her purse and checked for her
keys, thankful they had been returned to her.
The headache was still pressing behind her eyes and she
thought it was a good thing she had the weekend off. It
had been a hectic few days at the hospital,
and she had put in long hours--she could use the
break. She planned on spending a lot of it in
bed, just catching up on sleep, as well as doing
some studying because she had exams very soon. She had
arranged to see Terry later in the afternoon, and they
would talk about weddings and dresses. And then
Sunday she had a date with a young intern
from Beth Israel Hospital, but he'd
probably be exhausted--interns always were--so it
would be another early night.
She checked her appearance in the mirror before
she left: smoothing her skirt, straightening her
collar, tucking back her hair. Noting the
shadows under her eyes, she thought longingly of
sleeping in the following day. She smiled at her
reflection and told herself encouragingly, "This time
tomorrow you will look like a different woman, Suzie
Walker."
She had gotten as far as the door before she
remembered that she had not closed the windows, and she
rushed around hastily latching them. She checked the
back door while she was at it and pushed the bolt
into place. Then she walked outside and locked the
front door, testing it to make sure it was
secure.
Her neighbor, Alec Klosowski, who worked
at a bar on Newbury Street, was leaving for
work at the same time. He called hello and
waved. "You can never be too sure," he said,
locking his own door firmly. "There's too many
crazies around to be careless about locks."
Suzie looked doubtfully at him. "I lost
my keys the other day. I dropped them in the
parking lot. They were found and handed in, but I
wonder who had them that night."
He looked seriously at her. "You should get
the locks changed, Suzie. You never know."
"I guess so."
They waved good-bye, and she got into her little
Neon and dumped her bag on the seat next
to her. She edged the car out, thinking worriedly about
what Alec had said. But she told herself that whoever
had found the keys didn't know they belonged to her,
and besides it was so expensive to get locks changed.
On her nurse's salary she just about made it through
the month--there was never anything left over for
extras.
Anyhow, it was the least of her problems. She
rubbed her eyes wearily as she drove off down
the street. Right now she still had the headache, and she
had exams coming up next month and a
bridesmaid's dress to worry about.
He watched her go, her face and her
flame-red hair a quick blur as she drove too
fast down the street, late as usual. He
shook his head, deriding her tardiness. He was
never late for anything. His daily
schedule was timed as precisely as if he'd worked
out every blink of it with a metronome. He could tell
you exactly where he might be at any given time
on any day or night. Except on nights like
this, of course. These were his special nights.
Other people went to the movies, he preferred
reality.
He glanced at his expensive steel and gold
watch. The dial had little red and blue enameled
flags instead of numbers. It was the sort of
trophy a rich yachtsman owned. Although he was not
a sailing man, he liked to give the impression
of being an outdoors, sporty person. Whenever
he was asked what he was doing on a weekend, he
would say casually, "Oh, I guess a little
sailing out at the Cape, if the wind's good.
Maybe some kayaking, we'll see."
It was all a lie, of course. The only times
he went to Cape Cod were when he was hunting--
selecting future media stars. He figured they
should thank him for giving them a moment of glory in
their otherwise mundane lives.
It was still too early for action--lights were on in
other houses, and the odd person was hurrying down the
street. Safe behind his dark-tinted windows, he
took the silver flask of good brandy from his
pocket and poured some into the little cup. He
settled down to wait, sipping it thoughtfully,
anticipating the pleasure to come.



At the party, the last time Harry had seen
Mal his uncle, Jack Jordan, had had his
arm around her waist and was whispering in her ear. And
Mal had been laughing. That was half an hour
ago.
Jack Jordan was a notorious ladies'
man, with four marriages and a string of mistresses
to prove it. He still had an eye for a pretty
woman plus he was tall, silver-haired, and
handsome with a little mustache, and he still had a great line
in flattery, which seemed to get him everywhere.
"The old boy's gone off with my date,"
Harry complained to Miffy.
They were in the tent, checking that the arrangements were
as perfect as she expected.
"Don't worry, Harry. He'll have
to return her for dinner. She's sitting here,
next to you." She plucked Jack's
place card and deftly switched it to a nearby
table. "And now Jack is sitting next to old
Biddy Belmont, who is even older than he
is and deaf to boot. He'll have to repeat every word
he says twice. That'll take the fizz out of his
champagne."
They laughed, and he gave her a hug.
"Anyone ever tell you you're a pretty
special woman?" he demanded, his arm still around
her.
"Your father, the day he asked me to marry him.
Come to think of it, I don't remember him ever
mentioning it again after I said yes. I'm sure
there's a moral in that, somewhere," she added
vaguely.
The butler pounded on a brass gong,
announcing that dinner was about to be served and guests
thronged into the gorgeous tent, assailed by the scent
of roses and good food.
"There you are," Harry said as Mal appeared,
her arm threaded through Uncle Jack's.
The old boy raised a wicked eyebrow. "I
was seeing that Mallory had a good time, Harry.
Couldn't let her loose in this lusty mob of
Peascotts and Jordans, could I?" He
patted Mal's hand possessively, and she
beamed up at him. "I hope I'm sitting
next to you, my dear."
"No, you're not," Harry said firmly.
"You're sitting next to Biddy Belmont."
Jack groaned, "Your mother's punishing me
again."
"She expects every man to do his duty. It's
her party, after all."
"See you later, Jack," Mal called after
him, as he made his way to the neighboring table with a
deep sigh of regret.
"I'm jealous," Harry said, looking at her.
She laughed. "He looks like a central
casting version of a benevolent rich uncle."
"And I can assure you, he's played that role
with quite a succession of young "nieces.""
"More power to him. He's adorable."
"Remember me? The guy you came in with?"
"My date, I believe."
"Same fella." They took their seats at the
table, and he leaned across and whispered in her ear,
"Besides, I missed you."
She slid him a sideways glance, and he
saw laughter in her eyes. "Never thought
I'd hear you admit that, detective."
"I'm human."
She looked mockingly at him, then turned
to her neighbor on her right. And then the caviar was
served, three different kinds over lightly
scrambled eggs, and the celebration dinner was under
way.
Mal knew she was enjoying herself because she
didn't even think about it. She never asked herself,
as she so often had at parties, "Is this really
fun? What am I doing here?"
She had never been to a grand family party like this
one, where everyone had known everyone else all their
lives. They had seen one another through births,
marriages, and deaths and shown up loyally for the
funerals as well as the celebrations. They
probably never even thought twice about it. In their
circle it was just what you did--that was the way life
was. But she would have traded all her success just
to have belonged to it from birth.
She glanced at Harry, who was listening with
interest to a discussion on the merits of retrievers
versus pointers as gun dogs. He turned and
met her eyes, then gave her an encouraging
smile. "You okay?" he murmured in her ear.
"Couldn't be better."
He glanced at his inexpensive but practical
digital watch. "The dancing should be starting
soon. If you had a dance card like in the old
days, I'd write my name in every one."
"Even the waltzes?"
"You think I don't know how to waltz?"
"It's not exactly a required credit for a
homicide cop."
"Ah, but remember I was a legal man before
that. And before that, I was an obnoxious little
prep-school boy whose mother sent him to dance
classes, so he could escort young ladies
to cotillions."
She shook her head, marveling. "Is there no
end to your achievements?"
"It just goes on and on," he agreed
immodestly, as the music started up.
His mother took to the floor first, circling in the
arms of her brother to the strains of Jerome
Kern's "Smoke Gets in Your Eyes,"
while everyone applauded.
"It was their song," Harry told Mal as he
took her hand and led her to the floor. "Hers and
Dad's. She always dances this one first, for
him."
How lovely, Mal thought a touch enviously.
And then she was in Harry's arms, his hand was
pressing firmly into the small of her back, and the
other was holding her fingers, curled lightly in
his. They danced silently. Her eyes were
half-closed, and there was a dreamy look on her
face.
"You dance well," he whispered.
She looked at him. "I promise you I
didn't learn at prep school."
"Where did you?"
"I took lessons. Later. I took
lessons in everything."
He said astonished, "Lessons in how
to live?"
She nodded. "No one taught me the rules
when I was a kid, the social niceties. I
might have been brought up with wolves in the forest for
all I understood."
He held her closer--her hair tickled his
nose, and he thought it was like spun golden silk.
Her skin had the faint elusive scent of flowers
and did wild things to his nerve endings. The tune
ended, but he held on to her hand. "Care to take
a stroll around the garden with me, Malone?" She
nodded, and they walked hand-in-hand from the tent.
Miffy and Uncle Jack watched them go.
"What do you think of her?" she asked.
"Fine young woman. Top class. You can always
tell."
"Stay away from her, you wicked old man,"
she warned. "I have high hopes for her, if
Harry can tear himself away from the job for more than
half a minute."
"He'll be a fool if he doesn't,"
Jack said. "A darned fool, I'd say," he
added admiringly.
Harry led Mal through the gardens his mother
cultivated with such loving care. The trees were
strung with little white lights, and pretty Chinese
paper lanterns dotted the banks of the stream. As
they wandered through the rose garden, Mal checked every
name on the tags, even though the roses were still just
buds.
"Old-fashioned roses are my favorite,"
she said. "I grow some myself, on my terrace, but
the wind and the pollution wreak havoc with them."
"You must tell my mother. She'll be thrilled
to know you're a gardener too. Among your
other talents."
The sound of the band playing "Moon River"
drifted on the warm breeze. He stared at her.
She was still looking at the roses, and he had a
sudden overwhelming urge to take her in his arms.
"Maybe it's the romantic lighting, or maybe
the music, but I was wondering whether "no
strings" included a kiss? Just between old friends, of
course."
She took a step closer. "Technically,
we're not old friends. And a verbal contract is
binding."
"You obviously haven't read the small
print." He slid his hands around her waist,
pulling her gently to him. "Tell me, have I
kissed you before?"
Her eyes linked with his, and she felt that
interesting little catch in her heart. "I believe
so. A friendly kiss, naturally. Before the verbal
contract and "no strings" clause."
"I think I've met my legal equal,"
Harry murmured, bending his face to hers.
She slid her arms around his neck, wanting
to be held closer, feeling the warmth of his hands
on her naked back.
They heard voices over the music, coming
closer, and stepped hastily apart as a group of
guests wandered by. "There's no privacy in the
countryside," Harry whispered, disgruntled.
"Anyhow, this contract would never hold up in
court."
"Why not?" She could see he was smiling.
"Because I'm my father's son, and I'd
plea-bargain with you and make a deal."
"What kind of deal?"
"Extra kisses on demand."
She threw back her head and laughed, but he
stopped her mouth with a lingering kiss that sent little
silken quivers through her belly. It was just as
well she was protected by the "no strings"
clause, she thought, because she liked it a lot when
Harry kissed her like that. But more people were coming. He
took her hand, and they walked back to the house.
"I grew up in this house," he said as they
strolled through the beamed living room to the
pine-paneled library. Mal looked around with
interest. The shelves bulged with an ancient
collection of classics and best sellers.
Parchment-shaded lamps cast a pleasant glow, and
comfortable sofas covered in plain yellow
linen flanked the fireplace, where an enormous
bouquet of garden flowers bloomed instead of a
fire. A painting of a horse, a big bay
mare, hung over the mantel, and other paintings,
mostly of horses and dogs, were interspersed between the
shelves of books.
Mal thought, with an envious catch at her
heart, that it was the real version of the fantasy world
she had created in her penthouse.
"The large painting is of Horse," Harry
said, "my father's favorite. And the one of the
retriever is Dog."
She held up a protesting hand. "Wait a
minute. Horse? Dog?"
He shrugged. "He said he didn't have time
to be thinking about names, and when he called, they
came anyway. I'm just surprised I didn't
end up named Boy. Though come to think of it, he
did tend to call me Son a lot." He
grinned at her. "And you thought you had problems."
"I would have settled for Girl if it meant being
brought up here," she replied wi/lly. "Did
you hate him?"
"Of course I didn't hate him." He
looked astonished at the very idea. "He was my
father--he was who he was. He might not have had time
to think up names for his animals, but he cared about
them all right. And he cared about me."
"Then you loved him? Even though he cost you your
football career," she added.
"Come on, Malone," he said, amused.
"I'm not on your show." He picked up a
photograph in a silver frame. "This is
him," he said, handing it to her. "The genuine
article."
Miffy appeared suddenly in the doorway.
"Oh, Harry, you're showing Mallory the house.
How nice." She drifted, smiling, toward them.
"Harry spent his boyhood here, you know. And I
spent my honeymoon here. Never wanted to go
anywhere else then. Now I'm older, I'm
making up for lost time. I can't get around to all
those distant countries fast enough."
She noticed Mal was holding the photograph. "Ah, that's Harald. My one and
only true love. I miss him like billyo,"
she added regretfully.
Mal looked questioningly at Harry. ""Like
billyo"--an antique English expression
often used by my mother, which we take to mean
"like crazy,"" he explained.
"They should write a song," Miffy said
thoughtfully. ""I'm Billyo Over Y.""
Mal laughed and looked at the picture. She
could see where Harry came from all right.
Miffy read her mind. "No chance Harry was
adopted, is there?" She laughed. "His father
always said he was a true chip off the old
block." She picked up other photographs from
the collection massed on the tables and
sideboards, explaining who they were and how they were
related. "It's all quite complex because the
Peascotts go back so many years and have so many
branches. And the Jordans are almost as bad.
"What about your family, my dear?" she
asked, putting the beautifully framed
photographs back in their places. "Not as
big as ours, I hope. Just think of--" She
stopped herself in time as she caught Harry's warning
eye. She was getting ahead of herself again--she had
been going to say, Think of the size of the wedding
party.
She laughed merrily. "Forgive me--Harry
always says I ramble on. And after all, you two
hardly know each other yet, do you?"
Mal threw an amused glance over her shoulder
at Harry, as Miffy linked her arm and drew her
out onto the porch. He shrugged and pulled a
pained face as though he didn't know what his mother
meant, though of course he did. He thought he'd
better get Mal out of there before Miffy really
put her foot in it.
"Almost time for the cake, Mom," he called.
She glanced at the beautiful diamond evening
watch she was wearing; another long ago birthday
gift from her husband. "So it is, so it is.
Oh, what fun."
Harry marveled at her enthusiasm as she
darted off to make sure her cake would appear on
time in the tent. "She goes through the same performance
every year. And every year I swear she enjoys it more."
"She's wonderful," Mal said. "So ...
vital." She thought that Miffy Jordan was
everything her own mother had not been.
Everyone seemed to know the midnight routine and was
heading in the same direction. They crowded around as
the lights were dimmed. The butler struck the gong
loudly twelve times; it reverberated until their
ears hurt, and then the cake was wheeled in. It was
yellow, of course, and topped with yellow
roses. The band played and they all sang
"Happy Birthday" as Miffy blew out her
candle and cut the first slice of cake.
"As you all know, this first slice is for
Harald, up there in Heaven. May you enjoy it the
best way you can, darling. And of course, the second
slice is for my dear son, Harry."
She continued cutting her cake and listing names,
adding anecdotes and endearments.
Watching her, Mal felt like the little girl at
the movies again. She was in a magical place
where everyone wore beautiful dresses and lovely
jewels; life was wonderful, and everybody lived
happily ever after. Only this time it was real, and
they had let her be a part of it.



At midnight the lights were out in all the
houses on Suzie Walker's street. He
got out of the Volvo, stretching with relief. It was
later than he expected, but he wasn't
worried about that. Suzie was on the night shift.
He knew he had plenty of time.
Keeping to the shadows, he walked quickly down the
street. He was not wearing his uniform--that was for the
special event. Instead, he had put on dark
pants and a black shirt so if by chance he
encountered someone, he would look like any ordinary
passerby.
He slipped across the road and into the tiny
forecourt where she usually parked her car, then
glanced quickly over his shoulder. No one was in
sight. He turned the key in the lock and stepped
inside, closing the door silently after him. The
thrill of the illicit, of the unknown, hit him in a
rush of exhilaration.
He stood in the dark hallway, waiting,
feeling the dense silence. He was breathing
heavily, his pulse raised several notches by the
excitement of his own daring, his own cleverness.
He took the miniflashlight from his pocket and
flicked it on. This time he heard rather than saw the
cat as it scuttled away in panic. He
smiled--he liked animals. He used
to experiment with them as a boy. He'd cut them up
just to hear them scream and see what was inside them,
and his mother would laugh and tell him he should be a
surgeon.
He stepped into the kitchen, keeping the
beam low as he pulled down the windowshade. He
did not turn on the light, in case someone
noticed it had not been on earlier, when Suzie
left for the hospital. He took a pair of thin
rubber gloves from his pocket and slipped them on,
then shone his flashlight around, frowning as he saw
the half-eaten supermarket meal abandoned on the
counter and the pile of dishes in the sink. She had a
dishwasher--why the hell didn't she use it?
He saw the letter, written on pale pink
notepaper decorated with pastel flower garlands,
and read it interestedly. So Suzie was to be a
bridesmaid. Smiling at his own power over her,
he wondered if she would make it to the ceremony.
He knew the answer was in his hands.
The minuscule living room was on the other
side of the kitchen, separated by the counter. He
looked around it quickly, then crossed the narrow
hallway into her bedroom.
He stood in the doorway, breathing deeply,
like a dog seeking the scent of her.
Each woman was different; each had her own
particular odor. Summer Young had been perfume
and lipstick and cigarettes, but Suzie was
sharper, clean, faintly
hospital-antiseptic, overlaid with the rainforest
scent of her bath oil. She smelled exactly
like the person she was--a nurse and an outdoors
woman who liked to walk in the woods on her
weekends off. But under it they were all the same.
They all had that vile, musky female scent.
Like his mother.
Her bed was unmade--they always were. He thought
there was probably not a single woman in the
United States under the age of twenty-five who
ever made her bed in the morning. He sat on the
edge of it, running his hand over the dark-green
sheet printed with a flashy gold pattern. At
least her sheets were clean, even if they did
look like a whore's.
He wandered around the bedroom, picking up her
things and inspecting them: the medical textbook on
her bedside table, the holiday photograph of
her parents holding hands and smiling at the camera.
Her sister--the one who was about to be married, he
guessed. She looked like Suzie, only with dark
hair and maybe not as pretty. A red-haired
boy, probably her younger brother.
He opened the dresser drawers, fingering the
underwear flung in any-old-how. Her
taste ran to lacy thongs and push-up bras. He
liked that. Strings of glass beads and pearls
dangled from the mirror over the dresser, and a box
decorated with a pair of entwined blue and pink
bunnies held a tired-looking collection of
inexpensive earrings.
He stepped into the closet, rifling through the
garments hanging on the rail, sniffing them, rubbing
them against his face. Her shoes were flung
untidily into a corner, even though there was a
plastic grid to hold them. Still, he liked the
contrast between the nurse's comfortable rubber-soled
white flats and her spiky patent leather
stilettos. He picked up the black patent
shoe, caressing its heel as he walked through into the
bathroom.
This was his treasure trove, the place he
liked best. Her personal things, the face
creams and the makeup, were piled in dusty Lucite
trays on the cracked tiled countertop, and a
fresh bar of antibacterial soap perched on a
grooved wooden holder that probably contained more
germs than the soap could ever counteract.
He opened drawers and cupboards, fingering her
tampons and pads. A damp green towel hung
over the shower rail. He pushed it to one side and
inspected the tub. The thin beam of the flashlight
showed a single dark-copper pubic hair curled
near the drain. He picked it up and held it between
thumb and forefinger, examining it. Then he took a
tissue from the box on the counter, wrapped it
carefully, and put it in his pocket.
He looked around for the laundry basket. It
was under the window. The black cat was sitting on
top of it, watching him. This time it did not move.
Getting used to me, he told himself smiling.
Anyhow, he had no need to disturb it. When
Suzie undressed for her shower, she had thrown
her discarded underthings on the floor. They were still there.
He pulled off the gloves and, trembling with
pleasure, picked up the black lace thong and
matching bra. He turned them over and over in his
hands. He looked at the label: Victoria's
Secret. He held them to his face, inhaling
the terrible female scent of her. And he groaned
out loud.
The cat took off, its claws skittering on
the tiled floor as it ran past him. He
didn't even notice.
Still clutching the thong to his face, he
walked quickly into her room and sank down on the
bed. He lay back and unzipped his pants,
pressing the black lace underwear to his crotch.
He groaned again, lost in a solitary sexual
frenzy, writhing, moaning. But what he really
wanted to do was scream.
It was no good of course. It never was. The
only time he could ever reach that ultimate tearing
climax was when he killed them. Tremors shook
his body violently, as if he were suffering a
fit. He was out of control again, caught up in the
past. Thinking of his terrible mother who, even after all
these years, still dominated him.
He was a boy again, trapped in her bed, she was
hitting him with her shoe because he wouldn't touch her.
The spike heel zapped painfully into his
bruised flesh, into his genitals, as she
whispered the horrors she would inflict on him if
he ever told. ...
Suzie drove slowly back down the street.
She parked the Neon, thankful to be home again.
She got out and stood for a moment, breathing in the
warm night air. It seemed to swim around her in
a haze, counterpointed with flashes of light as the
migraine hammered her brain. She clutched her
hands to her head, praying for it to stop. The head
nurse had given her some pills and told her to go
home and get some rest; he said she was no good in
the state she was in. She knew he was right and that it
would only get worse before it got better. That was
how it always was.
Sighing, she put her key in the lock and opened
her door. At least she hadn't lost her keys
tonight, she thought gratefully. She switched on the
hall light, and the cat came running. It had
been a stray and their relationship was friendly but
cool: as long as she remembered to feed it and let
it sleep on her bed, it was okay. She was
surprised when it rubbed around her ankles,
miaowing.
"You've picked the wrong night to look for
affection," she told it wearily.
She walked into the kitchen, blinking with pain as
she switched on the overhead light, then went to the
window to pull down the shade. She stopped in
surprise. It was already down. She remembered
running back into the house to close the windows, but
she didn't recall pulling the shade down. She
shook her head in bewilderment as she turned
away.
The cat jumped onto the counter, watching as she
took a bottle of water from the refrigerator,
poured some into a glass, and swallowed the pills.
She pressed her hands down on the counter, letting
her head droop forward. She felt terrible.

She wasn't supposed to come back. He
sat on the edge of the bed, listening. Panic rose
like bile in his throat as he thought of her out there, of
her coming into the bedroom. He had never encountered this
situation before; it wasn't in his plan of action.
It didn't happen to him.
He could hear her moving around in the kitchen. A
shaft of light shone from the hall through the crack in
the bedroom door. He glanced at the window, but
there was a screen on the outside. He hurried
into the bathroom--the window was too small. He was
trapped.
He heard her in the hall. He went quickly
back into the bedroom and stepped into the closet. His
heart thudded, his pulse raced, and sweat
trickled down his back. It was the sweat of fear.
He had never been confronted by any of his girls.
His plans were always flawless. He was always the one
in control.
He slid his hand into his pocket, took out the
small knife, and removed the plastic case.
Then he stood perfectly still behind the closet
door, the knife ready in his hand. Waiting.



Mal and Harry were in the stretch limo on their
way back to Boston. He was holding her hand and
singing along with Santana, complete with
expressive Latin shakes of the shoulders and
hips.
There was a smile on Mal's face as she
watched him--he was certainly full of
surprises. "Is this a preview of what I can
expect at Salsa Annie's?"
"Unh-unh. This is peanuts, chickenfeed,
nada. Just you wait til I get you on that dance
floor. Which, by the way, is about the size of the table
where you ate dinner. It's hip-to-hip out there,
Malone. You're gonna love it."
"I wonder."
"It's more fun than a lonely bed at the
Ritz-Carlton."
"How would you know?"
He thought about it. "You're right. I don't.
I've never slept at the Ritz--alone or with
anyone else."
"Now that you've relieved my mind on that
score, could we turn that down just a touch."
He grinned at her. "You want something
smoochier? "Moon River" again?"
She laughed; he was so silly, she could have
hugged him. "I'm not sure that Salsa
Annie's is a good trade for Jordan's
Farm. I hated to leave."
"I had to practically drag you out of there.
Fallen for it, have you?"
"It was a wonderful party."
"Want to make a date for her
sixty-sixth?" When she laughed, he said, "By the
way, Mom meant it when she said she loved the
present. And she meant what else she said
too."
Mal had given his mother a beautiful dark-blue
suede photograph album. Miffy had thanked
her with a kiss and said, "My dear, I shall save it
for my grandchildren's pictures. When I'm lucky
enough to have any, that is." And she had looked
meaningfully at the two of them.
"I tried to head her off," Harry
apologized, "but she's single-minded on the
subject. Mothers get that way."
"Not mine."
He gripped her hand tighter, but this time he
did not ask any questions. He wasn't about
to spoil the mood.
They were driving through town. When they got to the
street with Annie's, he told the limo driver
to let them out at the corner.
"I'd never live it down," he explained when
she looked questioningly at him. "The tough homicide
cop arriving at a funky hole-in-the-wall
club in a limo."
"Just like a movie starlet," she added with a
smirk, and he laughed.
A battered steel door, painted a flaking
chili-red, was set flat into the wall of an old
warehouse. A few guys lounged outside,
smoking. Some gave Harry a friendly high-five
as he walked by, but a couple of others slid
quickly away into the shadows. Harry's eyes
followed them, but tonight he was definitely
off-duty. And besides he was enjoying himself too much
to worry about small-time drug dealers.
He would leave them to the guys working the graveyard
shift.
When he opened the door, a wall of sound hit
them. He took a deep breath, eyes closed,
absorbing it. "Great, isn't it," he said in
Mal's ear. She just looked at him, eyebrows
raised in amazement.
The band numbered at least a dozen, with
electric bass and guitar, plus horns,
flutes, fiddles, and a piano player revving
them on with a terrific underlay of rhythmic
Latino melody. A long-legged Cuban girl
in a tiny green satin skirt that just about covered
her busy hips, and an even briefer satin
top, belted out the song in Spanish, dancing up
a storm as the trumpets counterpointed the rhythm.
The whole place vibrated with vitality. Harry
put his arm around her and drew her onto the
floor.
"But I don't know how to do this," she
protested.
"Just hold on to me, Malone and I'll show
you," he said, sweeping her to him.
Rossetti watched from the balcony at the far
end. "Will ya just look at that, Vanessa," he
said. "If it isn't the Prof--andwitha date.
Jeez," he added, stunned. "The Prof's wearing
a tux. And she looks like an ad for Armani."
They hung over the rail, staring. "And I'll be
darned if the date isn't Ms. Mallory
Malone," he added, grinning. "The Prof sure
knows how to keep a secret. We've caught our
workaholic, too-busy-to-date Jordan
red-handed."
"Just like you were Sherlock Holmes and he was
Moriarty," Vanessa added, grinning.
Rossetti glared exasperatedly at her.
"Did you ever hear the old saying about being too
smart for your own good?" He grabbed her hand and
hurried her down the stairs.
"Where are we going?" she gasped, clutching the
metal banister, trying to keep up with him in her
high heels.
"We're gonna say hello to the detective
and his friend." He pulled her onto the dance
floor, edging closer to Harry.
Harry was smiling into Mal's eyes, holding
her at arm's length. "Like this," he said,
demonstrating. She bit her lip, concentrating as
she tried to follow him.
"I think you need Latin blood for this," she
muttered, throwing her head back and abandoning herself
to the music.
"You're lookin' good, Malone," Harry
yelled over the wall of sound. "Only thing is,
you're supposed to be doing that in close
proximity to me."
"Uh-oh, there goes our contract again." She
was in his arms, gripped confidently close to him.
She could feel his hard body against hers. "Does
this get any better?" she murmured, nestling
closer.
"It could do." He liked the way she fitted
against him, the movement of her hips under that slinky
slide of gossamer. In fact, he liked her a
whole lot. ...
"What d'ya say, Prof? Enjoying yourself
tonight?"
Harry groaned. He lifted his head from where it
had been grooved against Mal's and looked into her
eyes. "Detective Rossetti," he said
exasperatedly.
"He thinks he's Sherlock Holmes,"
Vanessa added.
"Hi, Vanessa." Harry turned
reluctantly, his arm still around Mal's waist.
"We interrupt somethin'?" Rossetti glanced
innocently at the two of them. They looked hot
and happy, and her hair was mussed.
"Mallory Malone, meet Detective
Carlo Rossetti. And this is Vanessa, who will
be twenty-one in a few weeks' time."
"You're invited to the party," Vanessa said.
Then: "Oh wow, you're that Mallory Malone.
Hey, you're great."
Mal smiled. "Thanks. It's nice to meet
you."
"Good to meet you too." Rossetti shook her
hand. "You guys absconded from the Ritz tonight or
what?" he asked, eyeing their smart getup.
Mal laughed. "We left the limo at the
corner. We didn't want to look like movie
starlets."
"No chance of that," Rossetti said
gallantly. "You're a bona fide star. Of
course, I can't say the same for the Prof."
"Why does he call you the Prof?" Mal
asked Harry.
"The Harvard law thing," Rossetti told
her. "You get it?" She nodded,
laughing.
"If you must know, Rossetti, we've just come
from my mother's birthday fiesta," Harry said.
"You took her home to meet your mom already?
Nice going, Prof."
Harry groaned. He clutched Mal to him,
hiding her. "Good night, detective."
"Good night, Prof." Rossetti was laughing
as he swept Vanessa into the dance.
"See you at my party," Vanessa called over
her shoulder.
"Come on," Harry said to Mal, leading her to the
door.
"Where are we going?"
"On to the next event. You haven't forgotten
our itinerary, have you?"
They walked back to the limo, and Harry gave
the driver the address.
"Another club?" Mal took a compact out of
her tiny gold bag and powdered her nose.
"Wait and see." He watched, fascinated,
as she applied her lipstick. Her mouth looked
red and juicy. It seemed to be sending him a little
message: Lick me. ... With a sigh of
regret, he contented himself with holding her hand
until the limo dropped them off, ten minutes
later, outside a more discreet-looking club on
Brookline.
"You know how to play billiards?" Harry
asked as he pushed open the door.
"A little."
He grinned. "This is really your night for
learning, isn't it. Come on, I'll show you."
Inside it was furnished like a classy English
library. There was a bar and pool tables with shaded
lights slung low over them, and like Annie's, it
was crowded.
They knew Harry there. He got a table and
chalked up her cue. "Okay, now watch," he
said, demonstrating how to hold the cue, how
to slide it between her fingers, how to measure up the
ball.
"Okay."
He placed the cue ball and the red and told her
where to stand. "Go for it," he said, stepping back,
watching her.
Mal leaned over the table and took careful
aim. The gossamer dress slid up over her
beautiful butt as she moved. Harry shifted his
eyes regretfully away from temptation.
The red glanced off the white and rolled gently
into the side pocket. She looked up at him and
winked. "S'easy, Prof."
He sighed. "In my mother's day you would have let
the gentleman win. Made him feel good, soothe
his masculine ego."
She grinned. "I'm more the salt-on-wounds
type. Set 'em up, Prof."
He looked suspiciously at her. "Why do
I get the feeling you've played this game before."
"Probably because I used to work in a place like
this. Once upon a time. Many moons ago. Though
it didn't look exactly like this," she added,
remembering with a shudder the bleak little pool hall
with the fluorescent lights and the hollow-eyed men
coughing cigarette smoke into their beer.
She lifted one eyebrow and threw him a
challenging look. "Bet you fifty I can beat
you."
"You're on. I have the feeling I may
regret this."
She proved him right, and half an hour later
he handed over the fifty.
"I'd tuck it down the front of my dress
in true barhall style," she said, "but as you may
have noticed, the neckline is too low for that."
"I did notice, and I might add that it was
worth the fifty just to see you lean across the table in
that dress."
"Sexist pig," she said, linking her arm in
his. "What next, Prof?"
"Oh, I think maybe, a nightcap."
The limo dropped them in Louisburg
Square. She stared, astonished, at the
magnificent old house. "This is where you
live?"
"Only on the lower floors. The other
apartments are rented out."
He opened the door, and she stepped past him
into the hall. The mountain bike was propped against the
wall, and his helmet sat on a beautiful
eighteenth-century console table. There was a pair of Rollerblades underneath, and a dog's chewbone
in the center of the dark green Persian rug.
"It looks like home," she said approvingly,
as he showed her into the living room. "Seriously,
Harry, it's beautiful. Even with the Nautilus
in here, this room still manages to capture the
graciousness of another era."
"Thank you, Malone. Just make yourself
at home. What can I fix you?"
"Coffee, please."
She peeked curiously into his bedroom. It
was minimalist, in bronze tones, with a
hard-looking Jacobean four-poster, a couple of
night tables, an old chair, a chewed rug, and
not much else.
"Squeeze ate the rug when he was a pup,"
Harry called from the kitchen. "He was sick for a
week. Never chewed anything he wasn't meant
to again."
The bathroom was like a time warp. "How do you
function in here?" she wondered, looking for counter
space.
"Very well, thank you." He switched on the
coffee machine. "It works for me."
"Mmmm." She wandered into the kitchen. "Would you
just look at this?" She marveled at the high-tech
steel and granite. "You never told me you could
cook."
"I can't--it's all for show. I always meant
to learn. One day I'll take that trip to cooking
school in Tuscany, see how I'd make out as
a chef."
"I can bet you right now. Not good."
She leaned against the granite counter, arms
crossed over her chest, looking at him. "I've
had a great time tonight, Harry. Thank you."
"It's my pleasure, ma'am." He gave
a courtly little bow.
"Mal," she corrected him.
"And not a day over thirty-five."
She laughed and pummeled him in the chest. "Oh
God, you're the pits, Harry Jordan. I was
being serious."
"I know you were." He caught her to him,
cupped her face in his hand. They looked
searchingly at each other for a long moment.
"What about the verbal contract?" she whispered.
"This is a supplementary clause," he said.
And then he kissed her.
It was a tender kiss, trembling as a
teenager's. His lips were warm, hers soft, parting
as he banded his arms around her.
She forgot about breathing--it didn't seem
to matter. All she wanted was his mouth on hers.
She laced her hands through his thick curling hair,
and tilted her head back, feeling his fingers on
her skin. She was lost in it, drinking him in.
He took his mouth away, and she
gasped for air. "I promise I didn't mean
to do that," he said shakily, still holding her.
"Me neither." She thought if he let go of her,
she would simply slide to the floor.
"Coffee?"
She nodded, big-eyed, breathless. He helped
her onto a stool at the kitchen counter and poured
coffee into two plain white mugs. "How about a
sandwich?"
She began to laugh, helplessly. "Oh,
detective," she groaned, "how did you know
it's exactly what I want?"
He grinned back at her. "Extrasensory
perception." He took two jars out of the
refrigerator. "Mayo or mustard on your
turkey?"
"Both," she said, still laughing.



Suzie kicked off her shoes as she walked
into the bathroom. She brushed her teeth, rinsed
her mouth, and washed her face. She held the
cold washcloth to her throbbing head; it felt
soothing and she decided to fix an ice pack.
She padded slowly back into the kitchen and opened
the refrigerator. It was an older model, without
an automatic ice-maker, and the ice-cube
tray was empty. She sighed--she must have forgotten
to fill it last time she used it.
Then she remembered the two-pound bag of
frozen peas she had bought a couple of months
ago when she had sprained an ankle. It had
worked as good as any expensive ice pack because it
was flexible. She could wrap it in a pillowcase
and put it on her head.
Carrying the bag of frozen peas, she trailed
into the bedroom. The pills were making her feel
even woozier--the head nurse had told her they
would make her sleepy. "You'll probably
sleep most of the day," he had said. Suzie had
felt relieved because, sleeping, she wouldn't have these
flashing lights in front of her eyes, and
hopefully the crushing pain would go away.
But if she were sleeping, she would miss her
meeting with her sister. She glanced doubtfully at
the clock. It was very late, but she knew Terry
would still be out on the town with her fianc`e. So she
decided to call and leave a message on her
machine.
She put down the frozen peas and began
unbuttoning her nurse's white overall.
The cat ran to her. He jumped onto the bed,
then crouched, gazing at her, tail swishing.
"What's the matter, Quentin?" she asked,
surprised. "Settle down, why don't you."
She stepped out of the overall and took off her
bra, then sank onto the bed, rotating her neck
slowly, trying to ease the pain. Wearily, she
picked up the phone and dialed Terry's number,
waiting patiently for the answering machine to pick
up.
He stepped from the closet. Her back was
toward him. He tiptoed closer.
"Hi, Terry, it's me," she said when the
machine picked up. "I'm not feeling too great
--it's this migraine thing again. They gave me some
pills at the hospital. They'll make me
sleep, so I don't think I'll be able to make
it tomorrow. ... Well, it's today really. ..."
The cat stiffened, staring balefully over her
shoulder. It arched its back, hissing, its eyes
glinting like red coals in the lamplight.
"Quentin, what's gotten into you?" Suzie
turned to see what he was staring at. Cats go
spooked at nothing sometimes. ...
"Oh, my God," she said in a strangled
whisper. "Oh, my God, oh, my God."
She clutched the telephone receiver to her heart,
anguished. "What are you doing here?" she said.
"What--"
He swept the phone to the floor and grabbed
her. With a terrified cry she slid down through his
arms and out. She was running. He hurled himself after
her, took her in a tackle, grabbed her leg,
brought her crashing down.
Suzie screamed. She screamed and screamed.
...
He was sitting on the floor. He grabbed her
thick curling red hair in his fist and dragged her
viciously toward him until her head rested in his
crotch. She lay helplessly on her back between
his legs. Her face was drained of color, her
eyes dark with shock.
He wrapped her hair around his hand, twisting it
tighter, and she moaned with pain. Suddenly, she
began to scream again, a high-pitched wailing sound.
He held the tip of the knife against her
throat. "Scream, and I'll kill you," he
whispered.
She stopped screaming and lay still. He shuddered
with relief. He was in control again.
Next door, Alec Klosowski was
returning from his job as a barman. He had just
put his key in the lock when he heard a noise.
He swung around, listening. He could have sworn it
was a scream--and that it came from next door.
He noticed, surprised, that Suzie's car
was back. He had assumed she was working the night
shift. A light was on in the kitchen too. He
guessed she had come home early and that the noise
had been a cat yowling. There were plenty of strays
around here, and they often made a racket at
night. Suzie had even adopted one of them,
though she said it still acted like a stray.
He unlocked his door and let himself in. It had been a long night.
The two-pound package of peas chilled
Suzie's spine where she had fallen on top of
it. She shifted slightly. He nicked the
knife across her throat, and she felt blood
trickle down her breasts.
She stared up at him, too terrified to speak.
He was mad, she could see it in his eyes. She
knew she had to do something, but she dared not scream.
Tremors ran through her body, and she understood
she was in shock. She was fading into unconsciousness
--this was her last chance. She slid her right hand under
her body. Arching her back slightly, she
clutched the bag of peas.
His eyes were closed; he was thinking of what he
was about to do, enjoying as he always did this ultimate
moment of power. Even though it was not happening
exactly the way he had planned, Suzie
Walker was his.
Suzie grasped the frozen peas, her only
weapon. If she could distract him even for just a
moment, she could run out into the street and shout for
help. Surely then someone would come and save her.
It was now or never. Heaving herself up, she
flung the frozen peas into his face. The bag
split from the force of the blow, and the peas rattled
onto the floor.
He let out a roar, and his hands went
automatically to his eyes. She was on her
feet, crunching over the peas. The front door
had never seemed so far away. ...
She heard him cry out. She had three more
steps to go. ... Oh, God, she couldn't get the
latch to open. ...
He grabbed her from behind, and dragged her head
back. Suzie's eyes were black with horror as
she gazed back at the face of her killer.
"Don't," she begged. "Please don't."
And then he raised his arm and brought the knife
swiftly down across her throat.
A gurgling scream erupted from her. He let
go of her hurriedly as the blood spurted. Still
making that terrible bubbling, retching noise, she
staggered toward the bedroom. She reached the door,
clutched at it. Her bloody hands left a red
trail down it as she sank to her knees. He
watched for a minute, then he went and stood over
her.
Suzie could no longer lift her head. She
knelt on the floor, staring dully at his shoes.
She was drowning in her own blood, and she was never
going to come up again. She slithered in slow motion
down and down and down. Her head came to rest on
his black Gucci loafers.
He stared coldly at her. She was finally
quiet. But she had seen him. He had to be
sure.
He grabbed a handful of her hair, lifted her
head, and slit the carotid artery. Just to make
sure.
He let her drop back to the floor and stood
there, breathing heavily. She was naked except for
her underpants, but he had no sexual feeling
toward her. It was not the way he did things; this was
different.
He glanced down at himself; and saw her blood
on his shirt, on his pants, on his shoes.
Her blood was all over him.
Panic set him trembling violently.
Suddenly he was like a man in the final stages of
malaria, sweating and shaking. It was all her
fault. She shouldn't have come home when she
wasn't meant to. It would have been so precise,
so clean, so satisfying later, if only she had
kept to her usual pattern of behavior. He
had had it all planned.
Crazy with rage, he dropped to his knees
and began hacking at her. He slashed her over and
over again. Tears ran down his face,
"Whore," he sobbed, "vile filthy
bitch. ..."
It was over in a minute. He controlled himself
and stood up. He stepped back from her,
contemplating his handiwork. Then he looked
at his bloody hands. He was still wearing the thin
rubber gloves. He had been clever after all.
He walked into the bathroom and rinsed the blood
from the gloves. He patted them dry, blotted
her blood from his clothes with the damp towel, cleaned
the knife, and put it in his pocket.
He turned off the bathroom light, then the
lamp in the bedroom. He took one last look
at Suzie lying in the doorway. Then he
stepped over her body, walked into the kitchen, and
turned out the light. He peered anxiously through the
window into the street. It was empty. The frozen
peas crunched under his feet as he went to the front
door.
The terrified cat ran from its hiding place
under the hall table. He stumbled over it, cursing
as it fled into the darkness. The small knife
slipped from his pocket and fell, unnoticed, to the
floor as he eased open the front door.
He closed it softly behind him, hearing the latch
click shut. He looked left and right, then
hurried across the street into the shadow of the parked
cars.
Alex Klosowski was just opening his bedroom
window when he saw him. He smiled--so that was why
Suzie was home early, he thought as he
climbed, yawning, into bed. He heard the engine
start up and then the car pass his house. But by that
time, he was almost asleep.

"I missed Squeeze tonight," Mal said,
snuggling further down in the tan coach-hide
bucket seat as Harry drove down an
almost-empty Charles Street back to the Ritz.
He shook his head, disbelieving. "Malone, you
hardly know him."
"I hardly know you too."
"You surely know me better than I know you."
She glanced warily at him. "We're not
back to that again, are we?"
He shrugged. "Why not?"
"Okay, I promise to tell you all about
myself this weekend. Not that it makes fascinating
listening, but I guess there's not much else to do in
the mountains."
"It's a good place to purge your soul." She
was silent, and he added, "I'll let you take
Squeeze for a long walk in return for your
confidences."
"Thanks."
"Here we are, Cinderella." He pulled up
in front of the hotel. She had insisted she must
get back to the Ritz before dawn, saying she
couldn't just walk into a hotel at breakfast time
wearing last night's evening dress and makeup.
Even though it was all innocent.
She smiled at him, then leaned across and kissed
him on the mouth. "I'll see you tomorrow. Today."
"Seven o'clock," he said. "Bright and early."
"Hardly worth going to sleep."
"Certainly not alone--and at the Ritz."
She was laughing as she walked, with that
tantalizing little cream-over-peaches movement,
away from him and into the hotel. He would carry the
memory into his dreams.

The man forced himself to drive the Volvo
slowly. He couldn't afford to get stopped by the
police, not in the state he was in.
The journey home seemed to take forever. He
didn't even hear the classical music he
usually enjoyed while driving back from his
killings, sated and happy. It had never been like
this before--out of control. It was all he could do
to concentrate on driving. He knew that if he
got stopped, he was sunk.
He breathed a sigh of relief when he finally
turned into his own street and then into his own
driveway. The garage doors swung shut behind
him. He cut the engine and leaned limply over the
steering wheel. He was shaking.
He climbed out of the car, hurried to the door,
and unlocked his battery of locks and bolts with
numb hands. Finally he was inside. He leaned
against the wall for a minute, gasping for air like a
man having a heart attack. And then he stumbled
upstairs to the locked room.
He wore the special key on a long
silver chain around his neck, tucked into his
shirt, where no one would ever see it. When he
fumbled for it, his fingers encountered the soft, pungent
stickiness of Suzie's blood. He groaned,
pounding frantically on the door with his fists.
"Let me in. Please, let me in. ..."
He began to cry.
He ripped off his bloody shirt, then knelt
in front of the lock and fitted the key shakily
into it. Finally the door swung open. Moans
ripped from his throat as he struggled to his feet.
Then he stepped inside the room and
slammed the door behind him.



Harry thought life was pretty good. It was the
next morning, and he was driving his Jeep.
Squeeze was in the back, and Mallory Malone
was in the passenger seat--where, he thought, she
looked as though she belonged.
She was fast asleep. Every now and then he stole
a glance at her, marveling at the long eyelashes
curving along her cheeks, missing the mocking
sidelong glances she gave him every now and then
to keep him on his toes.
Squeeze had his head out of the window, sniffing
up the fresh piney smells, as they wound up the
side of the mountain. Harry took a side road
through the woods, bouncing over the potholes. They
drove past a small inn on the edge of a
placid brown lake, famous for its trout
fishing, then through a minivillage, with a red barn that
was also the general store, selling everything from milk
and bread to hammers and nails, and kerosene for
lamps, plus gas from a solitary pump out
front. A few houses were huddled together like cows
in a field, painted white, with black gingerbread
trim over the Victorian gables and wide
front porches. A couple of dogs lazed
outside and one ran after the Jeep, barking
halfheartedly at Squeeze who put his paws
on the backseat, eager to get out after him.
"Where are we?" Mallory slithered upright,
looking around.
"We're here," he announced, taking the
slope up to the cabin in a final fast sweep.
He swung into the graveled driveway, stepped
on the brakes, and spun her around. "Only way
to get her up here," he said casually as Mal
gasped, clinging to her seat. "It's hell trying
to back down that slope."
"It must have taken a lot of practice
to perfect that maneuver." She glared at him.
"I thought my end had come."
He grinned as he opened the door for her.
"That's only the beginning. Madame." He bowed,
holding out his hand.
Ignoring him, she jumped out. "Oh," she
said, and then "Oh" again, smiling.
"Do I take those as words of approval?"
"Oh, definitely."
The log cabin was perched at the top of a steep
incline. It was square, rugged, and compact,
built of cedar, with soaring windows and a peaked
overhanging roof, meant to shoulder a hefty
burden of snow. There was a broad porch all the
way around it, and a wide chimney built of
local rock. Flowers grew in mossy
baskets on the porch, and the tall double doors
looked thick enough to keep out an invading army.
Mal sighed enviously. "What other
real-estate surprises do you Jordans have in
store for me? A castle in Spain? A villa
in Tuscany?"
"This is it, I'm afraid. Besides, I think
you need to be at least a marquis to qualify for a
castle. All we Jordans can run to is plain
mister."
"And detective," she reminded him.
"Let's forget the detective, just for this
weekend."
Squeeze whined, and she said, "Oh, poor
darling, we forgot him."
Harry opened the car door, and the dog gamboled
around their feet in an ecstasy of excitement.
"I can see I'm not the only one who loves
it here," she said.
Harry laughed as the dog chased off into the
woods. "I think he feels closer to his
wolf ancestors here. He's back to being a
wild creature."
He took out the bags and carried them up to the
house. Mal followed with the picnic basket
she'd had the chef at the Ritz prepare. He
unlocked the door, and she stepped inside another
of the Jordan set-pieces of perfection.
The curved cedar logs had faded to a mellow
hue, and the wide-planked floors gleamed under
colorful rag rugs. There were Navaho wall
hangings, and Frederic Remington bronzes of
horses and riders on the massive side tables.
A Norman Rockwell of a New England
family was propped on the solid six-inch thick
slab of cedar that formed the mantel. The
wall-sized fireplace was built of rock and was
wide enough to roast an ox, if you were so inclined, and the
huge sofas arranged in front of it were deep enough
to get lost in.
"Oh," Mal said again. "Oh, Harry."
He ran his hand over the stubble on his chin,
looking amused. "For a reporter, you are
surely a woman of few words."
"I thought that said it all. But if you want it in
writing, it's bliss. Harry, do you realize
a woman could marry you just for your real estate?
Each place you take me, I never want
to leave." She plumped down in a corner of the
toast-colored sofa, beaming at him.
"I'll bear that in mind, Malone. Come on,
I'll show you the rest."
They walked to the soaring wall of windows at the
back, where Mal gasped with delight. The side
of the mountain fell away in a sheer drop, and through
a lacy vista of greenery, she could see mountain
peaks and a distant lake. Harry opened the glass
doors, and they went onto the deck, leaning on the
porch rail, drinking in the silence and the beauty.
High in a tree a bird warbled a riff; the
wind rippled through the leaves, and small
creatures rustled through the undergrowth. Even the
sunshine seemed tangible, bathing them in warmth and
adding a golden sheen to the view.
"I've run out of superlatives," she said,
weakly.
"Every time I come here, I ask myself what I'm
doing on the city streets, hunting down
killers," Harry said. "I see first hand the
hell man inflicts on man. Close up and in
Technicolor. And then there's all this." He
swept his arm across the view. "It's kind of a
renewal, coming here."
""It restoreth my soul,"" she quoted,
looking at him.
"Whoever wrote that psalm got it right. Though
some I've brought here would not agree with that
sentiment."
She knew who he must mean. "Your wife?"
He nodded. "Jilly hated it. Once was enough
for her. She said it was just the kind of place she had
been running away from all her life." He
made a wry face. "She was twenty-one at the
time."
"And a nice, well-brought-up young debutante
whom you had escorted to cotillions, and who led
you on by letting you put your hand down her dress
on the way home from the prom."
"Is that what you really think?"
She shrugged. "Who else would you marry?"
He was leaning on the porch rail, staring at the
view, but she had the feeling he wasn't seeing
it.
"Jilly was nineteen when I met her," he
said quietly. "She was a waitress, working at
a roadhouse outside of town. Country
Cousins, it was called.
"She was from a small town in Alabama, and
she had this soft southern accent that turned my bones
to jelly, just listening to her. She had long blond
hair and eyes the color of whiskey, and when she
walked across the room, every guy in the place
watched her. She was wild and reckless. She
drove an old Harley, and I'd wait around
until she got off work, just to see her take off
down the highway, blond hair flying.
"When I asked her out, she turned me down
flat. "Go home to your pa, sonny," she
told me, with all the superior wisdom of a
mature woman of the world talking to an ignorant
student. Not even the Porsche could entice her to go
out with me. "There's guys with Ferraris come in
here. So tell me, why do I need you?"' she said
to me.
"I kept after her for months, but she wasn't
having any of it. She said we were just not on the
same wavelength.
"I knew she was doing drugs. I even knew
the guy who supplied them." He looked at
Mal. "You have to understand--Jilly looked like the
role model for Miss Health and Purity. The
tall blond all-American girl. I hated
the drugs, and I hated him even more for getting her
them.
"Then I asked her to come to my graduation, at
Harvard. I was astonished when she agreed.
"What do they wear at these fancy
granduations?"' she asked, and I could see for
once she was nervous. "Whatever," I said.
"Just keep it simple."
"She showed up in a sweater set and pearls and a
knee-length plaid skirt, with her hair tied
back with a ribbon. I thought she looked
wonderful, like a girl from the fifties instead of the
usual black leather spaced-out hog-rider.
"My graduation changed her life. She sat
there next to my mother and father, conducting herself like a
lady, saying all the right things in that slow southern
drawl and just eating it up.
"We had the celebration dinner at
LockObers, where she insisted I tell her the
story of why the painting of the reclining nude, over
the bar, was draped in black whenever
Harvard lost to Yale. She was suddenly
fascinated by all the tradition that came with
college and money.
""This is it, Harry," she said to me later.
"I'm quitting waitressing, I'm quitting
doing drugs, and I'm quitting the Harley.
I'm gonna be a lady."
"And she did. It was effortless--the right
haircut, the right clothes, the right manners. She
was charm itself by the time we got married. And then I
went and pulled the upper-class image right out from
under her.
""I married a lawyer, not a cop" was
exactly what she said to me when she told me she
was leaving. We had been married two years, but the
last year had been lonely for her. She already had
someone else waiting in the wings."
Harry dragged his eyes back from the view, but
Mal could tell it was his past he was still seeing.
He shrugged. "That was that. I had offered her what
she wanted and then taken it away. She liked the
social life and the parties and the lunches and the
clothes. She has it all now, in Greenwich,
Connecticut. She has two children and devotes a
great deal of her time to charity affairs."
Mal could see he was wounded from the expression in
his eyes. She said gently, "I'm sorry,
Harry."
"Don't be. I'm over it. I can even wish
her well now. We speak occasionally. She's a
nice ordinary woman." He gave a wry
grin. "She wanted a lawyer, and I wanted a
Harley rider with her long blond hair blowing in
the wind. I've had a soft spot for waitresses ever since."
He slid his arm along her shoulders, drawing
her nearer. "I told you this was a good place
to purge your soul."
He kept his arm around her shoulders as they
walked up the wide staircase. The old pine
treads were broad and shallow and creaked noisily.
He flung open the big arched door at the top
and said, "It's all yours."
She took in the beamed cathedral ceiling and the
wall of windows overlooking the same
magnificent view. And the simple pine bed,
puffy with feather quilts, and the polished floors
scattered with silky old rugs. The huge
armoire must have been hewn by a master craftsman
on the spot, because there was no way it could
ever have been carried in there. A couple of comfortable
old chairs, covered in red-and-white-checked
wool were arranged in front of the stone hearth, and a
faded chaise longue had been placed in front
of the window to catch the spectacular view.
Rosy-shaded lamps were meant to cast a warm glow
on cold winter nights, and the shelves were stocked
with an eclectic selection of books for the
insomniacs.
"I almost wish it were snowing." Mal heaved a
contented sigh. "We could throw a log on the fire
and light the lamps and ..."
"And?" He raised a hopeful eyebrow.
"And eat our picnic," she finished firmly.
"I don't know about you, but I'm starving."
They walked back downstairs and into the big
square kitchen. It was unexpectedly
old-fashioned, with tiled countertops, simple
pine cupboards, and an ancient steel
restaurant stove that took up half a wall.
There was a stone fireplace in the corner, and a
rugged old pine table that had been scrubbed clean
for so many years it was bleached white. A dozen
mismatched chairs were arranged around it.
"The cabin always used to be crowded when Dad was
alive," Harry said. "And my grandfather before him.
It was always full of aunts and uncles, cousins,
grandparents, friends. And dogs, of course. This
old stove has yielded up many a simple
banquet. When I was a little kid, I used
to hide under the table when I was supposed to be in
bed and they were eating dinner. Of course they knew
I was there, but they let me pretend I was putting
one over on them. The wine flowed, and the
anecdotes and reminiscences, the stories of the
fish they'd caught, or the quality of the day's
skiing, depending on the season.
"I liked it best when the snow was falling against
the windows and the fire roared in the grate, and there was
the smell of the rich stew my mother cooked up, and the
fresh-baked bread that was Dad's specialty.
His relaxation, he called it. He would stand there
punishing the hell out of the dough with his fists, kneading
it. Mom always said he was imagining it was his
clients he was beating up."
There was a reminiscent smile of pure
pleasure on Harry's face that Mal envied.
She envied him those kind of memories, because all
she had were blank spaces where there should have been
family, friends, warmth, and relationships.
Harry rubbed his hand across the fast-growing stubble
on his chin, smiling. "They knew how to enjoy
themselves in those days. Very little man-made entertainment
was allowed up here--no TV, no radio, though
my mother was permitted her old record player.
It's still there on a shelf next to the fireplace
in the living room, along with her collection of
long-playing vinyl records--including
"Smoke Gets in Your Eyes." And then there
was the old upright piano that everyone took a turn
at, even me, though none of us was very good at it.
We would play board games, or poker, on the
afternoons when it was too snowy to venture out, and
charades after dinner. Then someone would tinkle a
tune on the piano, or maybe Mom would put
on a record while they sipped a bedtime glass
of brandy, with the dogs stretched out in front of the
fire."
He said, "I can still see them all, in the glow
of the lamplight, exactly as they were, though so
many of them are just ghosts now. Happy ghosts, I
like to think. Sometimes when I'm here alone, I
imagine I can feel them around me. It's a
comfortable feeling, easy, like being with old friends."
Mal was staring at him, as eager as a child listening
to a fairy story. He shrugged and said, "Now you
know why I love the place. It's the continuity of
it, the memories. The kind of memories I'd
like to hand down to my own children."
He went to the counter and opened the picnic
basket. "I thought you were starving." He was back
in a teasing mode again, but Mal was still thinking about the
glowing picture he had painted of an unknown
world. She was greedy for his life, not for the food.
Harry scooped Purina Chow Mix
into Squeeze's metal bowl, and the dog came
bounding in from under the deck, where he'd been sniffing
out potential rabbits.
Mal arranged the picnic out on the deck,
while Harry got plates and cutlery.
He eyed the lavish banquet of roast
chicken, with new potatoes in dill
vinaigrette dressing and fresh asparagus
spears, amazed. There was a wedge of French
Vignotte cheese, a loaf of crusty bread,
and fresh pears poached in red wine. "I was thinking
along the lines of a Matisse sandwich," he said,
amazed.
Mal groaned. "I bring you food for the gods,
and you want a sandwich."
"Just fooling. In fact, this picnic calls
for a good red wine."
He made to go into the house to get some, but she
called him back. "Water's good. I need a
clear head for the hike you're taking me on afterward."
"Afterward? I might just need a rest."
She laughed. "Listen, Harry Jordan, I
bought the proper hiking gear specially for the occasion,
and I intend to use it."
The dog's pale blue eyes were fixed
longingly on the food. Harry threw him a
piece of chicken. "A dog's got to get his
strength up for this marathon hike you're taking him
on," he said.
She smiled, chewing contentedly on a spear of
asparagus, sipping icy mountain water, and
drinking in the view. Happiness was like money, she
thought; when you didn't have it, you didn't really know
what it meant, and when you did, you didn't even
think about it. It was just there.
They dawdled over their picnic, then sounding very
official, Harry said, "Okay, you have five
minutes to change, then we're off. Before the weather
turns."
She gave him an oh-come-on look,
checking the cloudless sky as she ran up the
stairs.
"By the way," she said when she got to the top,
"where do you sleep?"
He gave her a cheeky grin. "I thought you'd
never ask. I'll show you when we get back.
Don't worry. There are enough bedrooms here for you
and Squeeze and me to each have our own space,
plus a fair number of others should anyone drop
in. Not that it's likely, Malone."
"Mallory," she corrected him over her
shoulder, as she walked into the wonderful room that
she was being allowed to pretend was hers just for one
perfect night.
She changed quickly into sturdy hiking shorts that
had what seemed an excessive number of
pockets, a white polo shirt, thick gray
socks, and stiff heavy-soled boots that took
ages to lace. She put on fresh lipstick and
her baseball cap and clomped back down the
stairs.
He was watching her, arms folded, Squeeze
by his side. He was wearing baggy
coral-colored sailing shorts, a faded rugby
shirt, a beat-up pair of boots, and a
Canucks cap. There was not a hint of a smirk
on his face as he looked at her, but she knew
it was lurking there somewhere.
"I have a feeling I've got it wrong again.
Sartorially speaking," she said uncertainly.
"Let's just say it's a touch serious for the
occasion."
They had told her it was the correct gear at
the store. She frowned, looking him up and down,
and said sarcastically, "I suppose I should have
chosen something in pink, like you."
"I shall take that blow like a man, Malone.
Though for your information this particular shade is known
as Nantucket pink. Everyone wears it on the
island--sailing, dining--"
"Hiking?"
"I may be unique in wearing it for that
activity. And now that that's settled, how about we
get going?"
Squeeze recognized the words and leaped to the
door in a series of wild gambols and yips.
Mal paused at the top of the steps to watch him
tear joyfully around, barking madly, wild with
freedom. She thought with a smile that she knew just
how he felt.



Harry took an upward trail through the
woods. Squeeze led the way, circling back
every few minutes to check that they were still with him. The
bracken at the side of the trail smelled moist
and green, and high above them birds fluttered from
their nests, urgently trilling the alarm.
After half an hour Mal was panting for breath,
but Harry was marching steadily on. She was
determined not to give up.
By the time they reached a grassy plateau,
another half hour later, her boots were gripping
her swollen toes like a vise, her heavy shorts
were rubbing her thighs, and she was sweating. She
flung herself thankfully onto the grass, too
winded even to speak.
"Enjoyed that, huh?" Harry said.
She glared up at him. "Sadist," she
gasped.
He hunkered down next to her, running his
fingers over the red weals where the thick canvas
shorts had rubbed her thighs. "What have you got
on under there?" he asked.
"This is entirely the wrong moment for that kind of
talk, detective."
"Give me credit, Malone. I'm not making
a pass at you. I asked what you're wearing
underneath because you can't wear these ridiculous shorts
on the way back down. Unless you enjoy having
your skin flayed from your bones."
"Oh," she said, disgruntled. "Okay. I'm
wearing boxers."
He nodded. "Then take off the shorts. But
whatever you do, don't take off your boots.
You'll never get them back on again. Here, wait
a minute--let me." He knelt in front of
her and loosened the laces. The circulation started
to flow again, and she breathed a sigh of relief.
He turned his back while she removed the
shorts. "Okay, I'm decent," she said in a
small embarrassed voice.
He looked at her, then laughed. "Well,
what do you know. Pink."
"Stop it, Harry Jordan, just stop it," she
said furiously. "My underwear has nothing to do with
you."
"Right now it does, Malone. It's your pink
butt I'll be following all the way back
home." He relented and took her hand to help
her up. "Hold on to me," he said, "it can get
a bit slippery."
Halfway back down the trail, she noticed
that the sky had clouded over. Within minutes its
color turned from dove gray to steel, then
to graphite. The rain hit the canopy of leaves
above them like rifle shots, pelting down in huge
fat drops, then quickly turned into a sheet of
water.
She lagged behind. Harry marched ahead,
unperturbed by the sudden deluge, and beyond him
Squeeze's tail waved like a flag. She
trudged on, determined not to complain. Her clothes
stuck to her like wet laundry, her feet hurt,
and the trail had turned into mud. She slipped and
fell, then got up quickly, gritting her teeth.
"You are not going to whine," she muttered to herself.
"You are definitely not going to say why the hell
did you bring me on this ridiculous hike. You
are most definitely not going to cry."
"Just look at that, will you." Harry stopped
suddenly, and she barged into him. He grabbed her
to keep her from falling and whispered, "Look. Up
in the tree."
A family of raccoons were perched in the
branches. They stared solemnly down at them,
their round eyes ringed in black and white like
cartoon characters--a mother, a father, and two babies.
It was one of the most entrancing things Mal had ever
seen. Somehow the silver sheet of rain made it
even more magical.
Harry noticed the megawatt smile light
up her face. She had abandoned her baseball
cap, and her wet hair was plastered to her skull.
Her shirt and pink boxer shorts clung
affectionately to her body, spattered with mud.
She must have fallen because her knees were skinned,
though she had not complained.
"Let's go," he said.
"How much further?" Mal hated herself for saying
that--it had just sort of slipped out.
He glanced over his shoulder at her, one dark
eyebrow raised. "You quittin' on me?"
"No, I am not."
"Good. I'd hate to have to carry you."
She glared murderously at his back, then
plodded after him, putting one foot after the other,
her eyes fixed on the muddy ground. After what
seemed a long, wet, painful time, he called
over his shoulder, "Home at last."
They were at the bottom of the steep incline leading
up to the cabin. She stared at the slope. It
looked like Mount Everest. Her thighs felt like
rubber, her shins hurt, and her feet were twice
their normal size. She gulped, wondering how
she was going to make it.
"Not thinking of giving up now, are you,
Malone?"
He was standing next to her. Her lip trembled,
but she wasn't going to be beaten. "I'll do it
even if I have to crawl on my hands and knees,"
she muttered.
He shook his head, marveling at her. "There's
no need for such an act of penitence."
"You bastard, Harry Jordan," she cried,
limping determinedly toward the slope.
He grabbed hold of her and swung her into his
arms. She fought him, but he said, "Come on,
Malone. You know you'll never make it." It was
true, even though she hated him for saying it.
He carried her into the house, across the hall,
all the way up the stairs to her room. He
deposited her in a chair, put a match to the
logs in the grate, and strode into the
bathroom.
The bastard wasn't even winded, Mal thought
bitterly. She heard water running, then the
scent of lilacs filtered into the room.
The fire was crackling nicely by the time he
returned. "Your bath is ready, madame," he
said. She hadn't moved a muscle since he had
put her in the chair, and his guess was that she
couldn't.
Kneeling in front of her, he unlaced her
boots, easing them off as gently as he could. She
groaned as he pulled off the thick socks. There
was a trail of blisters across her pink toes and
raw places on her heels where the boots had
rubbed. He sighed, then brought a bottle of
antiseptic and some gauze from the bathroom.
She was slumped in the chair with her head thrown
back and her legs sticking out in front of her, like
a broken doll. "This is going to sting a little," he
warned. Squatting beside her, he cleaned her
grazed knees and wounded feet.
"Ouch," she muttered without opening her eyes,
"Ouch, ouch, ouch."
"Okay, the worst is over. Now it's bath
time."
She opened her eyes and looked warily at
him, but he simply picked her up again and carried
her into the bathroom. "I assume you are able
to disrobe entirely by yourself?"
"You assume entirely correctly." She
glared furiously at him.
He smiled cheerily as he closed the door.
"Oh, Malone?" He popped his head back in
again and heard her groan. "I had intended to take
you to the inn for dinner tonight, but I think we need
to take time out for injuries. What do you say I
cook up a little supper here at home?"
"You? Cook supper?" She gave a
skeptical laugh.
"Wait and see, Malone, before you
criticize," he said loftily as he disappeared.
Just lying in the hot bath water in the huge,
old, lion-clawed tub was the closest thing
to heaven Mal had experienced all day. With the
exception of the picnic, perhaps. And the raccoon
family peering at her through the rain. And the sight of
Squeeze cavorting with the sheer joy of being
alive.
She wallowed in the tub like a seal in surf,
her aches diminishing as the wonderful
warmth seeped back into her veins. The bathwater
smelled of lilacs. She noticed a new jar of
bath oil on the Victorian washstand. It could not
belong to Harry's mother; it simply was not her
style. Harry must have bought it specially for her.
He wasn't going to get around her that easily,
she thought, amused, not after what he had just put her
through.
She climbed from the tub, wrapped herself in an
enormous fluffy white towel, then limped into the
bedroom. She lingered in front of the fire, drying
herself, reveling in the heat. There had been a
moment, there in the great outdoors, when she had thought
she might never be warm again.
She brushed her hair, rubbed moisturizer
into her weather-battered face, and patted soothing
lotion onto her wounds. She hesitated for a
second, then without stopping to think why, she
sprayed herself liberally with Nocturnes.
Then she pulled on a pair of oversized
blue flannel men's pajamas, stuffed her
blistered feet into white sweatsocks, and
rummaged in her bag for a robe. She had
forgotten to pack one. Fuming, she tugged a blue
sweater over the pajamas.
Then she brushed her damp hair and inspected
herself in the mirror. Her face was pink from the
bath, her hair was flat, and she had no makeup
on. She removed her contact lenses and put on
her small gold-rimmed glasses. If Harry
Jordan had had any amorous ideas, she thought,
he would forget them the moment he clapped eyes on
her. She looked a mess.
Good smells were coming from the kitchen as she limped
stiffly down the stairs. The lamps were lit, and
an enormous log burned crisply in the huge
grate. One of Miffy's ancient long-players
spun a little scratchily on the record player,
but the music was good: Nat King Cole singing
"When I Fall in Love." An open bottle
of wine, with two plain but beautiful glasses,
awaited them on the coffee table in front of the
fire.
Mal sank into the sofa nearest the blaze. She
put her feet up with a thankful sigh, wondering
how long blisters took to heal and whether she would
ever be able to get her shoes on again. The rain was still
beating against the wall of glass, and the tops of the
trees were tossing in the wind.
She snuggled into the depths of the sofa,
feeling a sudden glow of well-being. There was something
secure about being in a cozy firelit room
while a storm raged outside.
"There you are." Harry breezed in, wearing his
frayed 501's and a white shirt. A
blue-striped butcher's apron was tied around his
waist, and a clean white dish towel was slung
over his arm, exactly like a French waiter. He
poured wine into their glasses, glancing at her,
taking in the oversize pajamas, the sweater, the
absence of makeup, and the little gold spectacles.
"Feeling better?"
"Thank you, yes. But I'm still mad at you for
that hike."
A pained expression crossed his face. He
gave her a glass of wine and ran a hand through his
already tousled hair. "It was those ridiculous new
boots that gave you problems. In the right boots you
would have been able to walk ten more miles."
"How many miles did I walk?"
He shrugged. "Five. Six, maybe."
"Vertically."
"Oh, come on. The gradient was minor."
"Minor!"
She glared at him, and then he said,
reasonably, "You could have called it quits
anytime on the way up. How was I supposed
to know you were in pain? What are you, a martyour or
something?"
She knew he was right and that it was her own
stubbornness, plus her ill-fitting expensive
new boots, that had been the trouble. "We're
fighting again," she said.
Their eyes connected, and that little electric
current passed between them.
"This wine's too good to waste in a fight."
She took a sip. "Is the food going to be
as good as this?"
"The food!" He ran for the kitchen, and she
smiled, relaxing. He was right--this was an evening
to savor. The storm outside, the crackling log
fire, the lamplight, the sweet music, the good
wine. She sighed happily. It was almost worth the
torture of the hike.
"Dinner is served." He came back bearing
a tray. "I thought we might eat here, in
front of the fire. It's a frittata
omelette--my only claim to culinary fame."
He put down the tray and cut a wedge from the
thick, round, slightly burned
omelette. He slid it onto a green plate
shaped like a lettuce leaf and set it in front of
her.
"A Van Gogh omelette," she said
admiringly. He wasn't listening--he was looking
at her. "You remember, like the Matisse
sandwich," she prompted.
"I was just thinking how very pretty you look tonight.
The sweater matches your eyes--sapphire
blue. And I like the glasses."
"Now you know the worst. This is the real me."
She couldn't take him staring at her like that. Why
did he have to look as if he knew more about her
than she knew herself?
Harry gave her a skeptical look, but
all he said was, "Eat your omelette,
Malone, before it gets cold."
She took a bite. "This is delicious.
Whatever did you put in there?"
"Asparagus, potatoes, chicken--the
picnic, in fact. Plus eggs, a little onion,
a touch of garlic."
"You were holding out on me. You can cook."
"This is it. Usually it's pizza and the
microwave."
She laughed. "With me it's cornflakes. A
no-cooking standby from my childhood."
"Tell me more about that childhood."
She took a sip of wine, looking away from
him into the flames. "It's a shame to spoil a
beautiful evening talking about me."
He shook his head, exasperated. "There you go
again. Anyhow, it was in our deal, remember? I
tell you my story, you tell me yours. As of
now, only one of us has completed that part of the
contract."
Mal had edited her life story to such a
minimum, she almost believed that was all there was to it.
Great painful chunks had been lopped out, discarded
with the person who used to be Mary Mallory
Malone.
Her cheeks were burning as she tugged off her
sweater. She fanned her face, pretending it was
the heat of the flames and not his gray eyes that were
raising her temperature.
Nat King Cole ground scratchily to a
halt. Harry got up and ran his finger along the
stack of titles. He chose one, put it on,
then turned down the dimmer and came and sat next
to her.
The log shifted, sending a pretty shower of
sparks up the chimney. Rain beat against the
windows, and the mellow strings of Nelson Riddle
swooned in back of Sinatra singing softly,
"Come fly with me, Come fly, Let's fly
away. ..."
Mal felt as though she were flying, suspended in
time and space. There was just this cabin on the side
of a mountain miles from anywhere. In fact, it was
altogether too dangerously seductive.
He said, "I often come here alone. After a
hard day's hike or a bike ride, I light
a fire, open some wine, put on some music
..."
"Dim the lights."
"Sure I dim the lights. That way I can
see the trees outside, and the moon."
"In case you hadn't noticed, there's no
moon tonight."
"I was speaking figuratively."
She peered at him over the top of her
glasses, wondering about the women he must have brought
here. It was too much to expect a man like Harry
to have been alone all the time. She felt that little
tug of green-eyed jealousy again and told herself
sternly it was none of her business. Oh, yeah,
she answered herself, mockingly, then why do you want
to reach out and touch him? And why can't you take your
eyes from his?
Harry couldn't drag his eyes away from her
either. Her face was flushed, and her blond hair
had dried into a smooth golden helmet. Her
blue eyes looked huge behind the strong lenses.
He'd bet that without the glasses, she couldn't
see more than two feet in front of her.
Hypnotized, Mal unfurled herself from the
sofa. She stood just a pace from him, their eyes
connected with that live-wire tension again, and a tiny
shiver ran down her spine. "Why did we have that
"no strings" contract anyway, Harry?" she
asked softly.
"It's like a no-claims policy, I
guess." He put his hands on her shoulders, and
she thought her bones would melt under his touch. "We
could always add a rider to that clause stating "with the
exception of tonight.""
He took off her glasses and placed them
carefully on the table. She peered nearsightedly
at him, her heart pounding somewhere in her throat.
Then he reached up and ran his finger across
her mouth. The sensuousness of the gesture made her
shiver. She closed her eyes as he dropped
soft kisses onto her eyelids, then ran the
tip of his tongue along her lashes.
"Sweet," he murmured, "so sweet. I
wondered how you would taste." He licked the
corner of her mouth, kissed the tip of her nose,
nuzzled his face into her neck. She sighed
softly.
He pulled her closer, and she slid her arms
around his neck, tilting back her head, wanting
to be held, wanting to be kissed. When his lips
skimmed hers delicately, she murmured with
pleasure, absorbing the feel of him. Then his
mouth closed on hers, parting her lips, drinking
her like a thirsty man, and she was lost in the moment,
wanting it to go on forever.
When he finally took his mouth from hers, she
clung to him, her eyes still shut. Harry looked
tenderly at her, then he picked her up and
carried her back to the sofa in front of the fire.
"I can walk," she protested dreamily.
"Blisters, remember?"
He set her down on the cushions, smiling.
She looked like a teenager in the ridiculous
blue flannel pajamas and socks, with her
hair all mussed and her cheeks flushed pink.
But then she opened her eyes and gave him that
enigmatic sapphire look that was half please
and half no, and he knew it was no simple
girl he was looking at.
"You nervous, Malone?" he asked, taking her
left foot and pulling off the sock.
"Mallory," she corrected him.
He pulled off the other sock. "You didn't
answer." He began to massage her foot,
gently, rhythmically.
"Of course I'm not nervous." She watched
him, big-eyed, not wanting him to stop.
He ran his hand along the smooth length of her
calf, massaging the aching muscles. It felt
wonderful, and she relaxed into it. "Mmmm, good,"
she murmured, "that's so good. ..." She leaned
over, looking deep into his eyes. "When are you
going to kiss me again?"
"Since you ask ..." He cupped her face,
kissing her lingeringly, then hefted her into his lap
and crushed her to him. Minutes slid slowly by as they kissed. She couldn't get close enough to him.
She pulled out his shirt, running her
fingers over his naked back, feeling the sleek
muscles.
His hands were under the blue pajama top,
exploring her skin, then, with just the pads of his
fingers, he circled her breasts. Mal gasped
at the sheer electric shock of it. She leaned
back in his arms, surrendering herself to his touch.
Harry's fingers trembled as he unbuttoned the
pajama top. He looked at her lying there,
golden all over from the Arizona sun. Her round
breasts tipped with coral nipples invited his
mouth. He inclined his head, ran his tongue over
them, tasting her flesh, trailing along the line of
her throat, circling her breasts, inching down.
He untied the pajama cord and slid off her
pajamas, drinking her in with his eyes. She was
all hot silken-fleshed woman: soft, golden,
responsive. She shuddered as his fingers traced the
taut line of her belly, arching against him as he
gripped the soft mound of hair, then ran his finger
gently over her sweet center. She cried out in
soft throaty little moans, thrusting upward into his
hand. He jammed his mouth onto hers, biting,
kissing, searching, as she demanded more, reaching for it as
his fingers brought her to the brink, and then with a cry that
was half groan, half scream, she shuddered over
the edge of control. "Oh, Harry, oh,
Harry," she moaned.
He gazed down at her, loving her for her
abandonment to the moment, as crazy for her as she was for
him.
She watched like a woman in a trance as he
undressed. Firelight licked at his body, and
she gazed longingly at him, wanting to taste him,
wanting him to taste her.
She edged over on the deep sofa, making room
for him. "Harry," she said in a deep purring
voice, "Harry ..." And then he was lying beside
her, his flesh cool against her heat as he devoured
her, in a give and take of pleasure that sent
ripples of delight through her. Then they slid
gently, all of a heap, from the sofa onto the rug.
She sprawled before him, her body sculpted in
the fire's glow, her eyes locked with his.
Waiting. She was damp, beautiful, softly
sensual, and deeply exciting. Desire leaped
like a knot of white heat in his belly. He lay
over her, holding her, taking her mouth again. Her
fingers clutched his hair as he entered her, and she
shifted against him, wrapping her legs
around him, moving against him. ...
His need for her was urgent, he was trembling with
it, but he wanted her to be his equal, to give her
pleasure. "Wait," he murmured, "Mal,
wait." He took a deep shuddering breath,
holding back, and then she said, "Harry," again in
that purring little voice that sent a groan of
pleasure from his throat, and he was lost.
She cried out with each stroke, tiny moans that
grew deeper. He rested, leaning on his hands,
looking at her. She met his eyes--they were
drowning in each other, as he slowly took her to the
brink again, and then they were both tumbling over the
cliff, arching, flesh against hot damp flesh,
warm wet lips colliding fiercely. And then they
were still.
Mal lay under him, her arms and legs still
wrapped around him, floating somewhere in space, not
wanting him to leave her. His weight was beautiful,
his smooth skin, beaded with sweat, was delicious
under her skimming hands, and the rough masculine scent
of him was in her nostrils.
"Ohhh, Harry," she murmured.
"Mallory," he growled, and she smiled, coming
slowly back to earth again.
"I'm crushing you." He eased himself away from
her, and she sighed with regret. Sex was not something
she indulged in simply to satisfy a momentary
urge. The act meant more to her than mere
pleasure; it meant that, for that moment, she felt
loved. She wanted to hold on to that moment as long
as she could. When his body left hers, she was
bereft, alone again.
She sat up and clasped her knees under her
chin. Harry looked at her for a long moment, and
she tried to read the message in his eyes. Then
he bent his head and gently kissed her blistered
toes, one by one.
Tears pricked her eyelids. The tough cop
was a tender lover, thoughtful and generous.
He picked up her sweater, wrapped it around
her shoulders, smoothed back her tangled hair.
His hand was shaking, just like hers, as she touched him,
wonderingly, running her fingers gently along his
jaw, across the stubble that had bristled her tender
female parts, and she hadn't even minded, she had
been so lost in it.
The Sinatra record was still spinning on the
phonograph, long since finished. She put her
hand on his chest, feeling his heartbeat
thudding like hers, and she smiled.
Harry thought she was like a candle glowing in the
dark. He took the glass of wine, held it for
her while she drank, then inclined his head to her and
licked the wine from her lips.
"I don't need wine," he told her
throatily. "I can drink you instead."
She stretched her arms over her head, lithe as
a cat, contented--until he cupped her breast
again, running his thumb across the nipple, following
it with his lips. And it was starting all over again.
The log had burned through, slipping lower in the
grate. Only the red glow remained when they
finally came to their senses. The record was still
spinning without music, and the wine was still undrunk.
Harry eased his arms from under her, and she
protested muzzily as he stood up. Her eyes
followed him as he walked across the room. She
thought he was beautiful. He turned off the
record player, then picked up a soft chenille
throw from the back of the sofa and a couple of
cushions. He lifted her head, arranged the
cushions beneath her, and covered her with the throw. Then
he lay down beside her again.
"Comfortable?"
"Mmmm." Her eyes were half shut, and a
blissful fatigue drew her down. Harry
kissed her gently as he put his arms around her,
fitting her head snugly into the groove of his
shoulder. "Custom made for you, Malone," he
said, closing his own eyes.
"Mallory," she corrected him. Then before
she knew it, she was asleep.

Squeeze woke them early the next morning,
whining at the door to be let out. Harry edged his
numb arm from beneath her and got to his feet.
"Don't go," she said in a muffled voice,
her head still hidden beneath the blanket.
"The dog," he explained. "I'll be right
back."
He let the dog out, then threw another log
onto the embers, blasting it with a pair of ancient
leather bellows until it sparked into flames again.
He looked at the blanketed mound still lying
motionless on the rug. All that was visible were her
feet, sticking out at the end, blisters and all.
Even her feet were pretty. He pulled on his
boxer shorts, then walked barefoot to the kitchen.
"You're so goddamned busy,
detective." Her complaint floated after him.
"And you are consistent, Malone," he called from
the kitchen.
Mal snuggled back down into the rug, listening
to the early morning sounds: birds singing, the dog
barking, dishes rattling in the kitchen. Soon the
good-morning aroma of fresh-roasted coffee
drifted her way, along with Harry's voice
singing something in Spanish. She wondered if he was
dancing.
"Room service."
She shuffled upright, clutching the chenille throw
modestly over her breasts. Her eyes widened.
"Mmm, coffee. And muffins."
He held out the basket. "Blueberry on
your left, jalape@no cornmeal on your right."
"Jalape@no cornmeal?"
He looked apologetic. "My one
indulgence, I'm afraid."
"Oh? I thought I noticed a few more
"indulgences" last night."
He lifted an eyebrow. "You noticed?"
She laughed, and he bent and kissed her. "Your
hair's a mess," he murmured, tasting her
earlobe.
"Mmm, then I must look like you."
He ruffled her hair affectionately. "Eat
your muffin, and stop complaining, Malone--
Mallory."
"You finally got it." She took a bite of the
muffin. "Do these taste like heaven or what?"
"Low-fat heaven."
"They're not!" She looked astonished, and he
laughed.
"No, they're not. I just said that to make you
happier. And while you're eulogizing, how's the
coffee?"
"Bliss."
"What more can a woman want?"
"Not much," she agreed, leaning comfortably against
him, eating the muffin, still clutching the blanket
over her breasts.
"Too late for the blanket," he said, sipping
his coffee. "I've seen it all." To his
astonishment, she blushed. "Malone, you can't be
shy with me now," he said. "Remember me?
I'm Harry, the guy from last night?"
She nodded, blushing. "My date."
"The guy who brought you to the party," he
murmured, bending to kiss the nape of her
neck. "The one you let put his hand down the
front of your dress."
"We're a little too old for necking in the
backseat of the limo, though." She leaned her
neck into his hand, and he massaged it gently.
"Oh, Malone," he sighed pleasurably,
remembering--"that was not mere necking."
She laughed, then drained her coffee mug,
took the last bite of muffin, and put on her
glasses. She wrapped the chenille throw around
her and got up. "I'm off to take a shower."
He sat on the sofa, looking at her. She
looked back, taking in his broad shoulders, his
dark curling chest hair, the bluish stubble in
dire need of a razor, the sleek muscles in his
arms, and the way the flesh clung to his taut rib
cage. Just the way she had clung to him last
night, flesh on flesh. She felt hot just
remembering.
She gave him a happy smile, then walked
sedately away. His eyes followed her.
Halfway across the room the chenille throw began
to slide. She turned, threw him a sexy look
over the top of her glasses, and let it slither
down her back, tantalizingly slowly, lower.
And lower. Trailing it behind her, she sashayed
naked across the room, turning to give him one last
wicked look.
"Like cream over peaches," Harry marveled,
hearing her laughter as she walked unhurriedly
up the stairs.



When Mal came downstairs again, Harry was
sprawled on the sofa. He had obviously just
showered because his hair was still wet. He had on his
frayed Levi's and a white T-shirt, and he was
fast asleep.
She watched him affectionately. He looked
like a man born to wear jeans and a T-shirt. And
he looked exhausted.
He opened his eyes suddenly and looked
directly at her. His gaze was so deep, so
intimate, it was as though he had touched her. He
took her hand, drew her down beside him, and slid
his arm along her shoulder.
"You smell delicious," he murmured, "like
all the good things in the world. Fresh-cut grass,
or maybe sweet summer hay. A
garden after rain. A soft ocean breeze on a
tropical island."
"It's Bactine," she said honestly. "On the
blisters."
He laughed. "How many men do you know who could
mistake Bactine for a soft ocean breeze on
a tropical island?"
"Very few. In fact, probably only you,
Harry Jordan."
He pulled her to him and kissed her soundly.
"Now you're all lipstick." She ran a
finger across his mouth.
He kissed her fingers, then the palm of her
hand, then her mouth again, just as the old grandfather
clock in the hall struck twelve, right on
cue. He had to work that night, she had to catch the
shuttle back to New York, and the long drive
was still ahead of them.
"Why does this have to end," he murmured, "when
I feel it's only just beginning."
"Cinderella again," she whispered
regretfully.
He nuzzled her neck. "Did anyone ever
tell you you're adorable? When you're on your good
behavior, that is."
She sighed. "You couldn't just leave it at
adorable? And since you're asking, actually no.
No one has ever told me."
He lifted his head and stared at her,
astonished. "Only me?"
"Only you."
His eyes softened. He tilted her chin with his
finger so she was looking at him. "Poor Mary
Mallory Malone," he said softly. "Not even
her mother told her."
"Not even my mother," she agreed sadly.
He felt the sudden change in her mood, and
he wanted to say don't worry, everything's all
right now. But it wasn't. He knew if she
didn't talk to someone about what had happened,
share her emotions, she would be crippled by her past
forever.
"You never did finish telling me about those years
in Golden," he said.
She shrugged, suddenly remote. "I lived
there. Then I left."
She paced restlessly to the big wall of
windows, stood, arms folded, gazing out.
"And your mother? What happened to her, Mal?"
Her back was rigid with tension under the
sapphire sweater. "What does it matter
to you?"
He strode across the floor to where she was standing.
He grabbed her shoulders, but she shrugged him off,
took a step away from him.
"You have to tell me," he insisted. "It's the
only way it will ever get better."
Mal looked at him through suddenly shuttered
eyes, hating him for forcing her to remember, hating
the memories that lay like dead dogs in the murky
depths of her mind.
"Just who do you think you are anyway, Harry
Jordan," she cried, upset.
He looked steadily at her. "A friend."
Her eyes dulled with despair, and her head
drooped. She looked lost, grief-stricken, and
Harry knew he had catapulted her into the past
and that he was looking at the girl she used to be.
Mal could feel little tremors of panic
rippling down her spine as she was forced to think about
it again. She could remember every detail of that day.
She could hear the desolate whine of the wind and the
roar of the waves, see it all as perfectly as
if it were a rerun on television.

It was Thanksgiving, and she was eighteen years
old. The journey from Seattle to Golden had
been long and tedious, and the local bus had
rattled her bones and her teeth for the last hour.
She didn't know whether to be relieved or
frightened when it finally bounced over the bumps and
potholes into the town parking lot and ground to a
halt.
"End of the line," the driver said, removing his
peaked cap and wiping his sweaty brow. Without
looking at her, he eased his bulk from the
undersprung seat and clambered down the steps.
Her eyes, hidden behind thick pale-rimmed
spectacles, followed him. Leaning unsteadily
into the wind, he walked toward the weathered
clapboard shack that served as ticket office,
caf`e, and tourist information center. She had lived
in Golden for six years. She had ridden Chuck
Montgomery's bus a hundred times, and he had
never once acknowledged her. It was that kind of
town.
"A bitch of a little town," she remembered her
mother calling it when they first arrived there, with all their
worldly belongings piled into the ancient turquoise
Chevy with the chrome fins. It hadn't
changed.
Hefting her small black duffel, she
climbed down the steps, gasping as the gale-force
wind snatched her breath away, wrapping her cheap
cotton skirt around her legs and flattening her
sweater against her chest.
She glanced anxiously around the parking lot.
It was empty--there was just the desolate whine of the
wind, and the ever-present boom of the Pacific
waves roaring into the silence.
She waited uneasily for a few minutes, but
there was still no sign of her mother and the familiar
battered Chevy, even though she had written from
college to say she would be arriving on the two
o'clock bus. She might as well not have bothered.
She could never rely on her mother for anything.
"Why couldn't you have been here, Mom? Just this
once, when I really need you?" she murmured,
tears prickling her eyelids.
There was no point in waiting. Picking up her
bag, head down against the punishing wind, she
trudged into town.
The trailer park was up a hill, on the wrong
side of Golden's tracks. At the top she
turned and looked back at the ocean view. The
huge waves were racing in, crashing so violently
onto the shore, she could feel the earth shudder from
their impact, hear their desolate, booming echo
and the wind drumming in her ears.
She walked slowly toward their trailer. A
"motor home," her mother had always called it, as
though the word elevated them to a higher social
status. The window boxes that, in their first
optimistic year in Golden, were filled with
cheerful scarlet geraniums and purple
petunias, had been washed out long ago by the
violent storms. They hung, lopsided,
dribbling rainwater onto the stained cement.
Ruffled net curtains trailed tiredly at the
grimy windows, and no welcoming smell of
roasting Thanksgiving turkey came from the
chimney.
The door was unlocked. She stepped inside and
glanced around.
"Mom?" She went into the kitchen.
"Mom?" she called again, dropping her bag.
Her letter saying she would be coming home was lying on the
table alongside an empty coffee cup.
She strode through the narrow living area to the
bedroom in back. Her mother was not there.
She checked the bathroom. Nothing.
She hurried back to the kitchen and touched the
coffee pot. It was still warm.
Suddenly she knew where her mother had gone: where
she always went when the bad moods came on her and
depression settled like a black cloud around her
shoulders.
Rain spattered in a torrent at the windows.
Hastily pulling on her old bright-yellow
oilskin poncho, she ran out of the trailer and down
the cliff road, battling the wind, until the
road turned into a lane leading down to the beach.
She was used to the great winter storms of
Oregon, where enormous waves were generated
by four thousand miles of traction all the way from
Japan. The storm winds would whip them into giant
froth-capped monsters, hurling onto the rocks,
tearing at the dunes, ripping apart anything in their
path.
Wiping the rain from her face, she braced herself
against the gale-force wind, shading her eyes with her
hands. Then she saw her, a tiny figure standing
on the rocks, staring out to sea.
As she watched, her mother took a step forward
onto a rock closer to the waves. She paused.
Then she took another step. Then another
pause. Mary Mallory thought, puzzled, that it
looked as though she were playing a childish game of
giant steps.
Too late, she realized what her mother was about
to do. "Mom, Mom, don't," she screamed.
Another step forward. A great wave was roaring
in, building height and power as it came. Her
mother raised her eyes to the sky and lifted her arms
exultantly over her head as the wave took
her. In a second it swept her into its green
depths, sucking her down.
Mary Mallory stared numbly at the place
where her mother had been. She watched in stunned
silence as the great wave came surging back.
She could see her mother's slender body, trapped
high in its curl, as it took her higher and
higher. Ten, twenty, thirty feet, until it
seemed to touch the lowering gray clouds. Then the
wave curved into a magnificent crest of foam
and hurled her mother back onto the rocks.
Mary Mallory screamed as the eddying wave
sucked her out again, out and under into the raging
gray-green depths.
They never found the body.

Harry stroked Mal's bent head gently.
Pity for her wrenched at his heart as he
remembered his own idyllic childhood at
Jordan's Farm. She glanced up at him, her
eyes blurred from unshed tears. He caught
something in her expression--hesitation, longing--and
then it was gone again.
He held her in his arms, and she huddled
into him, like a stray cat seeking warmth and
protection. It was as though her mother had died
yesterday. The wound was still that raw.
"I always thought she did it because of me," she
whispered. "The letter was there on the table, saying I
was coming home. I told her I needed her, and she
didn't want that. She didn't need me."
He said gently, "It wasn't your fault.
There was nothing you could have done to save her." But she
just hid her face against his chest. "It's over,
Mal. It's the past, and you have to let go."
"I know."
Her voice sounded as bleak as the scene she had
just described.
Harry sensed she was keeping something back. He
wanted to ask her to tell him all her secrets
and finally free herself from the past. But she had gone
through enough emotion for one day.
The dog bounded in, bringing the fresh scent of the
forest and the wind on his thick silver coat.
Squeeze stopped and looked at them, his head on
one side. Then he gave a little bark and came
over and nuzzled Mal's hand.
She lifted her head and looked at
Squeeze. She was still choked up as she said, a
touch enviously, "Oh, God, Harry, you are
really a man who has everything."
But she was smiling as she caressed the dog's
head, and he knew the worst was over. For now.



Harry still had Mal on his mind when he showed up for work that night. He had driven her to the
airport, escorted her to the check-in, and
kissed her discreetly on the cheek as they said
good-bye. He was dimly aware of other people's
stares; he had almost forgotten that she was a
celebrity, her face as well known to most of the people
shuffling wearily through the departure gates as their
own. After this weekend she was simply
Mal to him: a maddening woman who got under his
skin and who fought with him all the time; a beautiful
woman who made love to him as though she meant
it; a woman who seemed inextricably bonded
to her mysterious and tragic past.
"Shall I see you next week?" he asked as
they walked to the departure gate.
She gave him that wry, cool look. "Think
you can put up with me?"
"I might. J." He grinned at her, then
kissed her on the cheek again. He breathed
deeply, inhaling her elusive scent. "That's not
Bactine," he whispered. "I swear it."
She was laughing as she waved good-bye and strode
off to the gate. "Call me," she said. Then she
turned and looked back at him. "Harry."
"Yes, ma'am; Malone. ... Mal."
"Thanks."
He lifted his arm in salute. And then she was
gone.
Why was it, he thought, staring at the empty
space where she had been, that he still had the uneasy
feeling she had not told him everything?
He dropped the dog back home and left him
curled contentedly under the bed, no doubt dreaming of
rabbits and squirrels and raccoons. Then he
took off for the precinct.
It looked like it was going to be a quiet night.
Sundays were often like that--the public seemed
to prefer to destroy each other on Fridays and
Saturdays, giving him a break on God's
day.
It was ten o'clock when the call came through. A
woman had telephoned, worried about her sister.
They were supposed to meet; a strange interrupted
message had been left on her answering
machine; and now the machine didn't answer. A
squad car had gone to check the house. The sister
had a key, and what they had found when they opened the
door was not pretty.
"We're on," Harry said to Rossetti,
unfurling himself from the chair and heading for the door.
Rossetti grabbed his coffee cup and headed
after him to the car. Harry got behind the wheel, and they
took off, sirens wailing, through the quiet
streets.
"What a way to end a great weekend," Harry
said glumly.
"It was that good, huh?"
"I had fun, Rossetti." The car
rounded the corner, then shot the red light, sirens
still blasting the peaceful night.
"Vanessa said don't forget the party. She's
only gonna be twenty-one once."
"I won't forget."
The street in front of the little clapboard
cottage was cordoned off with yellow
crime-scene tape. Three squad cars were already
parked outside, and an electric-blue Dodge
Neon was in the small forecourt. A little knot of
curious neighbors hovered nearby, and two
burly uniformed men stood guard outside the
door.
A young woman was crouched in the backseat of one
of the squad cars, weeping. Harry shook his head
sadly. He figured her for the sister and knew he
would have to question her later. Murder was never a happy
event.
He greeted the uniformed officers, asked a
few questions, then opened the door and stepped inside.
Rossetti followed him.
The smell of blood and two-day-old death
hit them like a blow. They shone their flashlights
around. Nothing had been touched by the cops--the
lights had not even been turned on, in case the
killer had left a print on the switch. Something
squished as Harry took a step forward, and he
shone the flashlight down.
"Peas," Rossetti said, astonished.
"Maybe she was caught in the middle of fixing
dinner."
A huge pool of congealed blood lay immediately
in front of them, mixed with what looked like the
peas. And blood was spattered on the walls, on
the coat thrown over the small chair, and on the
door.
"Jesus," Rossetti muttered, "it's a
fuckin' bloodbath."
Harry played the flashlight over the trail of
blood that led to the body, slumped in the bedroom
doorway. She was on her knees, her face
pressed into the bloody carpet, and she was naked
except for her underpants. Her long, vibrant
red hair shone under the light, and a black cat
crouched beside her, his tail twitching as he stared
back at them.
"This is not going to be nice, Rossetti,"
Harry said quietly. "Where the hell is
forensics?"
"Right here, detective." The first of the
crime team stepped in the door, glanced around, and
gave a low amazed whistle and then a sigh.
"What can I say," he said with a shrug as the
medical examiner shouldered past him. It was Dr.
Blake, one of the forensic pathologists employed
by the city.
"They had to drag me out for this one,
Detective Jordan," Blake said testily.
"Careful where you step," Harry warned. "This
is a clean crime scene so far."
"I know, I know," the doctor said.
"Goddammit, detective, I've been doing
my job for twenty years. I don't need you
to tell me my business. And can anyone tell me
why the hell people have to get themselves killed on a
Sunday night, when a man is enjoying a
peaceful nap in front of the evening news?"
"Way of the world, doc," Rossetti said,
making way for the photographer and his equipment.
Within minutes he had set up his lights and
commenced videotaping the scene and the victim, as
well as taking stills.
Dr. Blake crouched next to the body. "Not
much mystery about how she died," he said briskly.
"Both the jugular and the carotid slashed. Two
different cuts. Plus multiple other stab
wounds." He made careful notes, pointing out the
wounds to the photographer for close-ups.
Harry waited by the door, arms folded, his
face expressionless. "When did it happen,
doc?"
Blake adjusted his glasses. "What's today?
Still Sunday?" He looked at the greenish stains
on the flanks of the abdomen, indicating the
beginnings of putrefaction. He lifted her
wrist; the body was still slightly stiff. "There's
still some rigor mortis. I'd say Saturday,
early. Around thirty-odd hours ago. I'll
know better after I check the vitreous humor at
the autopsy."
Harry knew he was talking about the jellylike
fluid in back of the eye, which he would extract
with a fine-needled syringe and which, because it was
resistant to postmortem changes, would give a
more accurate indication of the time of death.
Blake carefully placed plastic bags over
the hands and feet to preserve any trace evidence
adhering to them. "No rape, though, detective,"
he commented. "Or at least no immediately visible
signs of it. I could be wrong. Again,
we'll see at the autopsy."
Dr. Blake looked at the battered,
blood-encrusted face, seeing her as a person
for the first time, instead of a dead body. He looked
at her for a long time. "Do you know who she is?"
he asked Harry.
Harry shook his head. "Her sister is
outside. She'll identify her."
"It's hard to tell under all that blood, and her
so cut up, but she looks kind of familiar."
He packed his instruments away in his black bag
and got to his feet. "Well, that's my job
done. For the moment. She's all yours, gentlemen.
See you at the mortuary."
"Thanks for coming out, doc," Harry said.
As Blake edged carefully past him, his foot
struck something. He didn't notice, but Harry
heard it. He hunkered down, looking at the
object on the floor.
"Detective," he said triumphantly
to Rossetti, "I think we have our murder
weapon."
It was a small knife, maybe seven inches
long, with a plastic cover over the narrow blade.
There were no visible bloodstains--Harry guessed
the killer had cleaned it.
He signaled the photographer to take
pictures and measurements. Then someone from the
crime lab, wearing protective gloves,
picked it up, bagged it carefully, and took it
away.
Harry spotted the bloody bag on the
floor: "Birds' Eye Frozen Peas," the
label said. "2 lbs." Avoiding it and the trail
of blood, he edged toward the body in the
doorway.
It was as bad a horror scene as he had
witnessed in his career. Her bloody hands had
left a scrabbled trail down the door, and around
where she lay crouched on her knees was a lake of
congealed blood. It looked as though her entire
blood supply had ended up on the carpet.
Forensics had dusted the light switches, and now
they turned on the lights. An ambulance wailed
its arrival as he crouched over the body.
There was a gaping hole where her throat had
been, and her face had been savagely carved.
Her eyes were open, rolled up into her head.
Rossetti was standing over him. "Oh, my
God," he said in a strangled voice.
"Oh, my God, Harry, it's Suzie
Walker."
Harry's spine crawled, and the hairs
prickled the back of his neck. He had never had
to deal with a murdered person he'd known, had never
known personally someone who was now just a mutilated
body instead of a vital, attractive young
woman.
Stunned, he got quickly to his feet, staring
down at her, filled with violent rage.
"Christ," he roared, slamming his clenched fist
over and over again into the wall. "Why? Why the
fuck did he pick on her?" He was rigid with
anger at the senselessness of it.
Rossetti stood rooted to the spot.
"Excuse me," he said, hurriedly making for the
door. He walked to the end of the street, and hidden
in the shadow of a large red maple, he vomited.
Harry stood, stone-faced, as the paramedics
zipped what was left of Suzie Walker into a
body bag, then placed her on a gurney and
wheeled her into the ambulance. There was no need for
emergency sirens as it took off.
He thrust his burning fists into his pockets.
If he'd had the murderer right there before him, he
would have killed the bastard. Strangled him with his
bare hands. Kicked him like the beast he was. Then
he reminded himself soberly that he was a cop. He
needed to be dispassionate, detached, an
investigator, and that was all. But in his mind he still
saw Nurse Suzie Walker smiling at him with
those beautiful green eyes, heard her retort
to Rossetti when he asked her for a date.
"Why the hell did it have to be Suzie,
Prof?" Rossetti stood beside him. His face
looked gray in the harsh overhead light, and there was
a bleak look in his eyes. "She was nice," he
said somberly. "She was dedicated to her job, she
was a good woman."
Now was the time to make the speech about nailing the
bastard, about seeing him put away for what he had
done to Suzie. Now was the time to say she had
deserved better. But Harry could not. He thought
bitterly that there would be no comfort in that for her
family. And besides, he had said the same thing about
Summer Young. With an effort he switched his mind
away from the victim and back to the job facing him.
He grasped Rossetti's shoulder comfortingly,
then systematically began to search the bedroom.



When Harry and Rossetti emerged from
Suzie's cottage an hour later, Alec
Klosowski was waiting outside for them. He had
already told the uniformed cop what he had heard,
and now he told Harry.
He was a nice-looking young man with shocked
brown eyes and dark hair smoothed back in a
ponytail. "It was Friday night," he said,
"about eight o'clock, and she was dressed for work. We
were both locking our doors. She told me she'd
lost her keys the night before. Someone had handed them
in, and she wondered who might have had them. I
told her to get the locks changed, you couldn't be
too careful." He turned his head away.
"Oh, God," he said with a catch in his throat,
"I didn't expect this, though."
"You couldn't have known, Mr. Klosowski,"
Harry reassured him gently.
"We both drove off, and I assumed she was
working the night shift. She's--she was a nurse, you know, at Mass Gen. I was surprised when
I came home and saw her car parked outside
again. Then I noticed a light on in the kitchen,
and I thought I must have got it wrong, or else
she had come home early."
"What time was that, Mr. Klosowski?"
"Oh, around two, I guess. Yes, that would
be about right. I'd just finished work you see, at
Daniels on Newbury Street. I'd just
got the key in the lock when I heard the
scream."
He looked numbly at Harry. "At least,
I thought at first it was a scream. I listened, but
there was nothing else, and I told myself it must be
cats yowling. There's a lot of strays, feral
cats, around here, and they often sound like that." He
hung his head, close to tears. "God, if
only it could have been that. Just cats. If only
I'd had the sense to realize she was in trouble."
His young face was haggard as he looked back
at Harry again. "I feel responsible. If
I'd done something, knocked on the door and
checked that she was okay, or called the
police--"
"I doubt there was anything you could have done,"
Harry said. "It doesn't pay to think that way.
You're helping now by giving us valuable information."
"There's more," Klosowski said. "I
saw him."
"Jesus," Rossetti muttered, "an
eyewitness."
"I got ready for bed, went to open my window.
I saw him walk from her house across the street.
He was hurrying, and when he got to the other side,
the parked cars blocked my vision. Not that I was
looking, really--I just thought, oh, there's the
reason Suzie came home early. I smiled,
for God's sake."
"Can you describe him?" Harry was praying he
could.
"All I can tell you is he was sort of a
short guy, stocky. Dark hair, I guess."
"What was he wearing?"
Klosowski looked puzzled. "I didn't
notice, but it must have been dark clothing because he
sort of blended into the night."
"Did you see him get into a car?"
"No--yes ... I mean I did, then I
heard it drive past."
"What sort of car, Mr. Klosowski?"
"I'm not sure exactly. It was kind of a
wagon. You know, maybe like a Jeep Cherokee
or perhaps a station wagon. Smallish, a dark
color, I couldn't say which."
Harry breathed a sigh of regret. "Mr.
Klosowski, would you be willing to come to the precinct
and make an official statement about what you
saw?"
"You bet."
Harry thought Alec Klosowski would be willing
to do anything to absolve himself of the terrible guilt
he was feeling. He was a good witness, though,
coherent and reliable despite the shock.
"Detective Rossetti will take you there
now, sir."
Rossetti looked expectantly at him and
said, "I'm off to the hospital to interview the
sister. She's in shock--they took her there.
I'll see if she can talk. I understand the
parents are with her."
Harry drove through the quiet night streets,
replaying the information they had collected on
Suzie's killer. They had the weapon, an
eyewitness description, a basic description
of the vehicle, and the approximate time of the
murder. The crime officers who were still going over
the cottage would surely come up with further
forensic evidence.
This wasn't a planned, premeditated
murder. He would bet it was a robbery gone
wrong. Suzie had come home unexpectedly and
caught him in the act. And he had killed her.
That was his theory, for now, until something proved
him wrong. He was always ready for the unexpected;
when you were dealing in homicide, nothing was written
in stone.
He parked the car outside Emergency and
walked up the steps. There was a leaden feeling in
his heart as he walked toward the admission desk
where he had so often seen Suzie. The two
nurses on duty looked at him with shocked
eyes.
"It's true then?" one of them asked, "about
Suzie?"
He nodded. "I'm sorry."
"She was a great girl," the nurse said, her
face beginning to crumple. "Always pleasant,
even when we were overworked. And so pretty. ..."
"And she was a good nurse too," the other one
said, her hands gripped into tight fists as she fought
back tears. "The shit," she muttered
angrily. "The dirty bastard. They are like
vermin, these killers. They should be eradicated, the
same way we do rats."
Harry thought she was right. "I'm sorry," he
said again, then went slowly down the corridor to the
booth where the Walker family awaited him.
Terry Walker was lying on top of the bed,
fully clothed except for her shoes. She had
been sedated; her eyes were open but slightly
unfocused. Nevertheless, she managed to raise
herself into a sitting position when Harry came in.
She looked a bit like Suzie, only with darker
hair.
Mrs. Walker was sitting in a chair next
to the bed, and he saw instantly that her girls
took after her. She had the red hair and green
eyes, the pale freckled skin and the angular bone
structure that gave them their pixieish look.
Tears were cascading down her face, though she
made no sound. Her husband was standing next to her,
holding her hand tightly. He was tall and
rangy, with dark hair, and there was a look of
total devastation on his face.
Harry would have given anything not to put them through
this, but it was part of his job. He introduced himself
and shook hands with the father, whose own hands were icy
cold.
"Mr. and Mrs. Walker, I knew your
daughter. I often saw her here at the
hospital. I am most deeply sorry, and I
am sorry too that I have to inflict these questions on
you at such a time. But if we are to catch this--the
perpetrator of this crime, there are certain things
I need to know from you."
"Dad, tell him about the tape." Terry's
voice was shaky. She had closed her eyes again
as though she couldn't bear to look at him.
"It's all on the tape." Ed Walker handed
the small answering machine over to Harry. He was
making a great effort to get the story straight, but
his voice trembled, and he seemed to be searching
for the right words.
"Suzie ... she called Terry, left a
message on the machine. ... She broke off in
the middle--she just said, "Oh, my God, oh,
my God, what are you doing here?"' and then there was
just this terrible sound, and then ... nothing."
Harry could hardly believe what he was hearing.
They had the actual crime on tape? He could
already see the metaphoric noose tightening around
Suzie's killer's neck.
"We were supposed to meet on Saturday,"
Terry said in a weary voice, her dull eyes
looking into his. "And I know she had a date
Sunday night with a guy from Beth Israel. His
name is Karl Hagen--he's an intern there."
"Had she known him long?"
She shook her head, "I don't know. But I
think maybe he did it."
"Do you have any reason for thinking that, Terry?"
She shook her head. "Suzie was too busy
to date a lot, but these things are usually about sex,
aren't they?"
Harry heard Mrs. Walker gasp and said,
"I doubt it, this time. At the moment we're
thinking more in terms of an interrupted robbery."
"But what did Suzie have worth stealing?" Ed
Walker demanded, anger suddenly exploding from
him. "She was just a young woman, a nurse still
studying. She had no jewelry, no money. Just
a TV and a cheap hi-fi."
"Sometimes when people are looking for money to buy
drugs, Mr. Walker, available is all that
matters."
Ed Walker stared down at the floor, unable
to speak, and Harry touched his shoulder lightly in
sympathy. "Thank you, sir," he said
quietly. "I won't disturb you anymore.
When you're ready to leave, a squad car will be
waiting to take you home. We can talk again
later."
Harry interviewed the charge nurse next. Like
Klosowski, Nurse Jim O'Farrell was
blaming himself. "I told her she was no good for
work, so she might as well go home," he said in
a stunned voice. "I did it. I sent her
to her death."
"Accidents and homicide are most often the
result of a chain of events," Harry told him.
"Suzie had a migraine and couldn't work. She
would have had to go home anyway."
"You think so?"
Harry could tell he wanted to believe it, and
he wanted him to as well. "Sure I do. That's
usually the way it happens. A victim walks
into an unknown situation. It's sad but true."
"But she was a good nurse, a nice girl.
Christ, she was hardly old enough to be called a
woman--she was too young, too ... aw, she
didn't deserve this."
"No one does," Harry said. He took a
statement, then grabbed a cup of coffee and made
his way to the morgue.
The air conditioning was blasting noisily as he
stepped through the steel doors into the cold,
white-tiled autopsy room. Over the din he
could hear Dr. Blake humming as he analyzed
Suzie Walker's body.
She was lying on a steel autopsy table beneath a
strong overhead light. Blake had already cleaned
the body and completed his preliminary examination,
dictating his notes into a microphone suspended
over the table as he went along. Each fingernail
had been scraped for particles of skin or fiber
that might have been caught in the struggle, and hair
samples had been combed and clipped from her pubic
hair as well as her head and eyebrows. The
body bag, along with her underwear, had been
preserved for trace evidence and would be sent to the
crime lab.
A photographer was taking still shots and
videotaping the proceedings. Blake was proceeding
with his examination.
"No hypostasis, indicating that she was not
killed when lying on her back and then moved. She
probably died in the kneeling position in which she
was found," he said briskly into the
microphone. Then he hummed some more, as he
indicated on a chart the exact locations of the stab
wounds and their depth. He took swabs
to establish whether there had been a sexual
assault and stated that evidence already indicated that
there had not.
He glanced up at Harry, still standing by the
door. "Come on in, detective," he said
mildly. "Might as well make a night of it,
now we're all up anyway."
Harry stayed where he was; what had happened
to Suzie was obscene enough, and he didn't want
to see her defiled by Dr. Blake, even if it
was his job.
"You'll know by now who this is," Blake said
matter-of-factly. "I didn't really know
Nurse Walker myself--not in my department,
y'know. But she worked alongside me the other
week, when the tropical storm caused all that
mayhem on the roads. She was a good nurse,
quick-thinking, clever. It's a great pity. Yes, a
great pity."
Blake was humming tonelessly again as he picked
up the dissecting knife. Harry wished
impatiently that he would at least find an
identifiable tune. He sounded like a percolator
on the bubble.
Blake held the knife over Suzie's
body, then made a deep incision from the neck to the
pubis, detouring the navel, where the tissue was
tougher.
"Hmm," he said, inspecting his handiwork.
"Hmm, I see." He removed the organs,
slid the stomach away, opened it up with
scissors, and proceeded to empty the brownish
contents into a large container.
"Not much here," he said to Harry. "She
didn't eat much on her last night apparently.
Nor did she drink."
Harry had been present at many autopsies,
but this was like watching Suzie being killed all over
again. Sickened, he turned away. "Let me have
the results as soon as you can, doctor," he
called, pushing back through the heavy doors. He
told himself it was the icy room, but he felt
chilled to his bones.
Driving slowly back to the precinct, his mind
was still filled with the sights and sounds of the terrible
night.
Rossetti was at the computer, he was
busy putting the evidence on file.
"What d'you think, Harry?" he asked
somberly.
Harry flung himself into an office chair. He
swung it from side to side, staring upward
into space.
"I think life's a bitch, Rossetti,"
he said. And he meant it.



Mal couldn't sleep that night. She shuffled
her pillows around, seeking a comfortable spot,
threw off the blanket, and tossed and turned
until she was wrapped like a mummy in the wrinkled
sheets. Sighing, she unraveled herself and got
up.
Folding her arms over her chest, she went to the
window. The night was clear and starry, filled with the
pinkish glow from the lights of Manhattan. She
thought about Detective Harry working at the
precinct, drinking too much coffee, the way
he'd told her he always did on the graveyard
shift.
The graveyard shift. The words repeated
themselves in her head, and she shivered, thinking again about
her mother.
She remembered how she felt the day the letter
arrived from the college admissions office:
dizzy with excitement and sick with fear. The white
envelope with Washington State University
printed on it lay on the gray plastic kitchen
table with the angled metal legs that somehow always
smacked you right in the shin when you sat down. She
couldn't bear to open it. Her mother was smoking, staring
blankly into space. There was a furrow between her
brows as though she was suffering, but Mallory knew
her pain came from the dark thoughts in her mind.
"It's the letter from the university, Mom," she
said.
Her mother's gaze shifted momentarily
into focus. "Oh," she said.
"I'm scared to open it, Mom," she persisted.
"Why don't you do it for me?" She pushed the
envelope across the table with the tips of her fingers.
All her hopes were in there. It was life or
death. If she got in, she lived--she would work
hard, and she would have a future. If she failed,
she would work at the Lido Caf`e or the Golden
Supermart until she died from
monotony and loneliness. She held her breath as
her mother reached out and slowly picked up the
envelope.
She looked at it, read the name and address,
turned it over and over in her thin nervous fingers.
She sighed and pushed back her straggling
gray-blond hair, took a sip of the cold
coffee, and lit another cigarette from a burning
stub.
Mary Mallory thought she would just die from the
tension. "Open it, Mom," she urged, hardly
recognizing her own voice, it was so rough with
anxiety.
Her mother stuck the cigarette in the corner of
her mouth. Narrowing her faded blue eyes against the
smoke, she ran a broken fingernail under the
seal. Mary Mallory clasped her hands
tightly together on top of the table. She hardly
dared look as her mother slowly unfolded the letter.
Her mother ran her eyes over the few lines.
Then she refolded the letter and put it back on the
table. Her eyes became blank again.
"Mom?" Mary Mallory controlled herself and
there was only a tiny wobble in her voice.
Her mother took another puff on the
cigarette, waving away the smoke with a thin hand.
"Mom!" she cried, agonized. "What
did it say?"
Her mother shook her head, startled out of her
torpor. "Oh. Oh, it said they have given you a
scholarship ... I think."
Mary Mallory took a great gulp of air
and snatched up the letter, opened it, read it. And then
she screamed. She leaped to her feet; she kissed
the letter and screamed again, jumping up and down, wild with joy, until the flimsy trailer rattled on
its cinderblock supports.
"I got in!" she yelled. "Mom, I
got in!"
Her mother was staring out of the window. "Look, Mary
Mallory, it's raining again," she said
matter-of-factly.
And then Mary Mallory did something
unthinkable. She ran to her mother and she kissed her.
On the cheek. Her mother flinched and put a hand
to her face, shocked. "Put on your poncho when
you go out in the rain," she reminded her.
But Mary Mallory didn't care. Nothing
mattered except that she had been accepted. She
wouldn't have to die alone in Golden.
Graduation from high school passed in a quick
blur. Her name was read out, and she walked,
blushing, onto the platform to pick up her
diploma, but her mother was not there to see her.
She did not attend the prom. For weeks all
the other girls had talked about was their dresses and
boys, whether they would receive a corsage, and who
they would neck with afterward in lovers' lane on the
cliff road, hidden by towering sequoias and
madronas and ponderosa pines.
Mary Mallory had kept out of their way.
She wished she could plug up her ears so she would
not have to listen to their endless chatter, but still it seeped
through in the rest rooms where they endlessly fixed their
hair, in the schoolyard at recess, in the
cafeteria where she ate lunch, her nose in a
book, alone as always.
Only one teacher bothered to congratulate her
on getting a scholarship.
"You're a hard worker, Mary Mallory," she
said approvingly. "With a college education, you'll
be able to get a decent job and make something of
yourself." She didn't say "instead of ending up like
your no-good mother," but Mary Mallory knew that was
what she was thinking.
For a long time now, she had been working evenings and
weekends at the Lido Caf`e; chopping
onions and clearing dishes and pouring cups of
coffee to earn extra money. Now she began
to save up for college.
She took an extra job through the summer at
Bartlett's Drugstore, stocking shelves and
unpacking; anything menial they needed, she did
it. She was able to buy herself a couple of sweaters
and T-shirts and a pair of jeans, as well as a
cheap duffel bag to pack them in. She thought the
long summer days would never end, she was so eager
to leave and begin living. But she worried about leaving
her mother alone.
Finally, her bag was packed, the bus ticket
purchased, and the address and phone number of her
dorm carefully printed out and stuck on the old
refrigerator door. They couldn't afford a
telephone, and in case of emergency she told
her mother to use a pay phone. She had washed and
polished the Chevy--all she had to do now was
convince her mother to drive it, so she could pick up
the food stamps and buy her own groceries.
"Come on, Mom," she said, taking her arm and
levering her from the chair where she was watching
television. "We're going out for a drive."
"You go, Mary Mallory." Her mother pushed
her arm away, but Mary Mallory was determined.
She threw her arm firmly around her shoulders and
walked her from the trailer into the hazy late-afternoon
sunshine.
"It's a lovely day, Mom. I thought we'd
go buy your cigarettes, then maybe pick up
something nice for supper at the market. It's a
celebration, you know."
Her mother allowed herself to be bundled into the
driver's seat, and Mary Mallory put the
keys in the ignition. "Remember when you drove
here, Mom? All the way from Seattle? All you
have to do now is drive to the market and the gas station."
Her mother crouched over the wheel. She put her
foot on the gas and they sped off down the hill.
Heads turned as they walked together into the
Supermart, and Mary Mallory blushed, feeling
eyes on them. She knew they made an odd
couple: she with her thick bottle-glasses, her
thin sticklike limbs, and her old flowered
cotton dress from the thrift shop; and her mother with
her wild curling hair, her vacant eyes and
emaciated face, in a once-white shirt and
blue skirt that exposed too much of her skinny
legs. They looked poor, she thought angrily.
They were poor. In fact, people didn't come much
poorer than she and her mom. How much further
down could you go when you had nothing?
Then she reminded herself that now she had something.
She was going to have a college education. She felt
that same surge of elation she had experienced the
day her mother had told her they were going to live at
the seaside. With a college education she would finally
be someone.
They paced slowly up and down the aisles
while she showed her mother what to buy and what to do with the
food stamps at the checkout. Her mother walked
through it like a woman in a dream. Mary Mallory
only hoped she would remember what to do.
Back home, she barbecued the celebration
steaks on the rusted little hibachi outside. She
opened a can of baked beans to go with them, and they sat
silently across the table from each other. Her mother
toyed uninterestedly with the steak. As Mary
Mallory looked at her, her heart filled with
despair. She had needed to share her small
triumph, her pleasure, her excitement with her
mother, but it was no good. Even the
celebration supper was a failure.
Her mother was sitting on the orange vinyl sofa
the next morning, watching the Today show when Mary
Mallory came to say good-bye.
"I'm going now, Mom," she said wi/lly
to the thin, pathetic figure hunched in a corner
of the sofa. Her mother glanced vaguely at her, then
back at the program. She said again, "I'm
leaving for college, Mom."
"I know," her mother answered in the same mild
tone she used for any news, good or bad. "Have
a good time, Mary Mallory." And she lit a
cigarette from a butt in the ashtray.
Mary Mallory let her hand rest for a moment
on her mother's hair. Tender feelings flowed from
her--she wanted so badly to hug her, to kiss
her, to know that her mother cared. "Bye, Mom," she
said.
Her mother got up and poured herself another cup of
coffee. "Good-bye," she said distantly.

The campus was much bigger and more sprawling than
Mary Mallory had expected. Nor had she
realized she would have to share a room in the dorm with
another girl. She knocked nervously on the
door, waiting, until someone called, "Come
in."
Junie Bennett frowned when the door opened
and Mary Mallory stepped inside. "Oh my
lord, look what the cat dragged in," she
muttered under her breath. "Hi, I'm Junie
Bennett," she said out loud. "The bed nearest the
window's mine. Yours is over there." She pointed
to the one against the wall. "First come first served."
She inspected her roommate with critical
green eyes.
"I'm Mary Mallory Malone." She
held out her hand, smiling hopefully.
"Mary Mallory." Junie raised her
eyebrows. "Don't you have a nickname?"
"Oh ... just Mary." Surprised, she
changed her name in an instant.
"I'm going out to meet some friends." Junie
snatched up her sweater and her bag. "Just keep
your stuff to your own side of the room, please."
Mary gazed wi/lly after her. Junie
Bennett was everything she would like to be--tall,
blond and pretty, with a pert nose, red
lipstick, loads of confidence, and a real gold
bracelet on her summer-suntanned
wrist. She even had a pet name--Junie.
Mary bet she had been a cheerleader in high
school. And she was so well-dressed--her smart
red skirt and white shirt looked expensive and
brand new.
Junie was definitely unfrly. She had her
own group, and they did everything together. Mary was not
invited. Junie bitched to her friends about having
to room with such a geek and ignored her as much as
possible.
Looking in the mirror, Mary knew why. She
was seventeen in age, but in life experience she was
almost zero. She was plain, mousy, and crippled with
insecurities, and she was so poor, she couldn't
even afford a cup of coffee. So she just stuck
her nose in her books and got on with learning,
never missing a lecture, never failing to turn in
an assignment. The college found her a job in
the cafeteria, and after a few weeks she got
herself another job in a nearby caf`e, working the
dinner shift.
Somehow she got through the terrible lonely weeks.
At first she hoped to make friends--she made a
point of smiling and saying hello to her
classmates. But they all had busy lives and
hung out in a crowd that definitely did not
include her. There were other outsiders like herself, but
she avoided them because she couldn't bear to admit that
kind of defeat. Instead, she bolstered up her
courage, thought of the future when she would have her
degree, and concentrated hard on her studies.
She decided she wanted to be a journalist.
Writing words was so much easier than speaking them,
and because of her deprived childhood, she had an
inexhaustible curiosity about how the other half
lived. Besides, journalists didn't have to answer
questions--they asked them. She could keep her silence
and her privacy.
She crept around campus like a slight gray
ghost, keeping to herself, speaking only when she was
spoken to, in class or in the cafeteria. But
it was never about anything personal.
The first college year passed slowly. At the
end of it she had still not made any friends, but she had
excellent grades, and with her two jobs she was
making ends meet--just. She went back home
to work all summer at the Lido Caf`e, only
now that she was older, she was promoted
to waitressing.
The proprietor, Dolores Power,
a plump round-faced woman with hard eyes whose
husband was president of the local Chamber of
Commerce and the Elks Club, commented that she was
surprised at Mary's professionalism.
"I work nights at a caf`e near
college," she explained. And that was the only
exchange between them, except for issuing instructions
and handing over the paycheck on Saturday nights.
Mary couldn't tell if her mother was glad to see
her, but she seemed relieved not to have to collect the
food stamps and do the shopping for a while. She was
even thinner than before, and Mary suspected she
wasn't eating. So she spent a lot of her pay
on good food, trying to entice her with roast
chicken for Sunday dinner with apple pie for
dessert, and she bought lots of fresh fruit and
granola and whole milk. But her mother only
picked at it, and her eyes told her she was
tasting it only to pacify her.
It was a relief to get back to the university,
and for a while everything continued just as before. Then
suddenly it all went wrong.
That was when she went home at Thanksgiving and
saw her mother walk into the ocean.

Sighing, Mal stepped away from the window with the
glamorous Manhattan view. She had not thought
consciously about her mother for years, not since she had
left Golden. There had been no memorial
service for her; after all, no one had even known
her while she was living, so who would come to pay their
respects now that she was dead?
There had been no final moment for Mal either--
no good-bye scene, no purging of the guilt. She
had not even had a time to grieve. Instead, she had
been forced to cut her mother out of her mind as finally as
her mother had removed herself from life.
It was something she had had to do in order
to survive. She was just eighteen years old and
alone in the world, a college student, and still the
invisible woman. She had no money and no friends
because she had never learned the art of making them.
It had been a long hard haul from that
nonperson to the woman she was now--harder than
anyone knew. And that was the reason Mal never
allowed herself to think about it. Except when the
nightmares happened.
They had come often at first, sneaking unbidden
into her sleep, little black demons of
memories, tripping on spike-tipped
toes through her subconscious. Then gradually she
had left them behind, and they happened only rarely
now.
Mal paced through the darkened apartment, her arms
clutched over her chest, thinking about Harry. She
wasn't afraid tonight--there was no need to rush around
switching on lights to keep the black memories
at bay. And she knew she could thank Harry for
that.
She went out onto the terrace and stood gazing
out over the city, feeling the cool breeze on her
bare arms and legs, ruffling her hair.
She could picture her mother perfectly, as though
she had seen her just yesterday: thin, fragile, her
cheeks sucked in as she drew on the eternal
cigarette, her hair faded into an indeterminable
mixture of gray and sand. She remembered the letter
lying on the kitchen table, telling her she was coming
home for the weekend.
She remembered the endless journey on three
different buses. "It's all right," she had
told herself as they lurched through the night, "you'll be
home soon."
But there had been no home and no mother and no
comfort for her. There had been nothing--except her
own determination.
Later, she had gone back to the university and
to the jobs at the cafeteria and the downtown caf`e,
while living in a bare little room in an old
house she rented from another student.
Somehow she completed her courses and was given
her degree. Then she got herself a job at a
local radio station as a backroom typist,
collating accounts. With a little money in her
pocket, she smartened up a bit and bought herself a
couple of decent-looking work outfits. Then she
found a new position at a small local TV
station.
Her official title was researcher, but she was
really a gofer. She typed letters, delivered
mail, answered the phones, and fetched coffee and
doughnuts. She was drab, mousy, and unassuming,
with no sense of herself because she had still not discovered
what that was. But somewhere inside lurked ambition.
She dreamed of being a TV news reporter, out
on location reporting local events.
Then a new girl was hired, fresh from
college, smart as paint, blond hair flowing
around her shoulders, her lipstick and eyes
sparkling. Within weeks the new girl was
on camera doing location shots for the news, on a
foggy car pileup, or a bank robbery, or a
bridge swept away in a flood.
Mary felt demeaned, less than nothing. She
had worked hard, and she had learned. She had hoped
so badly that any new girl on camera would be
her.
Then she looked in the mirror. She saw her
straggling blond hair and her ugly glasses.
She saw that she was still drab and mousy, she was still
inhibited and shabby, with a shy whispery voice. And
she had asked herself, despondently, why
anybody would want to look at her, anyway.
Now, sitting on the garden terrace of her
beautiful Manhattan penthouse, Mal
remembered the awful truth of that moment. She had
been faced with the terrible reality that this was who she was
and this was the way her life would always be. No one
was going to wave a magic wand and change it for her.
Her fate was in her own hands.
A sort of rage had swept over her: anger
at her parents, who had left her without love and
without identity; anger at the pretty, sparkling
girl who had got the job she'd wanted; anger
at her own helplessness. She was at a
crossroads.
At that moment she had decided to change her
life. She would drag herself up from this. By sheer
force of will, she would succeed. It was now or never.
She withdrew her small savings from the bank and
made herself over. She had her hair cut neatly
and tinted a more golden blond, invested in some
contact lenses, bought a few simple, unfussy
clothes in clear colors. She asked the TV
makeup woman what cosmetics to use and how
to apply them. She studied the techniques of the
interviewers, not just at her local station but on the
networks. She watched Barbara Walters and the
morning show presenters like a hawk until she
knew every expression on their faces, every inflection
in their voices, every inch of their craft.
When she was ready, Mal asked the station
manager to give her a chance at becoming a
reporter. She burned with resentment, even now,
remembering the contemptuous way he had looked
at her and the smirk on his face, and the
you-must-be-joking tone of voice as he turned her
down. She gave her notice on the spot, and that
week she left the small town for a bigger one.
With her carefully prepared resume
and her new appearance, she got a job at
another television station as a production
assistant. The pay was better, and she was treated
like one of the team. Her co-workers smiled at her and
acted friendly, and she reveled in the surprise of
it. She smiled back cautiously at first,
afraid of being rebuffed when she made a friendly
overture, never quite sure of herself. But she was
accepted. They assumed she was just like they were.
She went out with them after work, for a drink or a
meal.
She joined a gym, worked out, got herself
into shape. She even began to date, though nothing more
serious than dinner or a ballgame or a
movie. And she was always cautious, always holding
herself back. The "mystery woman," they called
her jokingly. But to her astonishment she was enjoying
herself.
When the weather girl took a vacation, she got
the job temporarily. Now she knew exactly
what to do: how to look, how to smile and act
vivacious. Now she, too, looked as smart as
paint, her blond hair flowing, her blue eyes
sparkling, a ready smile on her generous mouth.
Brimming with newly found vitality and eagerness,
she had learned how to be entertaining.
Then the call came from the network news
producer: she had caught his eye. He asked
her to come to New York for an interview.
Sitting on her terrace, Mal remembered
how giddy with excitement she had been, and how
sick with nerves. She had pushed away the old
sneaking insecurities, told herself this was who she
was now, and who the network wanted. And then she went
out and invented Mallory Malone.
She splurged on a little black Donna
Karan suit that fitted her svelte body like a
glove. She went to a well-known hair stylist
at an expensive salon and had her hair cut
in that now-famous chrysanthemum bob, then had it
lightened until it looked naturally streaked by the
sun. A top makeup artist did her face, and
when she looked at the result in the mirror, she
barely recognized the glamorous young woman
looking back at her with surprised blue eyes.
It had cost her every cent she had, and as she set
off for the interview and the camera tests, she hoped
nervously it would be worth it.
When the cab dropped her outside the studio,
she gazed at the imposing building and the
guarded doors and the people hurrying in and out on
important business. She knew it was all hers
for the taking--if she had what it took. Sticking
her chin in the air, she walked, tall and
purposeful, through the doors. It was now or never.
Again.

It was that reinvented Mallory who had married
a successful Wall Street broker a couple
of years later.
Matt Clements was older, handsome, graying at
the temples, and the perfect social animal.
She had liked him immediately because he was a sort of
father-figure and also a self-made man. Using his
own street-smartness and astute financial brain,
he had dragged himself from a lowly Brooklyn
tenement to where he was today. On top of the world in one
of Manhattan's grandest skyscraper triplex
apartments, loaded with classy antiques and
style.
"Money can buy you anything in this city," he
told her when he invited her to dinner and she wandered
through the rooms, amazed at the sheer, staggering
luxury of it all. "Including style. And
don't forget that in a city like New York,
style gives you your credentials. Money plus
style equals class, and that means you've got it
all."
They laughed, and she admired him for his honesty
--and she envied him because he brought no baggage from
his past. He made no secret of his lowly
beginnings. He wasn't proud of them, but they were just
a fact.
At that time she was a network newsreader, and the
prospect of moving to the morning show at some
future date was being dangled under her nose.
She was torn between her career and the heady excitement
of being with him.
He looked after her, cared about her, made her
feel beautiful and wanted. For the first time, with a
man, she felt able to let her guard down a little.
He understood her ambition and applauded her for
it. She never had to explain herself to him.
When he asked her to marry him a month later,
she said yes instantly. She told herself it was
love, and she did love him in a way. And she
was certainly physically attracted to him. But
what she really wanted was to be part of his busy
life.
That turned out to be the problem. He was
a busy man, and she was a busy woman. Something
had to break, and it turned out to be their marriage.
"Give it up for me, Mal," he had said.
He was sitting opposite her on a big
gold brocade sofa in the smaller of the sitting
rooms in their grand apartment. He was in a dark
green silk robe, and she was wearing a white
terry one. They were both naked underneath, and they had
just made love. It had been fine, good; when she
was with him, everything was okay. But he was away too
often, and without her job, without what she did, she
felt that she was nothing.
"You would hate me in two months if I
did," she said sadly.
"We could buy a house in the country, have a
baby."
She had looked at him, anguished. She
told herself she couldn't have a baby. She had never
really been a child herself. She was afraid she would not
know how to love it--after all, she had no role
model. "I don't think I could do that," she said
soberly.
"The offer is still open," he said. And then he
kissed her and went to get dressed. Half an
hour later he left for Zurich. He would not be
back for a couple of weeks.
A few months after that, she realized it was not
going to work. She needed her career, and he lived for
his. She hadn't really minded when he blamed
her publicly for the breakup. After all, he had
offered her what most women wanted. She was
different, that was all.
Mal walked to the edge of the terrace and leaned
her elbows along the rail, gazing down at the
streets of the tough, glamorous city that had taken
her to its heart. She had never looked back
since that day. And she had never looked back to the
past, until Harry had forced her into it.
There were still things she knew she could never talk
about, secrets she could never expose to the light of
day. But they were from another time and place, and she
had told herself long ago that the only way
to survive was to go forward.
Harry had been right, of course. She had
taken the coward's way out by refusing to confront her
own desolation and sense of abandonment created by her
mother's suicide. Obviously she had been
afraid of it.
"Thank you, Harry," she said into the night.
Then she went back indoors and called
him and left the same message on his answering
machine.
She smiled, thinking about Harry getting her little
message when he returned from work in the early
hours. She wandered into the guest room and switched
on the lamp. She looked at the bed Harry had
slept in last week. The room had been cleaned
and the bed linen changed, but her pillow was still there--the
same pillow his head had rested on.
She lay on the bed, clasping the pillow to her
breasts, her knees curled up, her eyes
closed, thinking about Harry, wishing she were back in
his arms, making love to him. Because when Harry
Jordan made love to her, she had felt
loved. And that was pretty special.



The homicide squad room was still buzzing with
activity at dawn when Harry finally called it
quits. He had gone through the transcripts of the
interviews and the evidence found at the scene, and he
had played Terry Walker's answering machine
tape endlessly. Each time he heard Suzie's
last words, it was like a blow to the heart.
After the first time Rossetti couldn't bear
to listen to it again, but Harry was searching for
background sounds, anything extra that might have
filtered onto the tape. He had finally sent it
over to the lab to see what they could do
electronically to amplify it.
He hardly needed Dr. Blake's autopsy
report. It seemed a terrible pity that Suzie
had had to be defiled a second time in order
to discover what her last meal had been, and whether
she had taken any drugs or poisons, and which
of the terrible slashes had been the one that actually
caused her death.
Both he and Rossetti had begun referring
to Suzie as "the victim," putting a distance between
the girl they knew and the body in the morgue.
"We'll get this son of a bitch, though,
Prof," Rossetti said soberly.
He looked like a different man from his usual
soign`e, Casanova persona; now he was
somber-eyed and angry. Harry felt exactly
the way he did.
"We're homicide cops, Rossetti,"
he said, trying to jolt them both back into the
reality of their position.
"Yeah, but we're still human," Rossetti
retorted.
They walked out to the parking lot together, stood
around, hands shoved in their pockets, saying nothing.
Rossetti kicked a stone; it struck the Jag,
and he said moodily, "Sorry."
Harry shrugged; it didn't seem to matter.
He slapped him sympathetically on the shoulder and
said good night.
They walked to their cars, turned, looked back
at each other.
"Where you headin' now, Prof?" Rossetti
asked.
"I thought I'd go by the club, see what's
doing." Harry knew he wouldn't be able to sleep.
He would work out in the gym and burn off the false
energy. "What about you?"
"I thought I'd try the church, put in a little
prayin' time. Give it a chance anyhow."
Harry hoped God could do better than they
were. He climbed into the Jag and drove very
slowly through the cool gray dawn to the
Moonlightin' Club.


The club was quiet. Just a few young guys
hanging around, sipping Cokes and talking. Even
the music was muted--instead of rap, they were playing
a Whitney Houston album.
He said hi in passing, went to the locker
room, and carefully stowed his handgun away. Not that
it meant much, he thought as he shut the locker
door securely. Any one of the kids here tonight more
than likely possessed a firearm, most of them
more sophisticated than a police officer's
handgun.
He took a quick shower, changed, then hit the
gym. He did a half hour on the treadmill,
then he lifted free weights instead of using the
machines. He needed the sheer physical feel of
being in charge of himself tonight.
Another half hour later, sweating and
exhausted, he went back to the locker room,
took another shower, and got dressed. He was
reaching for his holster in his locker when he saw a
slip of paper tucked underneath.
He slid the note carefully from beneath the
weapon. The message was scrawled in black
ballpoint.
"The shooter at the 7-Eleven is
Isaiah Tulane aka Gregory Tallman
aka Ike the Man. Right this moment he is
keepin outta sight at 9 West Street. The
dead guy was a friend."
It was unsigned, of course. But Harry had
no doubt it was accurate. He took ten
seconds out to wonder how they'd gotten into his
locker, then reminded himself severely that this
wasn't day camp. Most of the guys who
frequented the club had criminal records, and
most had been involved in drugs. Lockers were
easy meat for them. He felt lucky that the only
time they had abused the trust between them was to inform on
a murderer who had shot one of their own.
Nevertheless, he was guilty of the sin of
complacency--he hadn't expected this to happen.
He had been careless and was just lucky it hadn't
all gone bad. It wouldn't happen again.
Nobody looked his way as he walked back
out to the car--they just went right on doing what they were
doing. Harry grinned as he got on the radio
phone and summoned up the squad cars. Sometimes
life offered up a little bonus after all.
He got Rossetti on the phone too.
"How'd your praying go?" he asked, still smiling.
"You know better than to expect an immediate
response," Rossetti retorted. "Still, I
guess I feel better."
"Then this will make you feel even better and
increase your faith in the Almighty." Harry
told him about the note. "I'm on my way
to pick up the arrest warrant as we speak," he
said, elated. "See you on West Street, old
buddy."
Arresting the killer was an anticlimax. He
was in bed, sleeping off a heroin hit and he offered
no resistance. Later he became truculent and
told them the name of his accomplice.
"It was him shot the guy, not me," he muttered
as Harry paced around him in the interview room.
Rossetti sipped his coffee, aware that
Tulane was dying for a cup. And a cigarette.
He took out a pack of Camels,
ostentatiously shook one out, rolled it around in his
fingers, then stuck it between his lips. He tossed the
Zippo from hand to hand, drawing out the tension.
Tulane's eyes were fixed on the cigarette.
He licked his lips. His face was ashen gray,
his mouth parched, and as the drug left him, he
began to shake.
"I need a smoke, man," he said, still
angry. "Ain't you guys supposed to offer
suspects that? And coffee?"
"Sure." Rossetti lit the cigarette and
wafted the smoke away with his hand. Tulane
sniffed it up like it was cocaine.
"Oh, man," he moaned, "you are one mean
shit."
"Detective Jordan, will you make that two
demerit points against Mr. Tulane?"
Rossetti grinned.
"There's all the coffee and cigarettes you
want just waiting for you, Isaiah," Harry said
mildly.
He knew it was just a matter of time.
Rossetti had the guy wound up, and his
accomplice was going through the same motions in the
next room. They had the weapon and the rusting white
Ford transit van. They had these guys nailed,
and in the next hour or so, they would confess.
Meanwhile, their lawyer had arrived, disgruntled
at being hauled out of bed. Harry yawned. It
seemed as though this night had gone on forever.
It was ten in the morning when they had their
confession, and when Harry finally drove back
home, he was worried about Squeeze. He
needn't have been--the dog was used to a cop's
erratic hours. He greeted him with a lazy wag
of the tail and lumbered cheerfully to his feet.
Harry slipped on the leash and took him for a
brisk walk up and down Beacon Hill and around
the Common. He stopped at a Starbucks and had
a decent cup of coffee for a change and shared a
cinnamon twist with the dog before they walked home
again.
There were two calls recorded on his machine.
The first was his mother.
"Harry, thank you for coming to my birthday," she
said gaily.
Harry groaned. She was so up, and he was
exhausted. Besides, the party seemed like a decade
ago.
"Wasn't it just lovely? Sometimes I think
I outdo even myself. And thank you for bringing
Mallory. She was certainly an extra treat.
Such a lovely woman. Your uncle Jack
says you're crazy if you let this one go just because
you're wedded to your job. And I must say I
agree with him." She laughed again. "Let's have
lunch soon, dear boy."
There was a pause, and then she added as though she
had just thought of it, "Don't you think there's something
faintly ridiculous about having to make an
appointment to lunch with you, when you live right around the
corner? You could just drop in any old time. Oh,
except I forgot to tell you, I'm off
to Prague next week with Julia. I know
you'll ask yourself why on earth I am going
to Prague, so I may as well answer you now.
It's because I've never been there. Au
revoir," she added, then put the phone down with a
firm click.
Harry grinned. Miffy was nothing if not
predictable. He waited for the second
message.
It was Mal. She said in that soft purring
voice, "I was just thinking about you. I want to say
thank you, again. For everything. Good night,
Harry."
He wanted to hold her, hug her to him.
Instead, he smiled and patted the answering machine
affectionately. He hoped he would dream of her
when he finally got to sleep. But in fact he
did not. He did not dream at all.



Mal was on his mind when he woke up, though.
He edged Squeeze's head off his chest, sat
up, ran his hands through his hair, then dialed her
home number. He got the answering machine and
sighed. Of course, it was two thirty. She would
be at the office. He called there, but she was still
at lunch, not expected back until around
three.
At three he was sitting at Ruby's counter
having breakfast, with Squeeze tucked underneath,
as always.
"Good thing he's a police dog," Doris
said loudly at him. "Otherwise the patrons
might object on hygienic grounds."
Harry glanced at the other customers, gulping
Bud, coughing over their Marlboros, and mopping
up gravy with their bread. "Not these patrons,
Doris," he called over his shoulder, as he
went to the pay phone near the door.
Squeeze had his head on his paws. He
lifted his eyes, watching him, but he did not
move. He knew when Harry meant action.
"Ms. Malone is in a meeting at
the studio," Harry was informed.
"Okay," he said resignedly. "Tell her
I called again. I'll get back to her later."
He went back to the counter and picked,
disgruntled, at his usual ham and eggs.
"You know what, Prof? You don't eat right,"
Doris said, leaning her elbow on the counter
opposite him. "You ever eat anything 'cept this
crap?"
He glanced moodily at her. "Sure I
do. I eat cinnamon buns, pepperoni
pizza, and Matisse sandwiches."
"I ain't never heard of a Matisse sandwich,
but what you need, Prof, is a good woman who
cooks for you. Proper food, y'know, like they
tell you to eat in magazines."
"The women I meet don't cook," he said
sadly. Then he remembered Mal's
refrigerator with the quail and stuffed zucchini
blossoms. "Well, maybe some."
"Then go for it, Prof, because if you don't snap
her up soon, you'll be the one in Mass
General. In the cardiac intensive care, wishing
you'd never heard of Ruby's famous home
fries."
It wasn't Doris; somehow the food just
didn't taste so good today. He drank a
Coke, paid the check, waved good-bye, and walked
to the door. This time Squeeze followed him.
Back in the squad room, it was as though he
had never left. He sat in front of the computer
going over the facts about Suzie's death. Something
about it didn't quite add up. For one, nothing had
been stolen: the stereo and TV were still there. Still, the
odds were she had interrupted him before he had a chance
to remove the goods and stash them in his car.
He examined the photographs of the body.
Suzie's battered face was covered in dried
blood. He peered closer at it, took a
magnifier from the drawer, and looked again. He
picked up the phone and called the crime lab,
asked them to blow up the detail of Suzie's
forehead. He couldn't quite believe what he had just
seen, but he was pretty sure he was right.
He looked at the photograph of the black
lace panties lying on her bed. Yet there had
been no rape. The crime lab had them, along
with her sheets and the other articles present at the
crime scene--the bag and the peas, the knife,
samples of blood, and the fingernail
scrapings. The detritus of a wasted human
life.
He looked at the pictures of the knife. It
was small, with a thin narrow blade. It was the same
type that had been used on Summer Young. He
pulled up Alec Klosowski's statement on the
computer. The description of the suspect and the type
of vehicle also tallied.
He shook his head, disbelieving. Suzie had
been randomly butchered in what he guessed was an
impulsive crime. The deaths of the three young
women students had been premeditated. They had
been stalked, abducted, and raped, then killed
cleanly in an act of planned sexual
violence.
He called forensics again and asked when they would
have something for him, anything. He just needed to get on
with it.
"Give us another couple of hours," the head
of the crime lab told him.
So he took Squeeze for a walk alongside
the Charles River. Mooching along with his hands in
his pockets, he gazed at the sidewalk instead
of at the scenery. The dog walked soberly at
heel, sensing this was not a playful
catch-the-ball-type day. Then, lured by a
cackling group of gulls on the embankment, he
flattened himself to the ground and squeezed under the
fence.
"Get back here, you idiot," Harry yelled
as the dog chased after the gulls, sending them
shrieking angrily into the air. Squeeze barked
joyfully, Harry laughed, and the dog trotted
triumphantly back. This time he leaped the
fence, then resumed his position just slightly behind
Harry, as though nothing had occurred.
"Mutt." Harry cuffed him affectionately,
then he returned to his thoughts.
What if there was a connection between the student
killings and Suzie Walker's? The killer had
obviously known Suzie's movements, the way a
stalker would. He had known she was on night duty
and that the apartment would be empty. She had
surprised him by coming home early. He ran his
hand through his hair. The similarities worried
him.
Technically, his shift didn't start until
eight that night, but he had already put in a day's
work by then, when the blowup of Suzie's face
came back from the lab.
"What do you make of that, Rossetti?" he
asked, pointing to the dried blood mark on her
forehead.
Rossetti peered more closely. "Looks like
an imprint of something. Like something was stamped on
her forehead."
"Exactly. Only it wasn't stamped. She
fell forward onto it. Look at it again,
Rossetti. See that--the two loops linked by a
straight piece, the little bump in the middle.
Doesn't that bring to mind the famous curb-bit
Gucci uses on their shoes? Rossetti, our
man has expensive taste."
"Just like the serial killer." Rossetti's
astonished eyes met his. "But it's a different
type of crime. Unpremeditated, no
abduction, no rape, repeated stabbings."
"Think of this scenario, Rossetti. He had
her marked out as his next victim. He was stalking
her. He knew she was on night duty.
Remember, she lost her keys. He didn't
have to break in to her cottage--he'd already had the
goddamned keys copied. She came home
unexpectedly, caught him there, and he
panicked. He had planned to abduct her and
kill her later. But he killed her then because he
had no choice. She struggled, fought him, hit
him with the heavy bag of frozen peas. He wasn't
used to that, and he savaged her because of it. It's the
serial killer, Rossetti. I'm certain of
it. I feel it in my gut."
Rossetti looked at him. "You think the
chief is gonna go for this theory?"
"If you forget the style of the crime and that it
wasn't premeditated, everything fits--from the
knife to the expensive shoes. What else can the
chief think? Our killer has struck again,
Rossetti. It was a little earlier than he had
planned, that's all. We'll wait until we
get the rest of the evidence from forensics before we
talk to the chief, but I'm betting on it."
He didn't get around to calling Mal that
night, and when he finally got home she had left
a message saying she guessed they were just missing
each other and she was sorry. Harry thought it was
pretty tough conducting a love affair over the
telephone. Especially when the parties couldn't
reach each other.

Suzie Walker's funeral took place at
three o'clock the following day. The plain little
Baptist chapel she had attended since she was a
child was filled with mourners, including a large
contingent from the hospital.
Harry noticed Dr. Waxman and others from the
medical faculty, as well as those of the nursing
staff who could get the time off, and
representatives of the clerical and
administrative staff.
The family were at the front of the chapel,
dressed in black: the mother and father, the sister, and a younger red-haired brother, as well as grandparents
and uncles, aunts, cousins, and childhood
friends. The casket before the simple altar was
loaded with pretty white flowers--peonies,
daisies, roses, and baby's breath--and tall
candles burned beside it.
Harry and Rossetti stood at the back, and
later, at the graveside, they kept discreetly
in the background while Suzie's simple
casket was lowered into the earth. A police
photographer videotaped the proceedings and the
TV crews were also there. Mrs. Walker
screamed, her husband grabbed her, and they leaned
into each other, desperate with grief.
Harry closed his eyes, unable to watch. He
reminded himself that he had a job to do here. It was not
unknown for a killer to attend the burial of his
victim. Later, he would have to ask the family
if they had noticed any strangers among the
crowd. He doubted it--the killer would be too
shaken up, shocked out of his precise routine into doing something risky, unplanned.
When it was over, he and Rossetti returned
to the precinct. More news had come from the lab:
pubic hairs had been found on the black lace
panties and they were not the victim's. And scalp
hair had been found on the sheets:
Caucasian, gray tinted black. It might be
possible to get a DNA reading from the small
particles of cell tissue still adhering to the root,
but it would take time.
"Looks like you got it right, Prof,"
Rossetti said, elated, as they went to talk to the
chief.
Afterward they went to a bar and brooded over a
beer, not saying much. Later they met up with the
chief of police and the mayor at the local TV
studio, while the chief was videoed for the
six o'clock news, telling the public that the serial
killer had struck again.
Suzie's smiling young face appeared on the
screen, followed by film of her funeral that afternoon.
Then the mayor said his piece about safety in his
city, and that they had evidence and expected to make
an arrest soon. Harry and Rossetti stood
respectfully in the background looking grim,
handguns bulging under their jackets.
Immediately after that, Harry called Myra the
dog-walker and asked her to take care of
Squeeze. Then he drove to Logan and took
the next shuttle to La Guardia.
He called Mal before takeoff and left a
message: "It's six thirty and I'm just about
to board the shuttle. I'll be at your place
around eight fifteen, with a little luck. I know it's
short notice, but I hope you're going to be
there." He hesitated, then added, "I need you,
Mal."

Just as Harry was boarding the shuttle, the man was
returning home from work. He waved to a neighbor
as he drove slowly down the street, then pulled
into the driveway and into the garage. He went through the
same routine with the locks and bolts, scanning the
rooms as he walked through them for anything untoward.
There was anxiety in his eyes this time, almost as if
he expected to find a couple of police
officers taking his house apart, searching for
evidence.
It was the knife that bothered him. He
remembered distinctly putting it in his pocket before
he left. But now he couldn't find it. He
wondered where he might have dropped it. He had
searched the car and retraced his own trail from the
garage through the house. He could have dropped it in
her house, on the street, anywhere. And if he
had, he knew the police would have it by now.
Worried, he went into the kitchen, opened the
refrigerator, and stared at the usual meager
contents, as though expecting the knife to be where he
usually kept it.
He poured vodka liberally into a tall
glass, omitting the ice this time, then went into the
sitting room and switched on the TV.
He stood in front of the set as the world events
unfolded, gulping the neat vodka. He was
hungry. Since he had been too agitated about
the knife to go to his usual bistro for
supper. Instead, he had picked up a sandwich.
He went back into the kitchen, came out with it,
took a bite, and stood in front of the set again.
There she was! Suzie Walker was looking
directly into his eyes. He swallowed a
piece of cheese that had gotten stuck in his
throat. "Cunt," he groaned, "cheap lousy
bitch. Just look what you made me do."
He was still spitting invectives at her when they
rolled the video of the funeral. Then the chief of
police came on, and the mayor. He listened,
mouth agape, when they said they had definitive
evidence that the man who had killed Nurse
Walker was the same man who had killed the three
young students.
"Go carefully in this city," the mayor warned
all women. "And do not go alone. Be aware, and
when you go out, stay in a group. We do not expect
the killer will go free for long. Everything points
to an arrest very soon."
His legs buckled, and he sank into a chair.
The sandwich dropped unnoticed onto the
immaculate carpet, staining it.
He licked his dry lips and told himself they
had to be lying. Even if they had the knife, there
were no prints--he had washed and dried it
carefully afterward. And he had worn rubber
gloves, been meticulous about that. He had
left nothing else, he felt quite sure.
They were trying to calm the public's fears
by saying an arrest was imminent. No one had seen
him that night except Suzie. All they had was
the knife, and that was clean.
He sighed, relieved. They were bluffing. He
was absolutely certain they did not know his
identity.
He switched off the news, then noticed the
sandwich and the mustard stain on the carpet. Cursing
under his breath, he hurried to the kitchen to get the
spot remover. He hated mess.

NOW OR NEVER



Mal could have danced for joy when she got
Harry's message. She canceled her plans to go
to the theater with friends and dashed out to pick up some
food.
She was in the kitchen preparing salad dressing
when Harry arrived. He stepped out of the
elevator and into the hall with the Venetian
mirrors and soft pale rugs, and she ran
to greet him.
He was wearing the black leather jacket, the
jeans, and a blue shirt. He was unshaven, his
dark hair was rumpled, and there was a tired look
in his eyes. She thought he was the sexiest man she
had ever been lucky enough to set eyes on.
But what she said was "Glad you made the effort
--sartorially, Harry."
He groaned. "Give me a break,
Malone, will you? I've come straight from work,
traveled hundreds of miles to see you."
"Then I hope you like what you see."
He looked her up and down as she twirled in
front of him, giving him her best smile. She
was wearing a long silky skirt with a pattern of
tiny blue flowers in a color that matched her
eyes, and a tight black scoop-necked top.
Her feet were bare, and there was a Band-Aid on every
pink-nailed toe. A white cook's apron
covered a great deal of her, and she fairly
crackled with vitality and joie de vivre.
"I like the apron," he admitted
cautiously, "especially if it means you're
doing the cooking."
"I am."
He wanted to eat her up, not dinner. She
kept on looking at him. He said, "Doris
told me I don't eat right. She said I need
a good woman to cook for me."
"Doris said that?"
"Yeah. I told her it would be bad for
Ruby's business, but she told me it would be good
for my cholesterol."
She threw him a mocking look. "Now we've
got that out of the way, won't you please come in?"
She stepped to one side and waved him inside.
"My home is yours, detective."
He walked toward her, then stopped in front
of her. "Sartorially and otherwise, you
look ... adorable," he murmured, cupping her
face in his hands and kissing her on the nose.
"Definitely adorable, even if you do smell of
garlic."
"At least it's not Bactine."
"It never was." And then he clutched her to him
and kissed her properly.
She had that wonderful sensation again of being lost in
his arms, not knowing anything else but the way his lips
felt on hers, the pressure of his hard body as
he gripped her.
"Oh, Mal," he said, finally taking his lips
away and dropping kisses into her hair, her
forehead, her closed eyes. "I need you."
Her eyes shot open. She leaned back in his
arms, staring at him, thrilled. "It's like
adorable," she told him. "No one has ever
said they needed me before."
He shook his head ruefully. "Well, this
guy does. It's been a long, hard few
days."
She led him into the sitting room, eased off his
jacket, maneuvered him into a comfortable chair, and
asked if he would like a glass of champagne.
"Got any bourbon?" He looked wrecked,
dead-eyed, exhausted.
She nodded. She wondered what could have happened
between Sunday evening when she left him and now. She
went to the sideboard, put ice in the glass, and
topped it up with Jack Daniel's.
"Thanks," he said quietly.
She looked doubtfully at him, her head on
one side. "I read somewhere--it must have been
Cosmo, because they know all that kind of stuff--that
when your man comes home tired, the best way
to his heart is a good meal. So I seem to have
got it right this time. I'll busy myself in the
kitchen while you put your feet up and listen to some
soothing music."
She changed the CD from Santana to a
Mozart concerto, turned down the volume,
smiled at him over her shoulder, and disappeared
into the kitchen.
Harry wasn't even hungry, although he
hadn't eaten. He was just glad to be here with her.
He needed her. In more ways than the one she had
assumed he meant.
He sipped the bourbon, savoring the sweetish
flavor on his tongue. The aroma of something good
came from the kitchen, and the soft music
crept into his mind, soothingly, as she had
intended. A feeling of well-being came over him,
and if it were not that she was so close and so on his
mind, he might have fallen asleep.
She came back into the room silently on
bare feet. He said wearily, "I'm sorry,
Mal. I shouldn't have come tonight, I guess, but I
just wanted to be with you."
She sat at his feet and rested her head against
his knee, happy he was there. "Feel free,
any time."
With an effort he shook off the events of the past
few days and brought himself back to the present.
"What I need," he said with a smile, "is a
really good meal. I'm eager to know how the chef at
this high-class establishment rates."
"Follow me, sir, please," she said, taking
his hand.
The round table in the kitchen was set for two, with
Matisse-blue linen placemats and the sunshine
yellow and blue plates. A green salad
sparkled in a glass dish. There was walnut
bread and a slab of sweet French butter, and
spinach fettuccini with a fresh tomato sauce
topped with tiny vegetables. The candles were lit,
and a bottle of white wine was chilling in an ice
bucket on the console.
Harry looked at the feast, then at Mal.
"You did all this?" he marveled.
She nodded. "You'd better taste it before you
give out compliments."
He poured wine into their glasses and held her
chair for her. "Madame la Chef." He
kissed her as she sat down, and her lips clung
to his.
"We'll never eat at this rate," she
murmured breathlessly.
"Oh, yes we will. This is wonderful, Mal.
And you got it just right. I never would have thought of it,
but it's exactly what I feel like eating."
She served the salad, offered him bread and
butter, and watched anxiously as he tasted the
pasta.
"It's good," he said. "In fact, it's more
than good. It's terrific. Best thing I've
eaten in days."
"Well, I guess almost anything is better
than Ruby's," she said, but he could tell she was
pleased.
He moved the food around his plate,
and she watched him uneasily. He wasn't
eating. She wondered what was wrong. What had
he meant when he said he needed her? She had
thought he meant he cared about her, wanted her.
She had even had the tiniest thought that maybe he'd
meant he loved her.
"It's no good, Mal," he said, sitting
back in his chair. "I'm not exactly here under
false pretenses, but I am here for reasons
other than just wanting to be with you."
Her heart sank like a stone. She wondered if
he had been pretending to care about her all the time
and now he was going to get to the truth. And somehow she
knew what that truth was.
She got up and cleared the plates busily from
the table, avoiding his eyes. She could feel them
boring into her back as she went into the sitting
room. She sank into a chair, her legs curled
under her.
He followed her and sat opposite, in the
same place where he had eaten the jolly
Matisse sandwich just the other night.
It wasn't so long ago, she told herself
protectively. They had only known each other
a few weeks. And they obviously did not know
each other as well as she had thought, or else why
would he have been able to fool her like this?
"Mal," he said, reading her mind, "it's not
what you think."
She adjusted her point of vision to somewhere over
his head. "Really?" she said coolly.
"What happened between us, what we feel about
each other, that's the same, Mal. Nothing has
changed."
She shrugged. "Maybe you're right, and we're
just back where we started."
"I'm here because I wanted to see you," he
insisted. "But I'm also here on business."
She had known it. She got up and began pacing
the room. She said angrily, "You made love
to me because you want to use me. That's it, isn't
it, Detective Harry? Well, I suppose
it's not the first time it's happened to a woman. And
I guess I'm equally to blame. It takes
two to make love, after all."
Harry shook his head. "That's not the way it
was, I swear it."
"You mean you enjoyed it? Well, I confess,
so did I. Why don't we just leave it at that,
Harry. You go your way, and I'll go
mine." She turned and glared at him. "I
don't need you."
He got to his feet and grabbed her arm.
"Goddammit, but I need you. What's wrong with
you, going off half-cocked when you haven't even
heard what I have to say? Why must you always
assume the worst?" She tugged her arm away, and
he let go of her abruptly. "I guess that
last question is irrelevant, since I already know the
answer. You're so locked into your own
insecurities that you can't grow up."
"What do you mean?" Her blue eyes blazed
at him.
"Tell me, Mal, what does it matter that
the photo-fit brought us together? I met you because of
it, and I'm grateful for that."
"You are?" She threw back her head and
laughed. "And now I know why."
Harry gritted his teeth. He took a deep
breath, then said coldly, "Okay, so it's over
between us. But since I'm here, I might as well
tell you the other reason I needed you." She
glared suspiciously at him, and he said
impatiently, "Oh, for God's sake, Mal,
sit down, why don't you. You look like an
Afghan hound with a bad haircut, about to take a
bite out of me."
"Ohhhh!" She subsided into the sofa, punching
the pillows furiously with both fists.
"Be quiet, and just listen for once," he
barked. "I have another life besides this one of ease
and luxury that I lead with you."
"Lead with me? Huh! A couple of parties,
a weekend--you call that a life?"
He grinned suddenly. "You have to admit it was
luxurious."
She picked up a rose-chintz pillow and
held it in front of her face. "You're a
prick, Harry Jordan," she muttered from behind
it. "Why don't you just leave."
"Oh, no, you're not going to get rid of me that
quickly. You're going to hear what I have to say,
Ms. Malone. And when I've finished, think
carefully before you reply. Ask yourself if you can
live with the consequences. Because I'm telling you, I
cannot."
She took the pillow from her face. "What can
you possibly have to say that's so important?"
"Did you by any chance see the news today?" She
looked blankly at him. "I guess
not. Then I'd better begin at the beginning.
Okay, Malone, when I left you Sunday
night I went to work."
She said warily, "I remember, the
graveyard shift."
"That's just what it turned out to be. For someone
I knew."
"Someone you knew? You mean someone died?"
"A young woman was murdered. She was a nurse
working in the emergency unit at Massachusetts
General. I didn't know her well, I just used
to see her whenever I went there on business. We
would say hello, pass the time of day. She was a
pretty girl, with gorgeous red hair.
Rossetti was forever trying to get a date with her.
She turned him down every time.
"Sunday night we were called to the cottage
where she lived. She had been stabbed repeatedly,
her throat cut, her face slashed. She was
kneeling facedown in a pool of her own blood.
Her little black cat was sitting next to the
body."
Mal pressed her face back into the pillow.
She could see the scene all too vividly.
"Don't," she cried, horrified. "Please
don't. I don't want to hear this."
"She had been dead for almost thirty-six
hours," Harry continued remorselessly. "She
died while you and I were dancing at my mother's
birthday party."
"No!" She clapped her hands over her ears.
He stood over her and pulled her hands away.
"The same guy killed her, Mal. The one in the
photo-fit."
She leaned back against the cushions. Her
frightened eyes were fixed on his, and he felt a
pang of tenderness. He had an urge to put his
arms around her, to forget all this. But this time he could
not.
"That's four young women he's killed, Mal.
Four lives taken. Four families
devastated by their loss. They were all somebody's
daughters. Somebody's friends. Somebody's
lovers, maybe. Anyhow, they were precious to those
who loved them. And they meant nothing but a perverse
moment's satisfaction to the evil man who killed
them."
She hung her head, staring at his feet, saying
nothing. Her long eyelashes curled so sweetly
at the tips. It was ridiculous, he
knew it, to be so moved by such a small detail.
Mal thought of Summer Young and pretty
Suzie. "What do you want from me?" she
whispered.
"I want you to tell me what you know about the
man on the photo-fit."
Her head shot up. "I already told you. I
don't know him. That's the truth, I swear it."
"Then what was it about him?"
She turned her head away. "I can't tell
you."
Harry groaned. He rolled his eyes
heavenward in frustration. He grabbed her by the
shoulders, hauled her to her feet, and thrust his
face into hers. "Goddammit, why can't you tell
me, Malone?" he roared. "How can it be more
important than what happened to Suzie
Walker? You're alive, for God's sake."
She was staring at him, numb with horror.
Harry let go of her and backed away, "It's
okay, Mal, it's all right. I'm sorry. I
shouldn't have asked you. You have a right to your privacy.
Just forget it."
He turned and walked into the hall and picked
up his jacket from the chair where he had thrown it
when he came in, aeons ago.
"I apologize," he said sincerely, "for
taking out my frustration, my own inadequacies,
on you. I let those women down. I should have had the
killer before he even got to Summer Young. Before
he killed Suzie."
"Is that what you meant when you said you needed
me?" She knew her voice had a tremor in
it, and she swallowed hard, trying to smooth it out.
"I wasn't thinking about your influential show,"
he said, his eyes linking with hers. "I meant I
needed you the way a man needs a woman
sometimes. As a comfort, a friend, a lover. And that's
the other reason I came here tonight, Mal."
The lump in her throat just wouldn't go away.
Her long silky blue skirt rustled as she
walked toward him. "It was the eyes that shocked
me. ... I knew someone with eyes like that once."
It was the eyes she remembered most about him,
though they had been hidden behind heavy glasses. The
lenses had magnified them. They were dark,
hypnotic, drilling into her very soul.
"Was it the same guy?"
She shook her head. "The man I knew
wore glasses. He--he frightened me.
That's all it was."
"So badly you couldn't cope with showing our
picture on your show? A killer with the same
eyes?"
"It was foolish, I know. But that's the truth."
He could see she was upset. "You want
to tell me about it?"
"There's really nothing more to tell." She reached
up, touched his face lightly. "I'm sorry,
Harry. About Suzie. And I'm sorry for what
I said." She took a deep shuddering breath.
She had made her decision. "It's my duty
to feature the photo-fit on the program. I
see that now."
He still didn't know what else about the man
disturbed her, but he guessed she would never tell
him. It was one secret that was too private to be
shared with anyone. "Are you sure you want to do this?"
"I'm sure. We'll start working on it tomorrow.
We tape Thursday. That doesn't leave us much
time."
"All I'm asking is five minutes."
She shook her head. "I'll postpone the show
we had scheduled. I want to build the whole
program around the case."
"Oh, Mal." He shook his head ruefully.
"I know, I know. Why couldn't I have said this
at the beginning and saved the agony trip?" She
looked appealingly at him. "I never learn, do
I, Harry?"
"You will," he said, drawing her comfortingly into his
arms and holding on to her as though he never wanted
to let go.



Mal woke before Harry did the next morning.
It was very early, just five o'clock and still dark. He
lay sprawled on his back, one arm outflung,
the other wrapped around her as she curved into him,
anchoring him with her leg. In the faint glow from the
window, she could make out the lines of his lean
muscular body and his sleeping face. His mouth was
slightly open; his breath came softly, and his
firmly closed eyes gave him an innocent
boyish look.
She stretched herself along the length of his body
and ran her fingers lightly over his chest and along
his flat belly. His dark hair was crisp in her
fingers. A tremor rippled through him, and
she smiled, letting her hand rest there, feeling him
harden. She ran her tongue over his lips, then
kissed his open mouth, lightly at first, then
hungrily as he slid his arms around her, locked
her against him.
After a minute she lifted her head; his eyes
were still shut. She slithered out of his grasp, all the
way down.
His fingers were tangled in her hair as she tasted
him, made love to him. He groaned. "Wait,
Mal, wait baby, please. ..."
He rolled away from her before it was too late,
then sat up and drew her to him. He held her
face between his hands, looking deep into her eyes.
"I need to make love to you," he whispered.
He drew her onto his lap, then he bent
to kiss her breasts, circling the nipples with his
tongue until she shivered with pleasure. He
banded his arms around her as though he would never let
her go, and then he made slow and beautiful love
to her.
Afterward she could feel his heart thudding against her
own, feel their mingled sweat cooling on their hot
bodies. The scent of their lovemaking was in her
nostrils, and the taste of him still in her mouth. She
felt as though she had absorbed him through her very
pores and now she was floating in a silvery
space that belonged to the two of them alone.
Harry ran his hands down her smooth back,
feeling the little bumps in her spine, marveling at
the delicacy of her body, the delicious
curves and hollows, the sweet scent of her.
"Tell me, are we in heaven, Malone?" he
whispered, nibbling at her earlobe.
She hooked her arm around his neck, holding
him. She wanted to keep him there forever. "It's the
closest I've ever been to it, detective," she
murmured happily, still in that space where the very
air seemed charged with little electric currents.
The room was just coming into focus, the dawn light
filtering through the cream silk curtains, and Harry
murmured wonderingly, "Has the world turned
to silver while we slept?"
She opened her eyes, glanced around, then
smiled. "And I thought it was just you," she
murmured, returning her head to the crook of his
neck. "Do you realize that we slept together?" she
added. "Properly. In a real bed, and not just on
cushions on the floor."
"I realize about the bed, but I
don't remember much sleeping."
He lay back, and she shifted in his
embrace, still entwined with him. She was silk and
velvet and perfume, and all woman. He
glanced at his watch. The green digital display
glowed with the fateful numbers that told him he had
to get moving if he was going to catch the early
shuttle. He looked down at her, curled against
him.
"I know, I know." She sighed. "You have to go."
She rolled away and dangled her long legs
over the edge of the bed. "I remembered the
bagels."
"How did you know I'd stay?"
"Call it intuition." She slid from the bed,
stretching her arms over her head in a smooth
feline movement that made him want her all over
again.
He watched her walk, naked, to the closet,
graceful as a dancer--until she turned to look
at him and stubbed her toe on the chair. She
clutched her foot, hopping around and yelling, and
he laughed.
"I don't know about you, Malone. Maybe
you're just accident prone." He got up from the bed
and strode toward her, kissed the top of her head,
ruffled her hair, then continued to the bathroom.
She glared after him. "Callous bastard," she
called, then she began to laugh. She heard the
shower running, and she pulled on a pair of white
boxers and a gray sweatshirt and made her way
into the kitchen.
Last night's meal was still on the table--except
for the bread and butter, which they had eaten between bouts
of lovemaking, and the wine, which had fueled them through the
night.
She put up the coffee, sliced bagels and
slotted them into the toaster. She took out cream
cheese and strawberry jam and set them on the
counter, along with the pink flowered mugs, the low-fat
milk, and a bowl of brown sugar.
She listened. The shower had stopped running.
She pushed down the toaster, ran a hand through her
hair, and was waiting, smiling, when he walked in
the door, fully dressed.
He looked first at her, then at the burned-out
candles and the debris on the table, and finally at the
toasted bagels waiting on the counter.
"You're a miracle woman," he said,
laughing. "I take a shower, and
voil@a, breakfast is served."
"Don't get too used to it, detective.
I'm on my best behavior this morning, that's
all." She grinned at him. "There always seems
to be lots of food, but have you noticed we never
actually get around to eating it?"
"I noticed. And I'm starving."
"There's plenty of cold pasta. And salad."
"I'm sorry, Mal," he said. "It was a
wonderful meal. The best I can remember in a
long time. I guess other things just took
priority."
"I haven't forgotten," she said quietly.
She took a bagel and spread cream cheese on
it. "Strawberry jam?"
His eyes widened. "On a bagel?"
She eyed him uneasily. "Why? What do you
usually have?"
"Oh, lox, salami, maybe tuna."
"The jam has no fat," she said firmly,
handing it to him.
"Yes, ma'am, Ms. Malone." He took
a bite and made an enthusiastic face, and she
laughed.
"It's eat and run, I'm afraid." He gulped down the coffee--black the way she had
remembered he liked it.
She leaned against the counter, her arms folded.
"I'll need everything you can give me on the
case," she said, suddenly serious.
"As soon as I get back to Boston," he
promised.
"The details of each murder, but more than that,
details about the women themselves. Who they were and what
they were. And their families. I want to focus
on them, let the audience out there, watching
television after supper in their nice comfortable
homes, with their own daughters safely beside them,
understand that this might have been their child. Their lives
shattered."
She began to pace, absorbed in planning the
program. He could see she was really into it, and
he was grateful.
He drained the coffee and picked up his
jacket. "I'm sorry, Mal. I have to run."
She came back from wherever she had been,
looked at him, then sighed. "Okay."
"It's not okay, but I have to do it." He put
on his jacket, took her hand, and pulled her
gently to him. He touched her cheek,
smiling. "Did anyone ever tell you you are
adorable?" he said.
She nodded. "Someone just did."
"Even when you're mean," he added the stinger,
laughing. Then he kissed her on the mouth and
walked quickly away.
She heard the ping as the elevator arrived and
watched the doors open, then close again, taking
him away from her. She put her fingers to her
lips, feeling his kiss still on them. He would be
back--she knew it.

The Boston Serial Killer was getting
plenty of publicity. With a fourth murder under his
belt, the national media were giving him strong
play. The videotape of the chief of police and the
mayor was shown on all the national network
newscasts, along with Nurse Suzie
Walker's funeral, and the tabloids went to work
on it with graphic details of the stabbings and gory
faked-up pictures of the supposed crime
scenes.
"Not since the Boston Strangler put the
women of this city into a state of fear and trembling
has there been anything like this. And in a city with many
colleges and a high proportion of young females
in its population, most are again living in fear,"
they said on the news.
By the time Thursday morning came around and they were
ready to tape the show, Mal had all the information
she needed. Her researchers and assistants had
been working overtime; the Boston police department
had been more than cooperative, and the mayor had
called her personally to thank her.
"Don't thank me yet, sir," she replied
crisply. "Wait until you've seen the show.
And then if there's any thanks, they should be given
to Detective Harry Jordan, because without his
persistence I would never have taken this on."
She refused to think about her own personal
fears and misgivings as she prepared for the taping.
She was single-minded, totally focused.
Before the show she sat quietly, lost in thought
while Helen did her face. Then she read through
her notes while her hair was blow-dried.
When she went back upstairs and out onto the
floor, everything was ready. She caught sight of
Harry in the shadows behind the cameras, but she was not
thinking about him. All her energy, all the force of
her personality was channeled into what she
was about to say to those waiting families across
America.
She took her place on the little upright sofa that
was not meant for relaxing and placed her notes on
the low table in front of her, next to the bowl of
soft pink roses. Unusually, she was wearing
black tonight: a simple V-neck long-sleeved
dress, black hose, and black suede heels.
She wore no jewelry, except for small
pearls in her ears. She looked like a woman in
mourning.
"Ready, Mal?" the director called. She
nodded, and he signaled to the cameras to roll.
They had rehearsed it earlier, but then she had
left out the emotion. Now it brimmed from her--you
could see it in her eyes, feel the tension in her
body, hear it in the soft level tone of her
voice.
"Tonight I am asking you to grieve with me, and with
four families who have each lost a precious child.
I know there are some of you out there who have also suffered
that same terrible loss. You are aware of how it
feels, what it means. And there are others,
watching now, whose young daughters are safe in bed.
Or perhaps they are doing their homework, or maybe
just acting up and wanting to know why they have to go to bed,
anyway.
"You fathers must remember when they were newborn and
you first held that tiny infant, your baby girl.
And how you felt about her at that moment. I'll
bet you vowed to yourself you would always love her, guide
her. Protect her.
"Just the way the young Suzie Walker's father
did, and Summer Young's, and Rachel
Kleinfeld's, and Mary Jane Latimer's.
"Let's look at these families, shall we?
We shall begin with Suzie."
The home video of Suzie Walker's first
birthday party began to roll. Her
three-year-old sister, Terry, blew out the
candles for her. The infant Suzie looked at
her, big-eyed, then her mouth puckered, and she
began to cry. "I guess she wanted to blow out the
candles herself," Mrs. Walker's laughing voice
came over the soundtrack.
There was more: quick flashes of Suzie as a
toddler, then walking hand in hand with her father at the
zoo. Suzie missing her front teeth.
Suzie as a gawky red-headed teenager,
pretty and pert in a fluffy blue
dress, clutching the hand of her partner on prom
night. Suzie curled up asleep on the sofa,
an open textbook beside her.
"I want to thank Mr. and Mrs. Walker for
so generously sharing their lovely daughter's
memories with us," Mal said softly. "And also for
allowing us to show the following pictures."
A montage followed of the exterior of
Suzie's cottage, with the yellow crime-scene
tape; the burly officers guarding the door and the
squad cars outside; then the gurney with her
body in its black plastic body bag being
rolled hurriedly into the waiting ambulance. And
finally, the funeral, with the distraught parents, the
grieving brother and sister, as Suzie was laid
to rest.
"A simple American family, nice as
apple pie, you might say. As normal as
yours, and not much different from any other family, in
whatever state, in whatever town or city you live
in. But Mr. and Mrs. Walker no longer have a
daughter. And you, Mr. and Mrs. America, do.
"The reason they no longer have their younger daughter
and will not see her progress in her chosen career of
nursing--and she was a good nurse, dedicated,
caring. The reason they will not see their younger daughter
marry, will never see her children--their own grandchildren. The
reason that the joy has gone out of their lives and
left them devastated--is this man. Ladies and
gentlemen, parents, take a good long look."
The photo-fit filled the screen, and for a few
seconds there was silence. Then, voice-over, she
said, "This man--this killer--was seen by three
eyewitnesses. Their description was the same.
Caucasian, possibly in his early fifties,
short, stocky, five foot seven or eight.
A shock of thick dark hair that the police now
know is naturally gray but tinted black. And
dark, intense staring eyes. He was driving a dark
utility vehicle, perhaps a Jeep Cherokee or
a station wagon."
There was no hint of a tremor in Mal's
voice as she spoke of the killer. She looked
directly into the camera, thinking only of the
victims and the man who had to be caught.
"I ask you. The Walker family asks you.
Please, if you think you know this man, if you
believe you have seen him, get in touch with the Boston
Police Department at this special emergency
number. Your call will be free, and the
lines are open now."
The camera focused on her face again as she
said, "And now I'd like you to meet Gemma and
Gareth Young, the parents of Summer Young."
The camera panned to her side and picked up
Gemma and Gareth Young sitting on the sofa
holding hands. They were pale but composed as she
thanked them for agreeing to be on the program.
She said that she knew how difficult it was and that
she admired their courage. And then she asked them
about their daughter.
Standing in the shadows in back of the cameras,
Harry wondered how she had gotten the parents
to appear. Watching her with them, he realized she
must have appealed to them personally, asked for their
help, and told them she was willing to do everything she
could through her program to catch the man who murdered
their daughter.
He admired her skill as she led them through their
memories. "An only child, born in the summer
of our days," they said, smiling. "And a child meant
to gladden our hearts in the winter of our lives."
Mal reached forward and touched their tightly
entwined hands. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears
as she thanked them.
And then the face of the killer filled the screen
again, as she told in a quiet, shocked voice
what he had done to Summer Young. And Summer's
last words to Detective Harry Jordan.

The man was sitting in front of the television
set, drinking neat vodka, his eyes fixed on
Mallory Malone's face. He gripped the
fine crystal glass tightly, as she followed
Summer Young's story with Rachel
Kleinfeld's. She spoke with Rachel's twin
sister.
And then she showed .his picture again. And she
talked about him again. And she told everybody
what he had done again.
Then Mary Jane Latimer, the prettiest
baby of them all, cavorting in the tiny waves
at a holiday beach, blowing out her candles. The
parents had not been able to bring themselves to talk about
their daughter, but her grandparents were there, gentle,
soft-spoken people who talked with dignity about what a
treasure she had been, what a joy to them. "But
then, we all think that about our own, don't we?"
the grandmother said wi/lly.
"No!" he yelled suddenly. "No,
we don't, you old bitch!" And he hurled the
vodka at her face.
But it was .his face on the screen again, and the
vodka was trickling down .his hair and over .his
eyes. He gripped the crystal glass tighter,
not even noticing as it cracked, then shattered.
The details of the killer were repeated and the
emergency telephone number given one more time.
Mal said, "Please, if you think you know this
man, if you have any information at all, I urge
you, beg you to call this number. Or simply
call your local police department and talk
to them."
She thanked the families for their assistance and
said it was their urgent desire, their need to see this
man caught so that he could not kill again, that had
made them put aside their own private grieving
and expose their souls to their fellow Americans.
"When the time comes," Mal said, "they want their
daughters to be remembered as living people and not merely as victims. Because being a victim bonds
them to their killer. He made them victims, but
what they all were, were lovely young women on the
brink of their lives. And let none of us forget
that, when the time comes to convict this terrible man.
Remember that they are not victims--they are all
our children."
Mal looked through the camera directly into the
eyes of her audience. Her soul was in her own
eyes as, deeply moved, she said quietly,
"Parents, guard your children. Young women out there,
please take care, be on your guard. You will not be
safe again until this man is behind bars."
And then her face was replaced by the image of the
tightly linked hands of Gemma and Gareth Young.
Then it too faded into nothing, and the credits
rolled.
"Lying bitch," he roared, leaping to his
feet. "You filthy lying little nothing! I
decide who lives and dies, not you!"
He stood, trembling with rage, his face
mottled purple. His feet crunched on the
broken glass as he stepped forward. He glanced
down. There was blood on the carpet. He stepped
quickly back again, shocked. He stared at his
bleeding hand and then at the remains of the glass.
He hadn't even realized what he had done.
He stumbled backward with a cry of panic. There
was blood on his carpet, his blood. ...
He ran to the kitchen, turned on the
faucet and stuck his bloody hand under the cold
water. Trembling, he inspected it. He went
to a drawer, took out a pair of tweezers, and
picked out the small pieces of glass. Then he
examined the wound again. It was not deep--there was no
need for stitches. He wrapped gauze around it.
He was not worried about infection, he knew the
vodka would act as an antiseptic.
He found the spot remover and went back into the
den. Kneeling on the floor, he scrubbed at the
stain, but the more he scrubbed, the worse it seemed
to get. Defeated, he got to his feet. He
couldn't live with it; it just wouldn't do. If he
couldn't get the stain out, he would have to replace the
whole carpet.
He stood, swaying slightly, looking at the
television screen. The news was on, and he was
looking into his own eyes again. They were talking about
him again, about what he had done. Again.
Of course the photo-fit did not resemble him
in the slightest, except for the vague details,
the height and weight.
He had been right when he thought he would make
Suzie Walker a star. He had given all his
girls their fifteen minutes of fame. The media
would drop it soon enough when no one was arrested and there
were no further killings. He was sure of that--they
always did.
But Mallory Malone was another matter.
She never let a case drop. He knew he
would have to do something about her.
He switched off the set, turned out the
lights, and walked heavy-footed upstairs. He
needed to think this out. He needed advice.
At the top of the stairs, he pulled the key
on its silver chain from under his shirt. Then he
unlocked the door to the special room and stepped
inside.



When it was over, the atmosphere in the studio was
thick with emotion. Everyone was in tears, even the
hard-nosed crew who had seen it all. Everyone
except Mal and the stalwart families whose
determination to tell their stories and catch the
killer had brought them through.
Mal thought she would never forget the linked hands of
Summer Young's parents. The image of their
intertwined fingers that were gripped tightly
together, as though to convince themselves that they still had each
other, that there might still be a chance they could go on,
even though life would never be the same, was a
symbol of courage. The lost look in their eyes
had told of their personal devastation, just as the
determination in their voices had conveyed their
resolve to find the evil rapist and killer who
called himself a man.
Mal hoped with all her heart that all the people
watching tonight would remember that.
Still shaky from the emotional impact of the
program, she banished her fatigue and spent
time with the victims' families. She
congratulated them again on their courage and their
steadfa/s and thanked them for their help.
"But it's you we have to thank, Mallory,"
Mrs. Walker said, her tired face lighting with a
smile that made her suddenly look heartrendingly
like her daughter. "Without you, we parents might
never have had our say. Now all those people will know how
it feels when something like this happens to your daughter.
And maybe because of it, when the killer is caught and
brought to trial, the victims will not become lost in
the legal wrangling. They will still be real people,
butchered by a man for his own terrible
satisfaction."
"They won't be forgotten," Mal promised
grimly. "Believe me, I'll see to that."
She called Harry over. He did not talk
to them about the killer. He figured they'd had about
as much as they could take, and they were finally thankful
to say good-bye and be escorted back to their
hotel.
"We thought about forming a kind of club,"
Summer Young's father told Harry wi/lly.
"You know, for people who've lost their child like this. We could
meet, talk it out. It would be a kind of group
therapy, I guess."
His brown eyes were somber, with grayish shadows
underneath. He looked as if he hadn't slept in
weeks. Harry wished him well as he said good
night.
When they were gone, Mal collapsed onto the
hard little sofa on the set. The lights had been
killed, and she was in semidarkness. She leaned
forward and put her head between her knees, suddenly
faint. Fatigue washed over her like a heavy
blanket, and her limbs felt as though they were
stuffed with lead. She could not have gotten up if she
had tried.
Harry sat down beside her and rested his hand
tenderly on her soft hair. He ran his fingers
down her neck and massaged it gently.
"You did it, Mal," he said quietly. "And
no one could have done it better. The phones are
ringing off the hook at the police number. You were
wonderful."
She shook her head wearily. "The parents were
wonderful, not me. Could you believe them, Harry?
How strong they were, how much courage?" Tears
threatened again, and she choked them back. "I'm
praying for their sake that you get him."
"We will."
She lay back against his arm, totally
depleted. She had gotten through the day on
caffeine, Coca-Cola, and Snickers bars--
things she never normally consumed--and now she was
paying the price. Her blood sugar had
plummeted, and her emotions were hovering somewhere between
depression and hysteria.
"I don't know how you feel about this," Harry
said, "but it's been a long hard day, and you
haven't eaten. I booked a table at a
discreet little place I know in the Village. The
food is simple and good, and no one will bother
us."
She turned and looked at him; his clear gray
eyes had an expression she was not used to seeing.
There was tenderness, compassion, concern. But beyond that was
something deeper.
"Whatever would I do without you?" she murmured.
He took her hand, pulled her to her feet,
put his strong arm around her as they walked from the
darkened set. He said, "I hope I never have
to answer that question."
He had called ahead and warned the owner not
to mention the program, just to give them his quietest
table. The request was honored. The room was
low-ceilinged and beamed, French country-style, and the
tables were simply set with cloths the color of
old terra-cotta frescoes and bunches of
white daisies in Mediterranean-blue jugs.
There was fresh bread and a dish of tapenade, and a
good Bordeaux had been opened and decanted.
The owner, Monsieur Michel, quickly took
the order from Harry. He poured the wine and brought
Evian, then left them alone. Mal thought it
all so serene, so normal--the contrast with what they
had just gone through was almost shocking.
It was late, and only a few other
couples were lingering over their meal. Little table
lamps cast intimate pools of light, and it
felt as if they were alone. Mal sipped her wine
and smiled across the table at him. "The wine is
velvet," she said.
He nodded. "Some years it's just plain old
velour, but this one's good."
She felt the tension begin to soften at the edges.
Her limbs no longer had that leaden feeling and the
muscles in her neck started to unlock. She
leaned back in the chair. She told herself it was
over.
A comfortable silence hung between them; they felt
no need to fill in the spaces, and they sipped their
wine, passed an occasional comment, and smiled
gently at each other.
When Monsieur Michel brought the food, she
tasted everything, ate a little, sipped her wine, and
gradually was at ease again. Then Harry paid the
check and took her home.
Back at her penthouse they walked, arms
around each other, into her room. She sank onto
the bed. Exhaustion was claiming her, and she could
barely keep her eyes open. She lay back as
he removed her black suede shoes, then
unzipped her black dress. He lifted her,
eased the dress up over her hips, and off. He
hooked his fingers in the waistband of her black
pantyhose and slid them down.
Mal wriggled her bare toes in relief,
docile as a doll as he unhooked her bra.
Then he rolled her into the bed, laid her limp
head on the pillows, and pulled the cool smooth
cotton sheet over her.
She felt languorous with sleep, craving it,
sinking into it. The big bed seemed to enfold her.
Then Harry was lying next to her, his warm body like
an anchor of security in a disturbed world. And
she knew no more until morning.
She awoke to the smell of coffee and to sunshine
shafting through the windows. The weather had been rainy
and cool for so long, she thought it just might be a good
omen.
Harry was singing under his breath in the kitchen. It
made her solitary apartment feel like a home,
having a man there she cared about.
She cleaned last night's studio makeup from
her face, took a quick shower, brushed her hair,
and put on a long white terry robe.
Harry was in the kitchen, leaning against the
counter, arms folded, one leg crossed lazily
over the other, waiting for her. His hair was wet from
the shower. For once, it was neatly combed. He was
wearing last night's smart linen pants and good
blue shirt, but without the tie.
She stood in the arched doorway, and they took
each other in. He thought she looked clean and
pink-cheeked, as scrubbed as a schoolgirl; and
she thought he looked tough and handsome and as stalwart
as Braveheart.
"Thank you for last night," she said, oddly
shy.
"It was my pleasure, Malone."
"I mean for everything. The dinner was just right.
Thanks for bringing me home and putting me to bed.
Staying with me."
"Didn't I tell you I was a
well-brought-up guy? I always see my women
safely home?" He grinned at her, and she
smiled back.
"I hope you don't stay with all of them," she
said with a pang of jealousy.
"Not all. In fact, right now, only you,
Malone."
He unfurled himself from the counter and held out his
arms, and she walked into them. Clasped against his
chest, she never wanted to move.
He said, "The phone's been ringing off the
hook."
She tilted back her head, surprised. "I
didn't hear it."
"That's because I turned down the volume. You
must have a dozen messages on your machine, and
it's only seven thirty."
"What about you?"
"I called in to check. The lines were jammed
after the program. Hundreds of callers think they
might have seen him. Every one of their statements will be
carefully analyzed, and every one that's not a crank
will be looked into. The calls to your show are all
being taped."
She looked astonished and he added, "There was enough
preshow publicity--the killer is pretty sure
to have seen it. There's always a chance he will phone
in. He might enjoy seeing himself as a media
star, might start bragging, showing off. In fact,
he might walk right into the trap you set so
cleverly, Mal. If he does, we can trace
the call in minutes."
"And then you'll have him."
"If good fortune goes with us. Right now it's just
a chance, but it's better than nothing." He sighed
and took his arms from her.
She said resignedly, "I know. The
shuttle."
"I'm afraid so." He put on his smart
jacket from the night before. "I wonder what
lovers did before they invented planes."
"They stayed home and married the boy next
door."
He kissed her. "Just think of all those
wonderful love affairs that might have been. Right
now I wish very much I lived next door to you."
"But you don't."
He shook his head. "Unfortunately, no.
But I'll be back as soon as I can. I'll be
working all hours this week though."
"I'll come to you, then," she decided quickly,
unable to bear the thought of not seeing him.
He hesitated. "I may not be able to spend
time with you."
She locked her arms around his neck--she
didn't want to let him go. "I don't care.
I'll just be there waiting for you whenever you get
back. I can look after Squeeze, take him for
walks, cook dinner."
"What if I can't get home for dinner?"
"Then Squeeze and I will dine together, and yours
will be reheated in the microwave when you finally
decide that home is where the heart is."
He laughed. "It's a deal." He took the
housekey from his pocket and handed it to her.
"What about Squeeze?" she said.
"Don't worry--he only attacks
strangers and people he doesn't like."
He kissed her properly before he left, and
when he finally took his mouth reluctantly from
hers, it was harder than ever to let him go.
"Mmm," he murmured, "lilacs. ..."
"You got it right this time, detective."
He strode into the hall and lifted a hand in
good-bye. "Call and leave a message what
flight you're taking. I'll be there somehow," he
promised.



Mal went into the study and checked her calls.
They were mostly from friends and colleagues
congratulating her on a superb
program. There were two hang-ups, which
surprised her, but it was early in the morning and
perhaps whoever had called had been worried they
might wake her.
She packed a bag with a few simple things and
added a couple of books she had been meaning
to read, as well as some notes about the next two
programs. Then she put on a white linen
shirt and jeans, a comfortable tweed jacket, and
glossily polished loafers. She clipped
pearl studs in her ears and wore a man's plain
steel Rolex.
She picked up the bag and was just taking a final
glance around when the phone rang again. Thinking it was
Harry calling from the airport, she picked it up
immediately.
She sank onto the bed clutching it to her ear.
"Hello," she said with a smile in her voice.
She waited expectantly for him to say, "I
miss you already," but there was no sound.
"Hello," she called again, sharper this time.
There was nothing. She held the phone away from her
ear, puzzled. Someone had to be there--why weren't
they answering? Or maybe there was a fault on the
line. She hung up and took the elevator
downstairs, where the car was waiting to take her to the
office.
The doorman stopped her on the way out. "I
wanna tell you, Miss Malone, I ain't
never been so touched by anything I seen." Tears
stood in his eyes. "Those poor families, it just
ain't right. I sure hope what you did last
night helps catch him. I got a coupla
daughters, and now grandchildren, and I know where these
parents are comin' from. I felt for them, Miss
Malone."
She shook his hand and said, "I just did what I
could to bring it to the public notice, Vladimir.
Now we have to hope for the best."
She got the same sort of reaction the rest
of the day: from her driver, the woman at the
cleaners, the girl at the pet store where she
stopped to pick up a toy for Squeeze, and the
guy behind the counter at the grocery, where she bought
food for the weekend.
When she finally got to the office, it was in
turmoil.
"This place is busier than a beehive with a
visiting queen," Beth Hardy greeted her as
she came in. "Are you all right?" she
asked, still worried. "You looked like hell when you
left last night. You went through it all with them.
It was as real as if it were your own daughter you were
talking about. At least, that's the way it came
across."
"I'm okay, Beth. It was worse hell for the
families than for me. They still have to wake up this
morning and remember they don't have a daughter
anymore."
"There's about a million calls--we just can't
keep up with them. The list is on your desk."
Beth was already on the phone again.
Mal went to her office, dropped her bag
onto a chair, then ran her eyes down the long
list of calls, thankful that she didn't have
to answer them all herself. There were a lot of
important names on the list: celebrities,
movie stars, rock stars, important people in
business and industry. They all had kids, and they
all felt the pain and the pressure to do something
to help.
She walked to the window and looked down at the
surging traffic and the hurrying pedestrians.
Somewhere out there, in this city or in Boston or
Chicago or wherever he came from, this monster was
waiting to strike again. She shivered.
Switching her mind determinedly away, she
called the airline and got a seat on the two
o'clock, then called Harry at the precinct to tell
him. She had expected to leave a message, and
when he answered, the surprise made her
smile.
"You slacking, detective?" She slid down
in her chair and put her feet on the desk,
swiveling gently from side to side.
He chuckled. "It's you again, Malone."
"You expecting someone else maybe?"
"Only about a thousand others--thanks to you. This
place is like one big answering service.
They've put on extra lines, extra staff,
but they're still jammed."
"Anybody who sounds like him yet?"
"Not so far as we can tell. But there's still time."
He hoped he was right--he'd been kind of betting
on this one happening. "Are you calling to say you've
changed your mind, Malone?" he demanded, but she
could tell he was smiling.
"You're not shaking me off that easily, Harry
Jordan. I'm on the two o'clock."
"Then I won't be able to pick you
up. I'm sorry, Mal, but the chief and the
mayor have called a press conference. I'm due
there right about the time your flight gets in." He
sighed. "I warned you it would be hell this
weekend."
"No, it won't. I'll just get a taxi."
"I'll order a limo--charge it to me."
She laughed. "Playing the starlet again, huh?"
"No. Just playing safe. I don't want
anyone I don't know personally picking you up."
She was startled. "What do you mean?"
Harry didn't want to scare her, but she had
to understand she had put herself on the line. They were
dealing with a brutal killer, and he might target
her for revenge. "You're on his turf, Mal.
This is his city, the place where he operates. You
need to take care of yourself--that's all I'm
saying. Or at least, let me take care of
you."
She said, shaken, "I think I'd like that
better."
He grinned. "Aw, come on, is this the
Malone I know and love? Malone, the toughie,
the rottweiler who sinks her teeth in and
doesn't let go? The independent cuss who always
has to have the last word?"
"I have to have the last word! What about you?"
"I thought it was you."
"Well, I thought it was you."
He sighed exaggeratedly. "There you go again,
having the last word."
She laughed. "I'll see you later, you
oaf."
"You can bet on it. And Mal? Take care."
Her face and those of the victims were all over the
front pages in the newsstands at La Guardia
and at Logan in Boston. She ducked her head
to avoid the TV news cameras, there to greet a
politician. They couldn't believe their luck in
catching the woman of the moment.
"What are you doing in Boston, Mal?" they
called. "Are there any new developments? Are
you here to help catch him?"
"It's a private visit," she replied,
hurrying past. But she was pleased that Harry finally
had the kind of public awareness he needed.
The car was waiting for her. It filtered slowly
through the busy Friday afternoon traffic and eventually
dropped her off at the beautiful house on
Louisburg Square.
She stood outside for a minute, admiring the
sloping streets, the gardens in the center of the
square, and the perfection of Bulfinch's lovely
bow-windowed nineteenth-century architecture.
Then she climbed the shallow front steps and let
herself into Harry's house.
Squeeze was lying in the center of the spacious
hall. She could have sworn his eyes lit up, he
was so pleased to see her. He ran to her, his tail
wagging, making little whining greeting noises.
She bent to hug him, patting his soft thick
silver fur. "Hi, Squeeze, good boy.
Ohh, are you good," she murmured
affectionately.
The dog followed her to the kitchen, where she put
her basket of goodies on the counter.
She stared around with a pleased little smile at being
in Harry's home. The kitchen was immaculate
--she guessed he hadn't set foot in it all
week.
She gave Squeeze his new chew toy, then
opened the refrigerator. She laughed at the
contents: an ancient box of half-eaten
pizza, an out-of-sell-by-date carton of
low-fat milk (so he did care after all,
despite Ruby's ham and eggs); leftover
Chinese takeout; and half a dozen bottles of
club soda. Plus two bottles of his
favorite champagne. It was exactly what she
would have expected.
She threw out the moldy food, then restocked
it with the good things she had brought from New York.
Squeeze followed her again as she poked around
in Harry's bedroom. She peeked at the book
on his night table--an unopened copy of the latest
Elmore Leonard. She smiled at the idea
of the detective reading crime fiction. Harry
probably didn't get much time for bedtime reading,
she guessed. He didn't even get much time for
sleep--she'd bet he was out the moment his head
hit the pillow. She tested the bed. As she had
suspected, it was hard.
She unpacked her bag, put her few things
next to his on the shelves in the closet, and
hung her black leather pants and tweed skirt
alongside his collection of ancient 501's and
his two pairs of pants. She checked: the
labels were Armani and Gap.
In the bathroom she made space on the old
marble washstand for her lotions and creams and
put her toothbrush in a matching mug to his.
It was like playing house, she thought, satisfied.
Harry and Mal, a duo, a pair, a team.
The telephone rang, and Squeeze rushed
past her, barking at it. She picked it up.
"He always barks like that," Harry said. "I
believe he thinks he's answering it. Sometimes
I wish he could."
She laughed. "Hi, detective. I have a
confession to make. I've been investigating the
investigator. I peeked into your refrigerator,
your closet, and your bathroom."
"Then I have no secrets left?"
"None."
"Since you're still there, I guess I must have
passed some kind of test."
"All of them. With flying colors." She
hugged the receiver to her cheek as though she were holding
him. "Where are you?"
"At city hall, wishing I were anywhere else.
Are you going to be all right there alone?"
"Of course I'll be all right. Besides, I have
Squeeze. He's no substitute for the real
thing, but he's still adorable."
"Like you, Malone. By the way, I called
Miffy. She's going to invite you to tea."
"Your mother is inviting me to tea?
Detective, this is sounding serious."
He laughed. "Careful, Malone. Besides,
Miffy is rarely serious. Look, I have to go.
I'll see you as soon as I can escape from here.
I'm not sure when, though. Uh-oh, I'm being
paged. I'll call again, Mary Mallory
Malone."
She hung up the phone, and it rang again
immediately.
"There you are, dear girl," Miffy said. Mal
could just imagine her beaming smile, as though she were
talking to a person standing next to her and not into the
phone.
"Harry told me you were coming for the weekend and that
you would be all alone, and I said to myself, well then
Miffy, you simply have to have Mallory over for
tea."
There was a pause while Miffy drew breath and
checked her old Cartier Tank watch.
"Goodness, is that the time already? My dear, it's
closer to drink time, don't you think? I'll
tell you what--we can have both. Why don't you
pop right over now? I'm just around the
corner you know, on Mount Vernon Street."
She gave Mal the address, then said, "I'm
so looking forward to seeing you again."
"Me too," Mal said. She laughed as she
realized those were the only words she had been able
to get in, except for hello. As she applied
fresh lipstick, she thought there would be no problem
filling in the gaps in conversation with Miffy
Jordan.
Somehow her jeans and loafers did not seem quite
the right apparel for tea on Beacon Hill. She
changed quickly into a short pleated tweed skirt and
beige suede pumps. She brushed her hair,
sprayed on a little Nocturnes, and called
to Squeeze.
With the dog on the leash, she strolled out of the
square, across Charles Street, and along Mount
Vernon, enjoying the walk. The whole historic
area was filled with charming leafy streets and
ivy-covered buildings. Antique shops lured
her, and caf`es and coffeehouses sent out tempting
signals, and she promised herself that tomorrow she would
explore properly.




Miffy Jordan's old Greek
Revival-style house was built of faded-red
brick, with a white-pillared portico, long
windows with black-louvered shutters, and pretty
wrought-iron balconies. It was set back from the
street behind a formal garden, a lawn as smooth and
green as a billiard table, and a short iron
fence. It looked as though it had stood on that
spot forever, a part of American history as
well as the family history of the Jordans.
Squeeze turned in at the gate without having
to be told, and Mal guessed he came here often
with Harry. "Home away from home, Squeeze,
huh?" she said, walking to the portico and ringing the
bell.
Miffy flung open the door so quickly, she must
have been standing behind it.
"My dear Mallory." Miffy gave her that
beaming smile. "How lovely to see you." She
kissed her heartily on either cheek, then handed her
a Kleenex.
Miffy was wearing a blue silk shirt, a
pleated gray-blue skirt, and flat
Ferragamo pumps. Mal felt glad she had
changed, though she suspected that, anyway,
Miffy was not the sort of woman who would have given
a damn.
Two matching beige pugs with black
muzzles came bounding toward her, their round eyes
bulging with delight at the sight of Squeeze.
They wuffed and leaped and cavorted round him, but
Squeeze sat on his haunches, looking like
visiting royalty, occasionally deigning to give
them a glance.
"Will you just look at those silly creatures,"
Miffy exclaimed, exasperated. "You'd think
they'd have learned by now that Squeeze doesn't
consort with miniature dogs--they are beneath his
notice. But they still grovel, just dying for
attention." She laughed. "I know just how they
feel sometimes."
She swept Mal through the elegant hall and
up the graceful curving staircase to what she
called "my own little sitting room."
"It's cozier than the grand one downstairs,"
she explained, showing Mal into a lovely
second-floor room with tall windows and the
graceful iron balconies Mal had seen from the
outside.
The room was done in shades of Miffy's
favorite yellow, with creamy-yellow-sponged
walls and elaborate cornices picked out in
white, like frosting on a cake. Deep-gold
taffeta curtains puddled in rich folds on the
floor. The soft green needlepoint carpet was
scattered with tiny flowers, and the brocade sofas and
chairs were upholstered in teal and green. The
antiques were breathtaking, extremely valuable,
and perfectly kept. The elaborate frame of the
blurred old mirror hanging over the marble
mantel had been carved in England in the
seventeenth century, and the paintings on the walls
were all portraits of women dating back more than
a hundred years.
Miffy waved her to a chair. A tea tray was
set with a silver pot and pretty flowered Limoges cups, as well as an array of little
tartlets and pastries. A second tray, with
glasses and ice in a crystal bucket, waited
on the graceful eighteenth-century rosewood
sideboard.
"Now, Mallory, tea or gin?" Miffy
looked at her expectantly.
Mal chose tea with lemon. Squeeze sat
next to her, a snuffling little pug pressed
affectionately on each side of him.
"Like bookends, aren't they?" Miffy said,
shaking her head in amusement.
Mal looked interestedly at the portraits
lining the walls. And Miffy looked interestedly
at her. She thought Mal was quite lovely, and after
seeing her program, she was sure that Jack
Jordan was right: Harry would be crazy to let her
go. Mal had put her heart into her work, and it could
not have been easy to do such a program, to have to know the
terrible details of the murders and to have kept the
dignity of the families intact, as well as that
of the victims. But Harry had warned her not
to speak of it, so she would try not to.
"Those are all portraits of Peascott
women," she told Mal. "This is a Peascott
house, you know, not a Jordan one, like Harry's
on Louisburg Square. My great-great-grandmother
was actually born in the bedroom I occupy now,
though everyone after that had the good sense to find more
hygienic surroundings to give birth in.
"The portrait by Tissot, on your left,
is of my great-grandmother, Hannah Letitia
Peascott, painted on her honeymoon visit
to Paris. They did the grand tour, you know, she and
my great-grandfather Peascott. She was so very
pretty, don't you think? And she lived to be a
hundred and two years old. Good genes, the
Peascotts," she added approvingly.
"Now this one here is of my grandmother, Felicia
Alice Peascott. It's a Sargent, of
course. Poor woman, she went down with the
Titanic. She was traveling alone, somewhat
mysteriously. It was never talked about, but the
rumor is that she had run off with a friend of the
family who was also on board, also traveling
mysteriously alone. So romantic, don't you
think?
"And this John Ward portrait is of my own
dear mother, looking very Duchess-of-Windsor,
only of course much more attractive and less
sticklike. And with loads more charm. They said
Marietta Peascott was the most charming woman you
could wish to meet."
Miffy sighed regretfully. "She died too
young, you know, when I was just a girl. A hunting
accident. She insisted on riding to the hounds. The
foolish woman never would admit that she
just wasn't good on horseback. My father said that
for her, pride really came before the fall. But we
loved her then, and I love her still."
Miffy took a breath and a sip of her tea and
smiled at Mal. "Well, that's a tiny potted
history of the Peascotts, or at least the most
recent of them. Except for myself, of course."
Mal said, enraptured, "But how wonderful
to really know your family. I never met my
grandparents, never even knew I had any. I
barely knew my father. And as for my mother ...
well, her family was a kind of mystery too.
She never spoke to me about them. I'm afraid the
Malones have no grand heritage, the way the
Peascotts and the Jordans do," she added
regretfully.
"These days heritage counts for very little." Miffy
offered her a plate of exquisite fruit
tartlets. They were so pretty, they looked like
miniature still-life artworks. "What counts is
what you have, my dear. Enterprise, talent, hard
work, and courage." She hesitated--she knew
she shouldn't, but she just had to.
"I so admired what you did last night," she
said quietly, "though Harry would hate me for
talking about it. He didn't want me to upset
you, said you'd been through enough as it was. And I can
see he was right."
She leaned forward and patted Mal's hand. "But
what you did for those poor families was truly
wonderful. Those young women will never become the
forgotten victims. And when he's caught, no
one will allow this sadist to be a media star. And he
will be caught, Mallory, my dear. Thanks
to you."
Mal said modestly, "But I was only a
conduit, a means to an end. It's all those people
working hard behind the scenes who will catch him, the people
Harry told me about. All those patient
police officers tracking down every gardener and
handyman in Boston to see if they use the same
rose fertilizer. Forensics examining every tiny
bit of evidence. And detectives like Harry and
Carlo Rossetti and all the others who think
nothing of giving every minute of their time to preventing
another murder from happening. They're the ones who
are doing the work. I was merely in the fortunate
position of being able to present it to the public."
Miffy looked admiringly at her but didn't
pursue the point because she had said enough and
knew Harry wouldn't want her to.
"More tea, my dear?" she asked. "Now tell
me, what do you and Harry have planned for the
weekend? You could always pop up to Jordan's
Farm, you know. It'll be quite empty. Oh, I
forgot to mention that I'm off to Prague tomorrow with my
friend Julia Harrod. Just a long weekend. Now
there's a fascinating city, or so I'm told at
any rate." She laughed merrily. "I can't
wait to see it, I've got that old travel
urge again. I can never resist. But do go up to the farm if you wish, my dear. I saw how much you
liked it. And while you're there, try and pull up
a few weeds in my rose garden. Can you tell
me how is it they have the ability to spring up
overnight?"
She drew a breath. "Now, if you've finished
your tea, why not let me show you around. I'll
tell you a bit more of the Peascott history as we
go. After all, now that you're going--" She stopped
herself just in time. "Oh dear," she said, laughing,
"Harry would never forgive me for "running off at
the mouth," as he would so vulgarly put it."
By the time she left an hour later, Mal's
head was whirling from Peascott exploits on
battlefields and whaling ships, as well as in the
casinos at Monte Carlo and in Parisian
garrets, where one black sheep had spent several
years attempting to become "an artist."
"Without a scrap of talent," Miffy had
told her, "but with a great deal of charm." He had
married his mistress and model, a girl from
Corsica, who Miffy was sure had put a
much-needed Latin snap-crackle-and-pop into their
stern New England bloodline.
Mal was still smiling as she let herself
into Harry's house. She closed the door behind
her, thinking how pleasant these old houses were,
so filled with history and character. It was as though, in
some way, they still retained the personalities and the
happiness of the people who had lived there over the past
two centuries.
She fed Squeeze some Alpo, flipped through
Harry's CD collection, and put on the good
Sade album, the first one. She arranged kindling
in the empty grate and put a match to it, and when
it flared, she threw on a couple of smaller
logs. The blaze filled the room with a
satisfying glow. And then the telephone rang.
She picked it up, fairly singing his
name. "Hello, Harry."
She was smiling as she waited for him to say
hello back, but there was no reply. "Hello,"
she said again, more cautiously. Again there was no
answer. Yet she knew someone was on the line.
Her spine crawled as she put the receiver down.
She glanced apprehensively over her shoulder,
suddenly aware of being alone. Squeeze was standing
in the doorway, looking at her. He looked
big and solid and wolflike, and so comforting she could
have hugged him. Anyhow, it was probably only a
wrong number. She was just on edge, that was all.
But when it rang again, a few minutes later,
she said in a subdued voice, "Who is it?"
"It's me, of course. Who were you expecting?"
Harry asked.
"Ohh, it's you," she sighed, relieved.
"Did you call a few minutes ago?"
"No. Why?"
"Well, someone did, only when I answered,
there was no one there. I mean, I'm sure someone
was there, but they didn't say anything. It happened
before too. This morning, at home."
"It must just be a coincidence," he said, but he
was frowning. "My number is unlisted."
"So is mine."
"Well, there you go. There's no way a person
could get either my unlisted number or yours, let
alone both. Chalk it up to error, Mal."
"Okay," she said in a small voice.
He sensed she was nervous and said quickly, "Look, I'm on my way home. I'll be with
you in half an hour. Don't worry about a thing,
okay?"
"Okay." She sounded relieved.
Harry clicked the off button on his mobile
phone and said to Rossetti, "I know I'm the
ace detective and I'm supposed to know, but how
would a regular guy go about getting an unlisted
number?"
"Easy," Rossetti said, in between bites of a
frosted jelly doughnut. "Get it from a friend."
"What friend is going to give out an unlisted
number?"
Rossetti was slumped over his desk. His
usual immaculate appearance was shot to hell.
His stubble matched Harry's, his pants were
wrinkled, his shirt sleeves were rolled, and his
silk tie was unknotted and hung like a gaudy
ribbon round his neck. He gave
Harry a withering glance. "Prof, you want an
unlisted number, you flash your badge. What the
hell's wrong with you?"
"Not me, Rossetti. The killer."
Rossetti sat up quickly. He had
overheard Harry's part of the conversation and what he
was getting at suddenly clicked. "He had
Mal's number?"
"Someone did. And mine." Harry shrugged.
"Of course it could be coincidence--two
hang-ups, two different numbers. But the same
woman answered those numbers, Rossetti, and
it gets me nervous."
Worried, he dialed the telephone company and
asked under what circumstances they would give out an
unlisted number. He was told only for a
medical emergency, and even that would have to be
verified by a doctor. They had not divulged his
number nor Ms. Malone's.
"Then you're right, Rossetti," he said. "The
only way would be from a friend."
"Speaking of friends, it's Vanessa's birthday in
a couple of weeks. You guys still comin' to the
party?"
"Wouldn't miss it." Harry was already on his
way out.
"In a hurry, aren't you?" Rossetti
yelled after him, but Harry only laughed.
When he stepped through his own front door
twenty minutes later, he thought at first it was the
wrong house. He was used to being greeted
by silence, stillness, the emptiness of a house left
for long stretches unused. Now it was filled with the
scent of a log fire and food cooking and Sade
singing about love. He felt like a husband coming
home after a long day at the office.
"Honey, I'm home," he called out
mockingly.
Mal poked her head around the kitchen door.
"So you are, sweetheart," she retorted. The
dog was standing next to her. Squeeze stretched luxuriously, first his front legs, then the
back, then ambled slowly over to Harry.
"Talk about love me, love my dog,"
Harry said, amazed. "You're here a couple of
hours, and already he's switched allegiance."
"Not true." She retreated into the kitchen.
"He's been for a long walk, he's had a good
dinner, and he's lazy, that's all. Don't
worry, Harry, he still loves you."
She was standing at the stove stirring something in a
stainless-steel pan. He came up behind her and
slid his arms around her, kissing the back of her
neck. "And how about you?"
She said ambiguously, "I haven't had a
long walk yet, or a good dinner."
He inspected the soup in the pan. "Mmm, you
make that?"
"Nope. Zabar's made it. And the rest of your
supper."
He laughed and spun her around in his arms.
"Why didn't you eat already? It's after nine
o'clock."
"Without you, I wasn't hungry."
"Did I mention I was glad to see you? And that
you look good in jeans."
She laughed. "Yeah, now we're a matched
set."
As he headed for the shower, he called over his
shoulder, "I've got a surprise for you.
Remind me to tell you about it later."
After they ate, they took Squeeze for a
walk. Harry sniffed the balmy air eagerly as
they walked down the front steps. "It's starting
to smell like summer," he said.
"And exactly how does summer smell?"
"Oh, leafy, green ... humid."
"Fresh-cut grass and new-mown hay?" she
reminded him.
He grinned. "You got it. Oh, I almost
forgot. The surprise." She slowed, looking
expectantly at him. "I've got the weekend
off. Rossetti's covering for me, and they're
giving me a break."
Mal's face lit up with the radiant smile
that sent a shaft of sunshine through his heart. She
said, "You mean I'm stuck with you full time?"
He tucked his arm through hers as they strolled
down the sloping cobbled street. The dog ran
ahead of them in little circles. "I thought we
might go out to Jordan's Farm and snatch a
couple of days of peace and quiet. You need it,
Mal, and God knows, so do I."
They walked down to the Embankment, then back
up Chestnut Street to Louisburg Square,
talking about their plans to leave early and make the
most of their precious time together. Out of the corner of
his eye, Harry vaguely registered a
gunmetal Volvo parked on the corner, but the
most thought he gave to it was that Boston was
surely a Volvo town. Then his mind switched
back to Mal and the fact that tonight she would be sleeping
in his bed.
"Just like the three bears," she said with a grin.
"If you include Squeeze."



The Volvo was still there at six the next morning
when they piled into the Jaguar and took off for the
farm. Harry figured it must belong to a
neighbor. It was surely a small world.
Out on the highway heading north though, he
noticed a black Infiniti with heavily tinted
windows traveling behind him. No matter what
speed he went, it was right there in his rearview
mirror, keeping pace with him.
He frowned but said nothing to Mal, who was
snuggled happily in her seat, eyes closed.
He thought apprehensively about the telephone
hang-ups and decided that was all they were. His
serial killer just wasn't clever enough to obtain
unlisted numbers. He was a plodder. Suzie
Walker's unexpected return had thrown him
into a panic and made him act out of character. He was
a man who planned his actions over a period of
time; he never acted on impulse. That was the
reason they would catch him one day soon.
His exit was coming up, and he signaled right,
keeping an eye on the mirror as he swung
onto the off-ramp. The Infiniti kept right on
going, and he breathed a sigh of relief. He
told himself he was getting paranoid and put it out
of his mind.
The man in the gunmetal Volvo had kept
well back, out of Harry's view. He had
seen Mallory Malone on the TV news
yesterday, arriving at Logan. And he already
knew everything there was to know about Detective
Harry Jordan. He made it his business to know
and understand his enemies; that way he was the one in
control. He knew which exit Harry would take,
and he was just half a beat behind him on the road
to Jordan's Farm.
Mal thought Harry had been right about summer.
The sun was blazing down as they climbed from the
Jag. There was real heat this time, and the country air
smelled fresh and juicy, like ripening fruit and
bursting rosebuds.
Squeeze dashed around the corner of the
house while Harry hauled the bags from the car and
Mal stood there, absorbing the stillness. A
woodpecker rat-tatted on a tree somewhere
nearby. "I feel as though I'm a character in a
Woody Woodpecker cartoon," she said,
laughing.
"Well, you don't look it. You look real
and very beautiful. Fresh air suits you."
"How about that," she marveled. "You actually paid
me a compliment without adding a nasty little qualifying
clause."
"I thought it was you who had the nasty clauses."
"There you go again," she retorted, going up the
steps to the porch.
He rolled his eyes heavenward, exasperated,
as he followed her, carrying the bags. "I'm
going to take you fishing, calm your nerves."
"I've never been fishing." She wasn't
sure it was her style. "It looks so boring."
"It gives a man time to think. And a woman,"
he added hastily. "There's no discrimination around
here."
Jordan's Farm was just as lovely as Mal
remembered. The house seemed to wrap itself
cozily around her, enfolding her in its peace and
serenity. She could feel the continuity of life it
offered, the knowledge that no matter what happened, it would
always be there for Harry to return to.
Harry watched as she ran a hand reverently
over the satin surface of an old table, touched
a worn velvet cushion, picked up an old
photograph, and bent to smell the flowers in a
pottery jug on the window ledge. He knew
what she was feeling.
"It's called spirit of place," he said
quietly. "It's a feeling, an emotion that some
of these old houses seem to retain, like decades
of compressed memories."
Mal remembered the bleak soullessness of the
"home" she had shared with her mother in the Golden
trailer park. She knew you didn't have to be
rich for your home to have "spirit of place," but there had
to be love.
"I'll fix some coffee," Harry said
briskly, snapping her out of the past, "then we're
going for a long walk. After that, I'll feel
guilty if I don't pull out a few weeds.
Then we can go fishing."
A few hours later they were sitting on the
bank of the busy little stream, dangling their
feet and child-sized fishing lines into its clear
waters. They leaned back against a convenient
willow, happily watching the water rippling over
smooth stones, wondering if any speckled trout
were lurking in the still pools near the opposite
bank.
"Did you ever actually catch a trout?" Mal
asked suspiciously.
"Sure I did. I was about twelve years
old at the time." He grinned at her.
She sighed. "So how are we going to have trout for
dinner, if we don't catch any?"
"Easy. Uncle Jack has a trout river
running through his place, the real McCoy. Every time
he comes by, he brings some for Miffy. She can't
bear to tell him that she hates the darned fish, so
we happen to have a freezer full of them."
She nodded. "Logical, though not quite what I
expected." She relaxed against the tree. "Still,
it's a pleasant way to pass the time."
"I told you it was good for thinking." He glanced
at her out of the corner of his eye. "Want to tell
me more about Golden?"
"It's really not very interesting."
"To me it is."
It seemed easier, somehow, sitting on the
bank of a stream on a sparkling early-summer
day, light-years away from those hard times when she
was young and still innocent because she hadn't yet discovered
any different. So she told him about her struggle
to survive, to create something from the unloved chaos
of her young life, her need to become someone. And
she told him about her husband and how she had
admired him and looked up to him, but that it couldn't
work because he wanted her to give it all up, and that
meant giving up Mallory Malone and becoming
no one again.
"It's not true, you know," he said when she had
finished her story. "You'll always be Mal
Malone, the person you grew to be, and you'll always
be Mary Mallory, a victim of family
circumstances beyond your control. Our parents are
responsible only for a part of us, Mal. The rest
is up to us. We are who we are because of what we
do, the choices we make, the paths we take.
Miffy Jordan is the woman she is because of
herself, not because of what her mother was. It's the same
with me, and with you."
She was still unsure, but she hoped he was right.
Then the line jerked in her hand. She
grasped it tightly, staring down into the water.
"Look, look!" she yelled. "A fish!"
Squeeze leaped to his feet. He hovered
excitedly on the edge of the bank, then took a
flying leap into the stream, sending a shower of water
over them. Shrieking with laughter, Mal fell
backward. Harry grabbed the line, but it was too
late--the fish was gone.
"I'm glad," she gasped, still laughing. "I
could never have let you kill it anyway."
She jumped as his cell phone beeped. Their
eyes met apprehensively. "Sorry." He
pulled a face and picked it up. He listened,
said no and yes, he would be right there, and good-bye.
Then he looked at Mal.
"Don't tell me," she said, subdued. "You
have to go."
"That was Rossetti. They've had a couple of
suspicious calls from the Boston area. They've
got surveillance on them. It's doubtful, but
there might just be a chance one of them is the killer.
I have to go, Mal."
She scrambled to her feet and brushed the grass
from her skirt. "I'll get my things."
"No need. I'll be back in a few hours.
I'm not letting hoaxers ruin our weekend."
"What if it's not a hoaxer? If it's really
him?"
"If I'm that lucky, I'll send a car for
you. But somehow I have a hunch it won't be our
man."
He changed, then she walked with him to the car.
"I'll have dinner ready just in case," she said.
"And I promise it won't be trout."
Harry laughed as he waved good-bye. He
watched her in his rearview mirror as he drove
back down the lane. She was standing on the porch with
Squeeze beside her, and he thought she looked as
though she belonged there.

"There are two tapes, Prof," Rossetti
said.
They were driving through the busy downtown
Saturday traffic on their way to Cambridge,
home of the first caller.
"Plainclothes have this one staked out. He calls
himself the Boston Killer on the tape, but his name
is Alfred Trufillo. He's called three
times so far, made all the calls from the same
pay phone half a block from where he
lives. Doesn't sound clever enough to be our man,
but it's worth a shot. He also goes by the name of
Alfred Rubirosa--smart huh? Must think
he's a playboy or somethin'. Anyways, it's
long odds, but a couple of things he said about the
bodies made the hair rise on the back of my
neck. Like he knew more than we did, y'know
what I mean?"
Harry listened as Rossetti played the
tapes. He knew exactly what he meant.
"Either the guy was there," he said. "Or it's a
coincidence, a lucky shot. It's Rachel
Kleinfeld he's talking about, right? The body in
the boathouse?"
Rossetti nodded. "Take a listen to the other
one." He put on the tape. This voice was more
cultured and had an unctuous quality. "Like a
preacherman," Rossetti commented. "We don't
know about this guy, except he was making threats
to Ms. Malone."
Harry bristled as the man on the tape
described exactly what he was going to do
to Mallory Malone in graphic and vindictive
detail. The voice was as smooth as watered
silk, and knowledgeable about the anatomy he was
describing in detailed medical terms.
"It's a mobile phone," Rossetti said.
"We traced the number. It's in the name of a
company, Gray's Anatomical Supplies in
South Boston. Trouble is, there's no such
company. And the address is a post office box,
taken out about a week ago. But we tracked him
to an apartment house nearby."
Harry thought about it. "Gray's Anatomy
is one of the bibles of medical textbooks. You
think he's playing with our heads here?"
Rossetti shrugged. "I ran it by the
pathologist. He said the medical terms were
accurate, but what he was describing about the
bodies wasn't. He said he was probably an
amateur with a fetish for medical equipment and
terminology. Some folks get a buzz that way,
he said. Some guys put on white coats and
pretend to be doctors. They've even been known
to go into hospitals and treat patients, and no one
knew the difference--until they were caught."
Rossetti took his hands from the wheel and
casually straightened his tie in the mirror.
Harry threw him a look, and he laughed. "Not
nervous about my driving, are you, Prof?"
"Any reason I shouldn't be?"
"Nah. You're safe with me. And with these
suspects, because I'm not bettin' seriously on
either one."
Harry thought regretfully of his interrupted
peaceful Saturday afternoon with Mal. He hoped
he could make it back in time for dinner. He
wondered what she was doing.

As the afternoon drew on, Mal made herself a
cup of Earl Grey tea. She sat on a
green wicker sofa on the sunset porch and
looked out over the lawn to the willow-shaded stream.
Squeeze nudged her arm for a biscuit, which she
foolishly gave him, because, like his owner, he was just
too charming to resist. Then she watched the sun go
slowly down in a flare of neon orange,
until there was just a faint greenish reminder in the
darkening sky that tomorrow it would be around again.
She picked up the tea things, called
to Squeeze, and went back into the house. She
turned on the lamps and wondered whether to light the
fire but decided it was too warm. Anyhow, she
didn't want to turn on the air conditioning, because
the breeze coming in the open windows was so pleasant.
She went upstairs, took a shower, and changed
into a long dark green skirt and a soft cream
silk shirt. She put on a little mascara, a
touch of lipstick, and dabbed Nocturnes on her
throat and wrists.
She sat for a while on a chintz-cushioned
window seat, gazing out into the evening. As the
twilight deepened into the intense blue-blackness
of a country night, the porch lamps switched on
automatically.
The night seemed silent compared with the constant
growl of the city, but when she listened hard, she
heard all kinds of tiny sounds: the rustling of
nocturnal creatures, a whirring of wings, the
bubbling of the brook.
She was just thinking lazily about going downstairs
to see what there was for supper when she heard a
different sound.
She shot up, put her head on one side,
her ears straining. It was the kind of noise you
made when you stepped on a fallen twig. Then
she remembered Harry telling her there were deer in
the woods, and she shrugged it off.
Squeeze was sitting in the hall staring at the
front door when she came down the
stairs, his ears pricked. He turned and saw
her, gave a little whine, then resumed his listening
pose.
She was suddenly aware how alone she was--there
wasn't another house for miles.
Apprehensive, she went to the front door and
locked it. Then she rushed around locking all the
other exterior doors--the one leading into the
kitchen, the one onto the sunset porch, and the odd
little wooden door that she assumed led into the
basement.
Squeeze was still sitting in the hall when she
returned. He wagged his tail, then ambled toward
the kitchen. "It was nothing, was it, boy," she said,
convincing herself. "Just the deer."
The kitchen had been the original small farm
building, and the rest of the house had simply grown
around it. It had white wooden cupboards, old
wooden floors, and dark beams. The plaster
stretches in between the ceiling beams were painted a
cheerful sunshine yellow that Mal thought must light
up the whole room, even on the coldest snowy
winter nights.
She found some tapes and put on Beethoven's
Pastoral Symphony because it seemed to suit the
time and place. She turned it up loud, then went
and rummaged through Miffy's well-stocked pantry
and refrigerator.
She was happily chopping tomatoes for a
sauce when she heard a noise again. Only this
time it sounded like footsteps. And this time Squeeze
leaped for the door, his fangs bared in a snarl.
Her heart jumped into her throat as she
remembered Harry saying the dog attacked only
strangers. He might have been joking, but right now
it didn't feel that way.
The windows were still open to catch the evening
breeze, and the light from the porch shone through the
screens, but when she looked, no one was there.
Squeeze sank to the floor, whining, still staring
at the door. Her mouth went dry as panic hit
her. Harry had told her that she was on the
killer's turf now, that he might seek
revenge. Then she thought of the young women he had
already killed, and their families, and sudden rage
and adrenaline flooded her veins, lending her
courage. If the killer was coming after her, he
wasn't going to find her an easy target.
"You bastard!" she yelled, unthinkingly echoing
Summer Young's last words. "You fucking
bastard, you're not going to get me!" She ran to the
windows, slamming them shut, until the house was
tight as a fortress.
Still panting with rage and panic, she retreated
to the kitchen, looked around wildly, drew the
curtains, then grabbed the phone and called
Harry's number at the precinct. It rang and
rang; finally the machine picked up. Banging
down the receiver, she took a deep shaking breath,
wondering what to do next.
She thought about dialing 911--and then thought again.
She told herself to be calm, to act rationally.
Odds were, it was just some wild creature roaming
round. She could just imagine the headlines:
"Mallory Malone Calls Cops to Save
Her from Deer." They would go to town on the fact that
she was at Detective Harry Jordan's
farmhouse. She didn't want her personal
life splashed all over the tabloids,
especially now, when it would upset the impact and
dignity of the program that had just aired.
Still, her hands trembled as she opened a bottle
of red wine and poured herself a glass. Sipping it,
she told herself not to be so foolish. Then she
noticed Squeeze, sitting on his haunches,
staring fixedly at the kitchen door.
The hair on the back of her neck prickled.
She took another gulp of the wine, watching the
dog watching the door. She should have called the
cops, but it was too late now. She was in the
middle of the countryside, miles from anywhere.
"Goddammit, Harry, where the hell are you when
I need you," she muttered.
It flashed into her mind that when Harry had taken
her on a tour of the house, he had shown her the
"mud room." It contained a collection of old
boots and jackets, and a glass wall-cupboard
with an assortment of guns he had said were used for
shooting wild duck.
Calling the dog, she walked quickly through the
hall. Her heels clicked as loud as pistol
shots on the wooden floors. She thought
nervously, it was a dead giveaway. She
slipped off the sandals, then opened the mud-room
door.
It was little more than a closet, with one tiny
window set high in the wall. Faded green
Barbour jackets hung on iron pegs, giving
off a musty smell from years of rainy weather, and
old rubber Wellingtons moldered next
to scarred leather riding boots in various sizes and
states of decrepitude. A collection of
wicker baskets and some vases were stored on
shelves next to the deep pot sink, and a
vegetable trug with an uncleaned trowel sat on
the long wooden table beneath. On the wall immediately
before her was a glass-fronted cupboard containing
half a dozen shotguns.
Mal tried the door, but it was locked.
Apologizing silently to Miffy, she picked up
the trowel, smashed a pane, unlatched the door,
and took out the nearest gun.
She had never held a gun in her hands before, and
this one was a beauty. It was a Purdey with an
exquisitely carved silver stock, engraved
Harald Jordan 1903. She hoped
nervously that it still worked. Then she remembered she
would need ammunition.
Her hands shook as she hastily searched the
cupboard for bullets, or cartridges, or
shot, or whatever it used; she didn't even know.
Anyhow, there wasn't any. "Oh, God," she
whispered, crumpling. What good was a shotgun
without ammunition? She stared helplessly at the
gun. At least it looked the part.
She ran back to the kitchen, turning out the
lights as she went, imagining eyes watching her
through the window.
In the kitchen her courage suddenly deserted
her. She switched off the light, then her legs
turned to jelly, and she sank into a chair facing
the door leading to the hall. Squeeze plumped
down next to her, and she thought, comforted, that he would
defend her. She had no idea where Harry was.
All she could do was wait and hope.

The man stood in the shadow of the willow tree
by the stream. He watched, puzzled, as a shadowy
figure walked across the sunset porch and peered
into the lit windows. He could see it was a tall,
thin man in jeans and sneakers, and there was a
second man two paces behind him.
The man's hearing was sharp as a dog's, and he
heard the sound of the car long before they did. He
slipped deeper into the shadows, running silently
across the grass until he came to the lane at the
front of the house. In the distance he could see the
car's headlights bouncing over the dips, and he
guessed it was Harry Jordan coming back.
He ran as fast as he could down the
lane, trying to beat the car. When it was almost in
sight, he stepped behind the trees and lay
facedown on the grass so that the lights would not
catch the pale glimmer of his skin. Behind him he
heard the black Infiniti starting up, then its
engine gunning as it roared, without lights, down the
lane toward the oncoming Jaguar. He held his
breath, listening for the crash.
Harry didn't see the oncoming car, but he
heard it. He spun the wheel hard to the right. The
Jag responded brilliantly, but it couldn't
cope with the ditch and the tree. There was a terrible
scream of hot rubber, a rending of beautiful
steel, and a crash of splintering glass.
"Son of a bitch!" he yelled, wiping the
blood from his eyes, staring back over his shoulder
at the speeding vehicle. He did a double take
--it was the black Infiniti from this morning.
"Oh, God," he muttered, panicked.
"Oh, God, Mallory."
He got the seatbelt unfastened, but he
couldn't open the door. He banged and pushed, but
it wouldn't budge. He tried the other side--
same thing. He glanced up and saw stars, real
ones as well as the ones spinning in his head from where
he'd thumped it on the wheel. Then he
remembered he had been driving with the sunroof
open.
The car was at a forty-five-degree angle,
with the two right wheels in the ditch. He hauled
himself up and out, then slid to the ground. He started
to run.
The man picked himself up from the grass. He
saw Harry running toward the farm and gave a
bitter laugh. Whoever was driving the Infiniti had
saved Mary Mallory's life tonight and almost
killed the detective instead. He began to jog
steadily back to where he had hidden the Volvo,
beneath trees on a side road a couple of
hundred yards away.
He climbed into the car, smoothed down his
hair, slipped on his nice tweed jacket, and
tied the silk cravat. Then, with the lights off,
he drove slowly back down the lane toward the
road leading to the freeway. He would not take the
freeway, though. Instead, he would use the
secondary road through the small towns and
villages.
He switched on his headlights. It was a
slower route, but if the police were out
looking for the black Infiniti, nobody would bother
about a well-dressed man driving a station
wagon. After all, everybody drove a Volvo
in the country.

Mal froze as she heard footsteps pounding
up the drive. "Oh, no," she gasped, cold
with terror, "oh, no ..."
Someone was trying to open the front door.
Squeeze leaped to his feet and ran into the
hall, barking frantically.
Mal clutched the shotgun to her chest. Cold
sweat trickled down her spine, and her throat
had turned to ashes--she couldn't have screamed if
she tried.
The footsteps were outside the kitchen door
now.
Scrambling unsteadily to her feet, she aimed
the shotgun at the door. Squeeze galloped in
from the hall, just as someone tried the handle.
She shut her eyes and counted to ten. It was now
or never, and she had no ammunition. ...
Harry put his shoulder to the door once, then
again. It crashed inward. The kitchen was in darkness.
He flipped the switch and stared at Mal,
clutching the shotgun with her finger on the trigger.
Her eyes were squeezed tightly shut, and she said
through gritted teeth, "Get out, or I'll kill
you."
Harry began to laugh.
"Don't shoot--I beg you, Malone,
don't shoot!" he chortled, weak at the knees
with relief. "Oh, God, if only you could see
yourself." The chuckles just wouldn't stop coming.
Mal opened her eyes and glared furiously at
him. "Oh, great, Harry," she said icily.
"You're just in time for dinner."



Blood was dripping into his eyes from a long
gash across his forehead. "Oh, my God, he shot
you," she said.
Harry put his hand to his head, still grinning with
relief. "No, he didn't. But I thought for a
minute you were going to."
He took the shotgun from her numb hands,
broke it open, and checked the chamber. "It's
empty," he said, astonished.
She nodded, feeling like an idiot.
"I couldn't find any bullets."
"Shot, not bullets," he corrected her,
and she glared at him, then charged him, pummeling his
chest with her fists. He grabbed her hands and put
them around his neck, then got a grip on her,
clasping her so close, she could hardly breathe.
He buried his head in her hair, kissing any
available part of her: her hair, her neck, her
earlobes. "I thought I'd lost you," he
muttered, his voice breaking with emotion. "I thought
I'd put you in danger, left you alone, and the
maniac had found you--"
"I swear he was out there," she whispered, clinging
to him.
"Someone was," he said, grimly. "I met
them on their way out."
She pulled back, looking up at him. "You
saw him?" Then the killer really had been out
there. A shiver of horror ran down her spine.
He shook his head, the blood from the cut
trickled down his face. He wiped it away
impatiently, heading for the phone. "I don't know
who it was, but I recognized the car. It
followed us from Boston this morning. And it just
rammed me, driving without lights down the lane."
He dialed the local police, quickly told
them what had happened, then called Rossetti.
An APB was put out immediately on the black
Infiniti, which was sure to show damage from the
impact with his Jag.
Mal sat in the same chair she had sat in a
few minutes earlier, expecting her end to come.
Her legs were shaking, and her heart was racing like the
Jag's engine. She suddenly remembered that
Harry was the injured one and that, apart from shaken
nerves, she was perfectly all right.
"He almost killed you," she said, stunned.
Harry put down the phone; he turned, and
grinned at her. "Forget about me--he killed my
Jag. Right now it's a heap of screwed-up
metal in a ditch."
She inspected his wound tenderly, then fetched a
towel and water to clean it. "It needs stitches."
Harry grabbed her hand and held it to his
cheek, then to his lips. "Listen, you're okay
and I'm okay," he said. "The only victim this
time is the car. But I'm gonna get the bastard
who did this."
"You don't think it's him?"
He shook his head. "Somehow it's not
his style. He's a stalker, a plotter and
planner." He looked her in the eyes and said
levelly, "Mal, if he'd wanted to get you,
he would have. Believe me, he's that clever." He
added with a shrug, "Besides, the car was wrong. A
black Infiniti. It doesn't match with our
descriptions of his vehicle. There's always the
possibility he has two cars, but anyhow the
Infiniti doesn't work with his profile."
The wail of police sirens shattered the
country silence, and suddenly the house was filled with
detectives and uniformed policemen.
A long time later, when the house had been
thoroughly inspected inside and out, as well as the
wrecked car in the ditch, they were taken to the local
hospital. Harry had stitches put in his
forehead, while Mal drank weak coffee from a
paper cup, waiting anxiously.
She looked up as Harry finally emerged. They
had shaved part of his hair for the stitches, which ran from
his right eyebrow to the top of his skull. The black
stubble made his face look even paler, and there was
an exhausted look in his gray eyes.
In the police car taking them home, Harry
leaned back, eyes shut. She could see he was in
pain, and she held his hand, glancing concernedly at
him. A couple of uniformed cops had been left
on guard at the farm, and they bade them good night
as they went indoors.
Harry poured himself a neat whiskey and drank
it quickly down, preferring it to the painkillers they
had offered him at the hospital. It had been a
long day. His head was throbbing, and the rest of his
bruised body was beginning to stake a claim on the
pain threshold. But worse was the fact that Mal
had been in danger, and that he had put her there
by leaving her alone. Somehow it had never occurred
to him that Jordan's Farm was not the safe haven it
always had been. Still, he was sure the Infiniti
driver wasn't the serial killer. But if not,
then who the hell was it?
He was still mulling over the question the next morning,
when he awoke in the old double bed that had been his
since he was a boy. Mal was lying curved around
him; he could feel the softness of her breasts against
his back and her gentle breath on his skin. One
long leg was flung over his, and she was clutching
his hand as she slept.
It was almost worth getting his head smacked up
just to have her there, acting like a protective
mother hen with a damaged chick.
He turned and slid an arm under her, and she
opened her eyes. They were so deeply blue, it
astonished him all over again, and her long curling
lashes gave her an air of innocence. But the
smile in her eyes was replaced by a worried
frown as she inspected his head.
"I guess this is called role reversal,"
Harry said, kissing her. "Little Woman looking
after Big Strong Man. Better be careful, I
might get to enjoy it."
"Surely you know that it's always the women who
look after men?" she said firmly. "It's only
the male ego that makes you think otherwise.
Better not relax and enjoy it too much, Mr.
Detective, or you'll lose that macho edge and
be forced to admit that women are stronger."
He laughed, but then she kissed him and he
forgot all about what she had said. He ran his
hands over her smooth body. "Silk and satin,"
he whispered, nuzzling her neck.
She slid from his arms and stood there naked,
stretching lazily. "The wounded are not allowed
to make love. They get breakfast in bed
instead."
He drank her in. She looked wonderful
naked, as tempting as Eve's apple. "That's not
a fair exchange," he grumbled. "Whoever
told you that?"
"The doctor at the hospital last night."
She threw on a robe and walked to the door.
"A woman doctor," she called over her
shoulder as she headed into the bathroom.
"What does pain matter when I can have a
woman like you in my arms?" he demanded when she
emerged from the shower.
She rolled her eyes, unrelenting, and marched
to the door. Just then the phone rang. Suddenly
apprehensive, she waited while Harry
answered it.
"Morning, Prof," Rossetti said. "How's
the head?"
"It's Rossetti," he said to Mal. She
nodded, relieved, and went downstairs to make
breakfast.
"Not good, Rossetti," Harry replied
gloomily.
"Yeah? Sorry to hear that, but what I'm
gonna tell you ain't gonna make it feel
better. You seen any of the newspapers
this morning?"
"No. Why?" Harry suddenly didn't want
to know.
"The tabloids have a couple of nice pics of
you and Malone. The captions are pretty much the
same: "Mallory Malone in Hot Affair
with Cop in Serial-Killer Case." And the
pics are of you with your arm around Malone, walking
in the grounds of Jordan's Farm. Which, just so you
know it, is described as "a love nest.""
Harry groaned. "That's all she needs."
"You too, detective," Rossetti
reminded him. "Whoever took those pics might also
have been driving the black Infiniti. I twisted
a few arms, metaphorically speaking, and got a
name and address. You'll be glad to know, Prof, that
the guys who wrecked your car are now in custody
on charges of dangerous driving and removing themselves
from the scene of an accident, plus trespass and
anything else I can think of to throw at them."
"Then it wasn't the killer, after all,"
Harry said, relieved.
"Unh-unh, just your plain old tabloid
paparazzi. That's what happens when you date the
rich and famous," he added. "You can consider yourself
lucky they didn't point their lenses in your
bedroom window."
Harry looked at the window they had left
innocently open last night with the curtains drawn
back. "I'm gonna have to be more careful."
"You got it, Prof. Meanwhile, take care
of the head. And Ms. Malone--she did a great
job. The phone calls have tapered off. Nothing
solid so far, not since the two false alarms
yesterday."
Harry hadn't even thought about the two men they
had taken into custody for questioning yesterday. He had
known as soon as he saw them that neither was the
killer. The first was just looking for a moment of glory
on television, and the other was a pervert with a mania
for gynecological obscenity that would send him to the
funny farm. Suzie Walker's killer was still
at large.
He told Rossetti he would be with him in a
couple of hours, then went downstairs to tell
Mal the news.
She was at the stove, slowly stirring scrambled
eggs. "You were supposed to stay in bed."
"I've got news."
She put down the wooden spoon, her
eyes filled with a mixture of fear and hope.
He said quickly, "No, we haven't caught the
killer, but we know it wasn't him last night.
It was paparazzi."
"The tabloids?"
"I'm afraid so. Rossetti saw the
pictures this morning. Nothing too bad. I have
my arm around you, and the headlines call Jordan's
Farm a "love nest.""
Mal realized what it meant. "You mean it was
tabloid photographers out there last night?"
"You got it, Malone."
"But they almost killed you, driving like that. How
could they? How dare they?" She flung down the
spoon and paced, her arms folded, her mouth
tight. "Have they sunk so low, they're prepared
to kill for a cheap picture? My God."
"At least it wasn't the serial killer."
She stopped pacing. "No, it wasn't."
Chilled, she remembered last night's terror.
"So you don't have to worry about that. Only about
the headlines trumpeting your personal life."
She gave him a dazzling smile, dizzy with
relief. "The hell with my personal life. It
was worth it, detective."
"I hope you'll still feel that way when I
tell you I have to get back to town."
"You mean now? Right away?"
"Well, after the scrambled eggs."
"Uh-oh, the eggs." She snatched the pan from
the stove and stared horrified at the solidified
mass.
"Good thing I remembered the bagels," he
added, "And the muffins. All you've got to do is
brew the coffee, Malone."
"And then we're on our way." She sighed
gloomily.
"Like I told Squeeze, it's a cop's
life," he said. But he kissed her before he went
back upstairs to take a shower.
Two hours later, they were at Logan
Airport and he was saying good-bye to her. He
glanced around the crowded departure lounge and the staring
strangers, then he said what the hell and kissed
her anyway.
"They've read it in the papers. Now they'll
know it's true," he whispered in her ear.
"I'll call you later tonight."
"I'm not going to complain," she said. "I know
it's a cop's life."
"Not all the time, it's not."
Mal watched him walk quickly away from her.
She knew his mind was already back on the serial
killer. Her heart gave a little leap as he
turned and met her eyes. Then he lifted his hand
in farewell and disappeared around the corner.
She was smiling as she boarded the flight to La
Guardia. And she smiled again, later, back in
the safety of her apartment, when she picked up his
message on her answering machine.
"It's just the walking wounded, checking in to make
sure you arrived home safely, Malone.
Sorry about this weekend, and about the tabloids--
though the picture of you isn't bad. I'll see
they do it better next time. Call you later."
She had just kicked off her shoes when the phone
rang. It was Beth Hardy.
"I see you and the Handsome Detective are
hitting the headlines," she said. "In a love
nest, no less."
"It's going to get worse." Mal told her
quickly about the previous night. "So you can expect
more headlines, and I guess more pictures in the
future. But not at the "love nest," because the
Handsome Detective, as you call him, is back
on the job. And you know the old saying."
"Out of sight, out of mind? Somehow I doubt
it. The HD was certainly most attentive on
Thursday after the show. My advice is to roll
with the punches. Anybody who says anything bad
about you and Jordan is just jealous. See you tomorrow,
sweetheart."
Mal was taking off her socks when the phone
rang again.
"I was just wishing you and I were back at the love
nest," Harry said.
Mal felt that little quiver in her heart again.
She sank onto the bed, smiling. "Oh,
sure," she said. "You can invite the paparazzi,
and we can do a few retakes for them."
She heard him sigh. Then he said
regretfully, "It might almost be worth it. A
few stitches, a wrecked classic Jaguar,
shotguns, notoriety--what more can a guy
expect from a nice weekend away with his
woman?"
"Your woman, detective? Aren't we being
a little presumptuous? I mean a couple of
dinners, a party, a little hugging and kissing here and
there?"
"Hardly amounts to much, huh?" he said
gloomily. Then he laughed. "Malone, I
don't know why I bothered to call. I can tell
you're back in form."
"I'm glad you did, though," she said in a
voice like a caress.
"Me too," he said gently. "Take care,
Malone. I'll call you again tomorrow."
The line went dead, and she lay clutching the
receiver to her ear, reluctant to leave him. No
matter how they bickered, life seemed emptier
when he wasn't there.
She showered and put on a robe. Suddenly
exhausted, she remembered she had had only a
couple of hours of sleep. Yawning, she fixed
herself a cup of tea, then wandered into the study
to pick up the rest of her messages. There was
another envelope waiting on her desk.
She opened it, sipping wild berry tea as she
read the one-line message. It said: WELCOME
HOME, MARY MALLORY
The hot tea slopped over her trembling hand,
scalding her as she sank into the chair, but she
hardly felt it. She stared mesmerized at the
flimsy piece of paper. A shiver rippled
coldly down her spine, and goose bumps
sprang up on her skin. The note wasn't from
Harry. It wasn't the paparazzi.
There was only one other person besides Harry who
knew her real name.



The man was out in his garden, tending his roses.
Some were already in bloom--tight exquisite
blossoms in deep burgundy and crimson.
He thought they were as perfect as roses should be,
controlled in their beauty, unlike blowsy
cabbage roses and unruly climbers, which he
hated. He examined each fresh bud carefully,
frowning as he saw clusters of greenfly sucking
the juices from his carefully nurtured plants.
He hurried into the garage where he stored his
gardening supplies and quickly mixed the chemicals.
Then he sprayed each leaf, each plant, each
bed, meticulously. When he felt sure he
had annihilated all the aphids, he went
back into the house, locked the doors, and washed his
hands carefully.
He glanced at his watch. It was
seven P.m. He wondered if Mary
Mallory Malone was home yet, and he
smiled, imagining her face when she found his
welcoming little message. It had been quite a coup,
getting hold of her address and her telephone
number. In fact, he was astonished at how
easy it had been. Sometimes he surprised even
himself.
He put on a clean shirt and a good jacket,
combed his hair, and inspected himself in the mirror.
Taking a cloth from the drawer, he dusted his
black Gucci loafers. Satisfied with his
immaculate appearance, he drove into town to the
bistro he favored on Sunday nights.
It was quiet. They gave him his favorite
table near the window, and he ordered his usual
roast chicken and mashed potatoes. This time he
asked for a half bottle of wine instead of the single
glass he normally drank. After all, he
thought, as he unfolded the newspaper and stared at
the picture of Mary Mallory Malone with
Detective Harry Jordan at their love
nest, he had a lot to celebrate tonight. They
did not know who he was, and they would never find
him. He was on the winning edge again--and this time he
meant to enjoy it.
He was going to play a little game of nerves with
Ms. Malone, before he declared war on her.
Shake her up a bit, like this weekend for instance.
Those damn fool photographers had acted like
amateurs, shooting out of there with no headlights like
Russian spies. All they'd had to do was put
on their high beams. Jordan would have been so
dazzled, he wouldn't have been able to see the car--
or anything else--for a minute, and by then they would have
been past him and gone.
He sipped the wine appreciatively. It
tasted particularly good tonight. Then he went to the
pay phone in the entryway and dialed her number.
He smiled when she answered immediately. He could
recognize fear in a woman's voice--after
all, he had heard it many times before.
He replaced the receiver and returned to his
table, made pleasant small talk with the waiter
for a couple of minutes, then ate his meal in a
leisurely fashion. Afterward he ordered the
apple pie with vanilla ice cream and enjoyed every
mouthful. Then he paid his bill and drove
sedately through the city to the pied-@a-terre he
kept in Cambridge. It suited him
to have two addresses. He often used this apartment
when he had to get an early start on a work day.
Besides, you never knew when it might come in handy for
other reasons.

Harry was sitting in his office playing the tape
of Suzie Walker's last words over and over
again. He knew the tape by heart. Each time he
played it, he asked himself why she had said "What
are you doing here?"
He played it again, listening intently for the
inflection on you. The emphasis was so minimal,
it was almost imperceptible, and her voice was choked
up, so it was difficult to be certain. It might
be nothing, as they had all at first assumed. But
Harry couldn't be sure. There was just a chance that
Suzie had recognized her killer.
He thought about what her sister Terry had said:
that the boyfriend had done it. They had questioned the young
intern. He almost looked the part--short, stocky,
and dark. But he was too young to have gray hair, and
he had an unshakable alibi. He had been on
duty at Beth Israel Hospital and both his
colleagues could vouch for his whereabouts that entire
night. So the intern was definitely out as a
suspect.
Besides, there was too much evidence for it to be
merely coincidence; Harry knew in his gut this was
the serial killer. But if Suzie had known the
killer, that narrowed the field considerably: her
family, her friends, her colleagues at work. It
could be a guy at the gas station where she filled
up, or someone at the coffeehouse, or at the
caf`e where she ate, or at a bar she
frequented, or a club or shop.
He sighed, thinking of the amount of work it would
take. Then he talked with Rossetti, called
the chief at home, and got permission to get
extra help in tracking down every friend,
acquaintance, and passing casual encounter in
Suzie Walker's life.
He looked at the photo-fit again. He
took a couple of pieces of paper and covered the
lower and upper parts, leaving only the eyes. The
artist had done a good job in capturing the menacing
stare. He could only imagine the terror of the
poor young women who had confronted it.
He glanced at his watch, wondering if he should
call Mal again, but it was eleven thirty and she
would probably be sleeping. Instead he
brought up her file on the computer.
He reread her resume with its simple
listings of birth, home, school, and jobs.
Mentally, he filled in the spaces with the tragic
events he knew about. He stared at the screen,
puzzled.
Mal had told him she had attended
Washington State in Seattle, and that's what it
said on the resume that records had obtained for
him. But the dates didn't tally. He made a
mental note to check with the college the next day
and find out why Mal had taken five years instead
of four to complete her studies. And then he
wondered exactly where she had disappeared to, in
that missing year.

Mal was not sleeping. She was pacing the floor
trying to understand what was happening. She told herself
she was being foolish. Someone obviously was playing
a trick on her.
But still she couldn't sleep.
The next morning, New York was hot and
humid. She was too weary to tackle the gym, so
she dressed and walked to the office. Waiting
impatiently for the traffic light to change, she
shifted from foot to foot, skimming a hand over her
hair, already feeling sticky and wishing she hadn't
decided to walk. Suddenly she had the uneasy
feeling she was being watched. The hairs at the
back of her neck stood up. She swung around
angrily. Half a dozen innocuous-looking people
were behind her. Their eyes were glued on the light,
willing it to turn green and willing the traffic not
to overshoot it so they could dash across.
Fool, she reprimanded herself angrily. This
wasn't Jordan's Farm, she wasn't alone,
and nobody was following her. Nevertheless, she
glanced uneasily over her shoulder several times
as she hurried along Madison, and she felt
relieved when she finally swung through her office
door to safety.
"Seen the morning papers?" Beth greeted her
with a grin. "The Handsome Detective and
Mallory Malone are all over the place.
Those paparazzi are onto a gold mine. It's
a good thing the HD returned to Boston before the
pictures got even more revealing."
Mal snatched the newspaper from her, scanning
the caption over a photo of the two of them sitting
by the stream, fishing. "Country Idyll
For Mallory Malone and Boston Heartthrob
Cop." She flung it down, disgusted, imagining
the paparazzi with their long-range lenses. Stealing
their privacy, their intimacy.
"At least they ended up in jail," she said
angrily. "But Harry ended up with nineteen
stitches in his head."
"Spoiled his beauty, huh?" Beth said,
sighing. "Nah, nothing could do that. So how are things
between you and the HD, anyway?" She twisted a strand
of dark hair round her finger, looking
expectantly at Mallory.
Mal thought moodily. "Combative, I would
say," she decided. "And--well, kind of
fun."
"And sexy," Beth added.
Mal threw her a startled look, and Beth
laughed. "It's written all over you,
sweetheart. You are positively glowing.
Besides, you look exhausted."
"I look exhausted because I didn't sleep
last night," Mal confessed. Then she told her
about the Welcome Home note.
"It has to be some joker," Beth said
calmly. "I mean, those tabloids are even
better than we are at getting addresses and
telephone numbers. They're probably delving
into your past even as we speak, looking for dirt."
Mal stared apprehensively at her. "You
really think they're delving into the past?"
"Yours and Harry Jordan's," Beth said
firmly. "The two sleuths are being sleuthed,
is my guess. And what you got was just a warning
shot."
Mal hoped Beth wasn't right. She went
to her office and closed the door, then called
Harry at the precinct. He wasn't there, of
course, but she left a message for him to call
her. Then she tried to switch her mind back to work
and this week's show.

Harry parked the Jeep outside Mass
General. He ran up the steps and through the swing
doors.
Dr. Waxman was on his way out. He threw
Harry a startled glance, then retraced his steps.
"What the hell happened to you, detective?"
He leaned closer, inspecting Harry's head.
"You here on police business? Or do you need
my services in the emergency room?"
"Not this time, doc, thanks. It was just a minor
fracas with an automobile. No bones were
broken, and my brain seems intact."
"Don't worry about the hair--it'll soon
grow back in," Waxman said with a grin,
unconsciously smoothing back his own thick dark
locks. "By the way, I saw your picture in the
paper this morning."
"I'll bet you did," Harry replied
gloomily, and Waxman laughed.
Harry glanced down at Waxman's feet--
he was wearing black Gucci loafers. A warning
tremor fizzed up his spine. "Nice shoes,
doc," he commented casually.
"Expensive but comfortable," Waxman said.
"When you're on your feet as many hours a day as
I am, you appreciate every bit of comfort you can
get."
"Dr. Waxman, you're just the man I came
to see." Harry grabbed his arm before he could walk
away. "It's about Suzie Walker. I need
to know who she worked with. Who her colleagues were,
her friends. Anyone who knew her."
Waxman's eyebrows rose. "Don't tell
me you think it's one of us? Here at the
hospital?" he asked.
"Let's just say we're looking at everyone
she came in contact with. It's just procedure,
doc, nothing to be alarmed about."
Waxman's eyes clouded as he thought
uneasily about it. "Jesus, Harry, you'll have
us all looking over our shoulders if you go around
questioning everyone."
"That's why I'm asking you first. She worked with
you. You knew her better than the other doctors
here."
"Yes, well, I suppose I did. Though
Dr. Andrews knew her too--she did a stint
in obstetrics. And Starewski, in neuro. In
fact, Harry, most everybody must have known her.
You're asking me a damned difficult question.
I'll bet if you asked anyone here, they'd have the
same problem. A hospital is a small world,
you know, even one as big as this."
Harry heaved a sigh; he knew Waxman was
right. "Well, if you can think of anyone in
particular, anybody you get a feeling about ..."
Dr. Waxman nodded. "I'll do that," he
said, already walking away.
There was no sassy chat from the nurses
at the duty desk this morning. They were subdued,
still caught up in the horror of Suzie's
murder, still worried about safety. He asked them
the same questions he'd asked Dr. Waxman and
got pretty much the same response.
"I hope whatever happened to your head has
nothing to do with this," the duty nurse said.
"Nope, just a personal problem," Harry
replied, uncomfortably aware that with a line of
stitches bisecting his partially shaven head, he
looked like something from Frankenstein's
laboratory.
"That must be some "personal problem,"" the
nurse murmured.
He met Rossetti coming back down the
hallway. "Sometimes I think I live here,"
Rossetti said gloomily. "But you surely
look as though you belong, Prof."
Dr. Blake came hurrying around the corner.
"Morning, gentlemen," he called, lifting his
hand in acknowledgment as he hurried past. Then he
stopped, turned around, adjusted his horn-rimmed
glasses, and stared hard at Harry. "What the
hell happened to you, detective?" he asked
mildly.
"Oh, just a run-in with the paparazzi. You can
read all about it in the tabloids this morning."
Blake came toward him, inspecting the wound.
"I never read the tabloids," he said. "I
don't know any of the people who appear in them. At
least not until today I didn't. Not a bad
sewing job, though. Get that done here?"
"Upstate, doc, at the local hospital."
"Couldn't have done it better myself. You look as
though you could use a vacation, though. If I were your
doctor, with a wound like that, I'd recommend a
few days off."
"No chance. They've got me tied to the stake
at the precinct until we solve this case.
Taking the dog for a walk is about as far as I'll
get for the next few weeks."
"Too bad," Blake said, smiling as he
hurried on his way.
"Prof," Rossetti said, "did you notice
that Blake was wearing Guccis?"
"Yes. So was Waxman, and more than likely
a dozen of the other doctors. I guess that
eliminates interns and anyone else who can't
afford them from suspicion."
"Unless it's someone with a status
symbol thing," Rossetti said thoughtfully.
"Y'know, like an intern who really wants a
Ferrari but will settle for a pair of pricey
Italian shoes. Makes him feel classy."
"You may be right," Harry admitted.
"Meanwhile, put a check on every doctor in this
hospital. I want to know who they are, where they
come from, where they worked previously, whether they are
married, and what their home lives are like."

Back in the squad room, he picked up
Mal's message about the Welcome Home
note. He figured it was the tabloids; they were
experts at accessing information. It might also have
been some nosy reporter who had been calling the
unlisted numbers and hanging up. It made
sense.
He called Mal at the office. She
answered right away and sounded as though she had been
waiting for his call.
"Hi, Scarface," she said cockily, but he
detected an undertone of nerves.
"I could always claim I earned it in a
duel."
"Like Errol Flynn?"
He sighed. "First it was Bogart and
Scarface, and now it's Flynn. Right now, with
half my hair missing, I look more like Bruce
Willis."
"That's not bad," she said.
"Squeeze barely recognizes me."
"I barely recognize you. But that's because every
time I see you, you do a disappearing act."
"My mother warned me my job would be my
downfall."
"Your mother was right. Besides," she added wi/lly,
"I think I'm missing you."
"You are missing me, Malone? Missing
my strong manly presence?"
"Yup."
He waited for her to say something else, but there
was silence.
"About the Welcome Home note," he said.
"It has to be the tabloids."
"After what happened, do you really think they'd do
a thing like that?"
Harry wasn't convinced, but he wanted
to reassure her, take that little wobble of nerves from
her voice. "They know how to get things like unlisted
numbers, addresses, where to find the
dirt on people--"
Suddenly she made up her mind. It couldn't
go on--she had to tell him. "Harry," she
interrupted him, "I need to see you."
He knew she wasn't joking. He didn't
ask questions, he just said, "Okay. I'll be there as
soon as I can."
"My knight in shining armor," she said softly.
"I hope I can live up to that. I'll be there
around seven, okay?"
"I'll be waiting," she said quietly.

She sat on her pretty garden terrace,
waiting for him, looking out over Manhattan's
skyline--the turrets and towers that she had conquered
as Mallory Malone. But her past as Mary
Mallory was not over and done with yet. And because of
what she now believed in her heart, she had,
finally, to tell Harry the truth.
He was right on time. He walked into her apartment
and into her heart precisely on the stroke of
seven. They stood looking at each other across the
room.
He glanced ruefully at his old leather
jacket and jeans. "One knight in slightly
tarnished armor, reporting for duty, ma'am."
"Oh, Harry," she said, still looking into his
eyes. She loved him when he was silly, and she
wanted to laugh, but it got stuck in her throat.
He saw she was nervous and slung an
affectionate arm around her shoulders. "What's
up, Mal? Come on, you know you can tell me
anything."
She gulped back the panic and got a grip
on herself. "It's important, Harry. You
see, now I think I know who he is."
Harry took a deep breath. He had always
suspected that Mal knew more than she was telling,
but not this much. He saw the panic in her face and
tightened his arm reassuringly around her.
"Okay," he said quietly. "Just take a
deep breath, Malone, and begin at the beginning."
"I didn't want to tell you," she said.
"It's in the past, I didn't think it related
to the murders. To us. But now I know it does, I
feel it."
"Okay, Mal, I'm listening." He sat
next to her and held her hand.



Mary Mallory was eighteen when she met him.
She had never had a boyfriend, never dated,
flirted, necked, or petted. She was a
virgin.
The caf`e where she worked six nights a week
as a waitress was a simple place,
patronized by office workers and staff at the
nearby hospital who wanted an inexpensive
meal, and he was one of the regulars. He always sat
at one of her tables, if he could, and after a few
visits they got to smiling at each other and saying
how are you tonight, that sort of thing. She liked him
because at least he looked straight at her instead of
through her, and he treated her as a person, not just a
plain, overworked waitress.
She thought at first he must be in the military, his
hair was cropped so short. But then she decided
he couldn't because he also had a neat little beard.
Besides, he was nearsighted, as she was, and always
wore glasses with heavy black frames to read
whatever book or journal he brought with him.
Chicken with mashed potatoes, gravy and
biscuits was his favorite meal, and he always
cleaned his plate. She smiled. She'd bet when
he was a kid, his mother had told him he wouldn't
get ice cream unless he finished his broccoli.
Somehow that made her feel a tenderness for him.
One night, after he had been coming to the caf`e for
several weeks, she went to take his order as
usual. He put a marker in his book and smiled
at her, then asked her name. He had nice white
even teeth and a friendly expression, but she was so
surprised, she blurted out, "Mary Mallory
Malone," without even thinking. Then she added,
embarrassed at the way it sounded, "But now I'm
always called Mary."
"I like Mary Mallory," he said. "It's
different." He asked if she worked at the caf`e
full time.
"Oh no, I'm really a student," she
replied, with a shy smile.
"You work such long hours," he said,
surprised. "When do you find time to study?"
"At nights, mostly," she confessed. "I like
it then, it's quiet, no one bothers me." And
then she blushed. No one ever bothered her
anyway, yet here she was, talking like a
regular person.
"I know how it is," he said seriously. "I
put in a lot of hard years as a med student.
Now I'm an intern at the hospital, and
I'll tell you, the workload doesn't get any
easier." He showed her the medical textbook
he had brought along. "I can't afford to let
up," he said. "Just got to keep on studying
until I get where I want to be."
She wondered where that was but was too shy to ask, so
she took his order, and he returned to his
textbook.
He waved good night to her when he left and she
found he'd given her a good tip. Mary smiled
as she cleared his table. She realized,
surprised, that she had actually had a conversation.
With a man.
The next night she washed her long limp
hair and tied it back with a ribbon. She wore a
new blue T-shirt and a sixties kind of
multicolored Indian-looking skirt that she had
bought for a couple of dollars from the secondhand
shop. She looked up expectantly every time the
bell over the door jingled, but he did not show up
that night. Nor the next. When he did not come
for a whole week, she resigned herself to the fact that
he had probably found a new place whose food
and waitresses he preferred.
Then, unexpectedly, on a busy Saturday
night, he was back again. The caf`e was crowded,
but she promised him the little corner table he
favored as soon as it was free, and while he
waited, he drank a glass of red wine.
"So how're you doing, Mary Mallory?" he
asked when she finally got him seated.
She stood waiting with her order pad poised.
"Just fine, thanks," she said, smiling at him.
"We haven't seen you in a while, though."
"Family problems." He shrugged. "I had
to go home for a few days."
He didn't tell her where home was, and she
didn't ask. He ordered the chicken and said,
"I can't stand the food in the hospital canteen.
I miss my mother's cooking, and the chicken and
biscuits here are a kind of nostalgia trip."
"It must have been nice to go home then," she
said, but he looked at her, puzzled. "For your
mother's cooking," she explained.
He nodded. "Oh, sure. I guess you already
know what I want to order."
She wrote chicken and biscuits on
the order pad and showed him. He laughed. "You
got it," he said.
When he had finished his meal, he asked her
what she was studying. "Media communications and
journalism," she said. "So I can ask the questions
instead of having to answer them."
"Good answer, Mary Mallory," he said
approvingly.
She found herself waiting for him, ready with a
smile, when he next came in, eager to take
his order. Chatting a little, making real conversation,
wasn't so hard after all, she told herself
happily.
One night he came in late. He was the last
customer to leave the caf`e, and when he paid his
check, he said to her, "I'm not in a hurry tonight.
I'll drive you home, if you like."
She rushed into the ladies' room to check her
appearance, suddenly nervous. She combed her hair
and smoothed her skirt and applied a touch of
lipstick. She wished she had some perfume,
hoping the aromas of the steamy little kitchen didn't still
linger on her clothes. Then she took a deep
breath and walked out onto the street where he was
waiting for her.
The car was a brand-new BMW convertible. He
held open the door, and she stepped in, feeling
like a princess. He pressed a button and the
top slid smoothly down. Then he switched on
the radio. It was a bit chilly, but she enjoyed
the way the wind tugged at her hair as they drove
toward the dank little house she shared with several other
students. The soft music on the radio created
an intimate little world, enclosing the two of them, and
she leaned her head back dreamily against the fine
leather cushion. She wished the drive would never
end.
"This must be it," he said, peering at the
ramshackle building she called home. A
street lamp shed an unfrly yellow light on
the brimming garbage cans and rusty bicycles,
and a prowling dog stopped and sniffed, then lifted
its leg on the BMW'S tires.
"Goddammit!" he yelled viciously.
"Get the hell out of here!" He glanced
angrily at her. "They should exterminate
animals like that. All they do is spread disease."
She was surprised by his anger, especially
since she was acquainted with the dog. It belonged to a
neighbor and was a friendly creature who
sometimes came and sat on their porch. Still, it was
unfortunate that the dog had chosen to lift his leg
on his smart new car.
"I'm sorry," she said. "That's just the way it
is in this neighborhood."
He shrugged. "I'll go by the car wash on the
way back." Then he slid his arm along her
shoulders.
Mary Mallory looked at him, big-eyed with
surprise. She was holding her breath with the shock
of it when he pulled her toward him and kissed her
on the mouth.
It was her first kiss, and she quivered with the
unexpectedness of it. Her emotions had been
locked inside her for so many years, she was like a
volcano ready to erupt.
He let go of her, then leaned across and opened the
passenger door. "See you next week," he
said.
She slid out of the car, said a hurried good
night, and stood on the sidewalk in front of the
house, waving as he drove off. She put her
hand to her lips, still feeling the imprint of his
kiss, half relieved and half disappointed that
he hadn't done it longer.
Still, a man had finally kissed her, and she was
elated. Now she was like the other girls--she knew
what it was like. It was only later, as she lay
awake, analyzing every millisecond of what had
happened, that she realized he had not asked her for a
date. It must have been just a friendly kiss after all
and not a real "boyfriend" kiss.
When he came to the caf`e a few days later,
she peered hopefully at him through her thick
glasses, brightening when he gave her a big
smile and said hello and how are you, Mary
Mallory?
It was the Mary Mallory at the end that
gave his greeting a special personal little
meaning. With a little thrill of excitement, she
hurried to get his usual order. He lingered over
a glass of wine until it got quite late and she
was ready to leave, and then he looked at her and
said, "Like a lift home?"
She nodded, beaming, and ran to put on some
lipstick and comb her hair. It was raining this time,
so they couldn't put the top down. But he turned
up the radio, and symphonic music swelled and
echoed in her ears as they glided smoothly through the
wet night. She thought happily that this
must be what it felt like when you were rich. And
happy.
When he kissed her good night again, his lips were
hard, but he did not put his tongue in her mouth,
the way she had heard girls say boys did.
She clung to him. No one had ever held her
close before, not her mother, not her father. She was starved
for affection, for approval, for identity, and
suddenly this man was giving her all those things.
By holding her, kissing her, he was saying you are
someone, Mary Mallory, you're a pretty
girl, you're sweet and intelligent, and I
really like you. In her mind, his arms around her meant
she was loved.
She waved good-bye again as he drove off, but
he didn't wave back. She supposed he
hadn't seen her, standing in the dark and the rain. But the
next night he was back at the caf`e again. And
again he waited to drive her home.
It was a cold, misty night. Mary
Mallory shivered in her flimsy Indian
skirt as she hurried to the parking lot across the
street where he was waiting. But inside, the car was
warm and the music was already playing.
"Get in," he said, a touch impatiently.
"Sorry." She slid quickly into the seat next
to him.
He glanced around the lot. There were three or
four other cars, but no one was around. He swung
the BMW quickly out and drove too fast down the
street.
They had been driving for about fifteen minutes
when Mary Mallory realized they were not on the
road leading to her house. She had been so content
just being with him, cocooned together in the warm car with the
soft music swirling around her. She had closed
her eyes and imagined she was his wife and they were
returning home together from a party.
She smiled at him. "Where are we going?"
He shrugged. "I thought we'd go somewhere quiet
where we could talk. Where we don't have to look at
the garbage cans and smell the dog pee."
She said, ashamed, "It's not very nice, I
know."
He shrugged again, concentrating on the driving.
They were on a quiet road with woods on either
side. The ground-mist rose like thin gray
smoke, fluttering through the leafless branches. She
thought with a shudder that it looked haunted by witches.
He drove onto the soft verge and
stopped the car. Then he put on the hand brake and
leaned back in his seat, staring straight ahead.
There was nothing in front of them but a deserted
road: no houses, no lights, no other cars.
He turned and looked at her, and Mary
Mallory smiled at him. He leaned across and
removed her glasses, then he put his arms around
her. She sighed, leaning into him, turning her face
willingly up to his, ready for his kiss.
Her eyes were closed, and she could feel his hands
on her long hair. He pulled it viciously.
Her head snapped back, and every taut hair sent
shooting stars of pain through her scalp. She thought
her neck must be broken. She stared at him,
bug-eyed with fear. A knife gleamed in his left hand.
"Don't scream," he said coldly, holding
the knife against her throat.
Mary Mallory felt the panic shooting up
her spine, she was hot from it, trembling with it.
"Don't," she whispered. "Don't--"
He put the knife on the dashboard, and she
sagged with relief. Her head snapped back again
as he smacked her across the face with the flat of his
hand, then a second time.
"No!" she screamed. He looked in her
eyes, she was gasping from the pain, wild-eyed with
terror. He began to punch her, over and over
until she was submerged in a sea of pain.
Mary Mallory knew she was going to die, that
was why he had brought her here. Now his hands were under
her skirt. She kicked out wildly, he grabbed
her by the hair again, and she screamed.
He picked up the knife and held it to her
throat. "Shut up," he said in a strange
expressionless voice, as cold and brittle as
ice chips.
She was sagging into a black hole from which there was
no escape. It was fogging the sides of her
eyes, clouding her brain ... she had to pull
herself together, she had to fight. She brought her knee
up and jabbed it at his groin, but he was too quick for
her. He gave her a menacing glare, then a quick
chop to her neck, and she fell into that black
bottomless pit.
He was still lying on top of her when she came
flailing back up from the depths. Stickiness
oozed between her legs, and she thought he must have cut
her with the knife. Then she looked at him, half
naked, and she knew what he had done.
She thought, it's over. Now he will kill me.
She watched him pick up the knife again and knew
she was right. He bent his face closer, staring
intently at her, as though he were memorizing her
face. In the faint light from the dashboard, his
eyes were dark evil orbs, drilling into hers
until she thought they penetrated her very soul, the
way he had penetrated her body. He ran the
knife lightly across her throat, as though testing
its sharpness.
The scream wouldn't come; it was locked inside
her, stuck in her throat. Distantly, she thought
she heard the wail of a siren, but she knew that
even if it were the police, they would be too late.
"Son of a bitch," he snarled, pulling himself
off her. The blue lights were flashing in the distance.
He quickly turned on the ignition, gunned the
car, and shot down the road, leaving the flashing
lights in the distance.
And Mary Mallory knew she was on her own
again--with a madman. She pulled herself into a sitting
position, clutching her blouse across her breasts,
pulling down her skirt, not daring to look at him.
She stared out of the window, planning on jumping, but
they were speeding. Her hand was on the door handle.
She knew she would be killed if she did it, but
she didn't care anymore.
Suddenly they were back in familiar
territory, turning into her street. Hope
flickered in her leaden heart.
He stopped the car at the corner. He leaned
across, took her hair in his fist again, pulled her
head back, and stared into her eyes. "If you
breathe one word of this, I'll kill you," he said
in a voice as icy as chilled steel.
He let go of her, opened her door, and pushed
her out. "Remember, I'll kill you," he
warned again as he slammed the door. He spun the
car around and shot back down the street, away
into the night.
She stared numbly after him. Her legs were
trembling, and blood was trickling down the
insides of her thighs. Clutching her shirt
closed, she stumbled down the sidewalk, praying
she wouldn't meet anyone. She was lucky--it was
Friday night and the house was dark. Everyone was out
partying.

Mary Mallory slunk inside like a beaten
dog seeking a hole to hide in. She
looked at herself in the mirror. Her eye was
blackening, and there were red welts across her face.
She took off the shirt and stared horrified at
her breasts, already purple with bruises, the
nipples ringed with bite marks. Then she took
off her tattered Indian skirt and her torn
underpants and saw blood seeping from her vagina
and the stickiness that was his semen. She lifted her
head and howled with the pain and shame and agony of it.
She wished he had killed her.
Hours passed while she simply lay on the
floor, crying. Her legs would not move--she was
paralyzed with shock and pain. Dawn was breaking when
she finally dragged herself upright. She went to the
bathroom and turned on the faucets, waiting
until the tub was almost full. Then she took the
razor and stepped in, wincing as the hot water
stung her wounds, gradually submerging herself,
until only her head was clear.
It would be easy, she thought dully. He had
almost done it for her. A few more minutes, and she
would have been dead anyway. They said it was not
painful. Not that pain mattered anymore, but the
thought of just drifting into sleepy oblivion lured
her gently, like a moth to a flame.
She jolted upright, as a car pulled up
outside. Had he come back to get her after all?
Then she heard the laughter and voices and realized
it was the other students returning from their party. She
pulled out the stopper, climbed from the tub,
wrapped herself in her old terrycloth robe, and
slid, like a shadow, down the hall to her own little
room.
She did not emerge for two days. Finally,
weak from shock and hunger, she put on a
long-sleeved sweater and jeans. She pulled a
baseball cap low over her eyes, and even though
it was raining, she wore sunglasses. She got
her bike and cycled down the street to the pay
phone to call the caf`e and tell them she was
sorry, but she had had bad news from home and would
not be back. Then she went to the convenience store on
the same block and bought milk and cornflakes and
Snickers bars and retreated to her room again.
As she ate the cornflakes, she considered
what to do. She had no girlfriends to confide in, and
she couldn't tell the college counselors. They
might think that it was her fault. Maybe they would
even call the police. She could never talk about
it, never tell what he had done. ...
Remembering the knife and his threat, a wave of
terror washed over her. Her hands shook so
badly, she had to put down the spoon--the
cornflakes were choking her. She decided she would
try to ignore what had happened, lock it away
in her mind with the other horrors, the lifetime of
rejections. It was all she could do.
A couple of weeks later, when the bruises
had faded sufficiently and she was able to face
life again, she went back to class. A short
while after that, she bumped into one of the waitresses
from the caf`e on the street.
"Hey, Mary," she said cheerily. "Hope
everything is okay again at home."
Mary nodded and said yes it was, thanks.
"By the way," the waitress said, "the young guy
you used to chat with has left too. He said he'd
been transferred to a hospital in another
state."
Mary Mallory's heart lifted with hope.
"Too bad," she said. But what she meant was
Thank you, God.





Harry lifted her hand to his lips and kissed
it. He took each finger and kissed each one.
He admired her for telling him, for her rigid
control and the matter-of-fact way she had spoken.
But he knew the hurt and the fear went deep.
"I'm sorry, Mal," he said gently. "I
would do anything to erase that terrible memory from your
mind."
She leveled her gaze at him. "There's more,"
she said quietly.
Their eyes locked, his shocked, hers filled with
shame. Harry got up, poured himself a bourbon,
and took a gulp. "You don't have to go through with this,"
he said. "You can't be sure it was the same man.
I don't want you hurt anymore. Just forget
about it--it's in the past."
She shook her head, determined. "It's my
duty. I have to tell you."
He sat beside her again and took her hand in his,
gripping it tightly as he listened.

Mary Mallory was alone in the trailer,
waiting for the Coast Guard to tell her
what she already knew in her heart: they had given
up hope of recovering her mother's body. She
sat on the orange vinyl sofa and looked at the
dingy room. In some strange way she could feel
her mother there more positively now than when she had
been alive. The sharp odor of her cigarettes
still lingered, and the bitter aroma of stale coffee, and the
sullen smell of poverty.
She went into the bedroom and stared at her mother's
clothes hanging on the metal rail. There were so
few, and they were so old and tired. They looked
infinitely pathetic. She wanted to cry.
On the shelf was her mother's purse, red patent
with a jaunty gilt buckle, pitted from age and the
salt wind. She remembered going to the store with
her to buy it, when she was just a child. And she
remembered how thrilled she had been to see her
walking down the street swinging her new red bag.
But that was long ago, and the red bag had remained on
the shelf since the day they arrived in Golden.
Her mother's shoes were tossed on the floor: a
pair of shabby sneakers, the cheap black pumps
bought a decade ago on sale and never worn, and
her old strappy white sandals. Mary
Mallory picked up a sandal and put her hand
inside it, feeling the place where her mother's foot
had rested. She had never realized before what tiny
feet she had, only size four.
Her mother's fuzzy blue mohair sweater lay
on the unmade bed where she had tossed it before
venturing out into the great storm. Mary Mallory
held it to her face, breathing in the mingled scents
that meant "mother." Tears spurted from her eyes.
They rolled down her cheeks like fat raindrops,
merging into a torrent as grief overcame her.
She flung herself onto the bed, clutching the
sweater to her chest as though she were holding her mother.
"Oh, Mom, I need you, I need you," she
wailed. "Mom, I wanted you to need me. I
wanted to say I love you, but you didn't wait
for me, and now it's too late. And it's all
gone wrong. I wanted you to help me, you were all
I had." And she sobbed her grief into the soft
blue sweater.
The next day the man from the Coast Guard
came by to tell her it was unlikely her mother's
body would ever be recovered. Mary Mallory
nodded in acknowledgment and said thank you for all your
help. They said no problem, then she closed the
door and she was alone.
She went back into the bedroom and brushed the
dust from the slab of unframed mirror propped
against the wall. She took a step back and
studied her reflection. She put her hands on the
slight curve of her belly, then turned
sideways and looked again. She groaned with
despair. A baby was growing inside her from the
seed of the rapist, from the madman who had wanted
to kill her. She groaned again, overwhelmed
by self-loathing.
She was sure the child would be a monster. How could
it not, with a madman for a father and a mother who hated it with
every inch of her being? Surely it could sense that
loathing, even in the womb?
Afraid she would end up as crazy as her mother,
she pulled herself together, put on the blue mohair
sweater, and went for a long walk, asking herself every
step of the way what to do.
She sat on the cliff, staring out at the gray
ocean. It heaved sullenly under a low steely
sky. She imagined her mother down there and thought
sadly that in death, her mother's surroundings were as
gray and drab as in life.
She sat for a long time, trying to work out a
plan. She wanted the alien embryo removed from
her belly. She wished and wished for it to happen,
and she prayed to God to expel it, but it was a long
shot, she knew it. She would have aborted it if
she had known where to go, who to ask--but she had no
one. In the end there was only one thing to do.
She would drop out of college, have the baby,
then give it up for adoption. But seven long
months stretched ahead of her. How would she
live? What would she do?
Mary Mallory scrambled to her feet. She
gave one last long look at the sullen gray
ocean. She stretched herself tall, breathing in the
sharp cold salty air, willing herself to have
courage, to be strong. "You will win," she told
herself grimly. Then she blew a sad farewell
kiss to her mother, turned on her heel, and walked
back along the cliff road to the trailer.
She quickly collected all her mother's things,
her clothes and small personal belongings, and put
them in plastic bags. She collected their few
dishes and pots and pans, remembering the last time
they had packed them so joyously for their new
life. She added the half-smoked pack of
cigarettes on the kitchen table and the almost-empty
can of coffee and the remnants of food from
the refrigerator.
She stood looking at the half-dozen plastic
bags on the floor; they contained all that was left
of her mother's life. Overwhelmed by its pathos,
she began to cry. After a while anger took the
place of sadness. What had happened to her mother was
not going to happen to her. Somehow she would get through.
She would become "someone" if it killed her.
She piled the plastic bags into the trunk and
climbed into the driver's seat. She turned for one
last look at the place she had called home.
Then she drove to the town dump and hurled the
plastic bags, filled with the pathetic remnants
of her mother's life and memories, into oblivion.
She climbed back into the turquoise Chevy
and headed out of Golden. She would never go back.

She drove north and east, as if drawn
back by a magnet. She had only a little money
--certainly not enough to pay for motel rooms--so she
slept in the car and dined at cheap roadside
burger stands until her squeamish stomach heaved
in revolt. Then she bought Wonder Bread and
Kraft cheese slices, and somehow the familiar
childhood diet stayed down and she began to feel
stronger.
Golden was a long way behind her, and the
outskirts of a city were in front of her. She
glanced at the sign: TACOMA 10 MILES.
She looked at the gas gauge. There was less
than a quarter of a tank left, and just like before, when
the gas ran out, that was where she stayed.
She found herself in a suburb in the poorer end
of town, but she couldn't complain because she knew where
she belonged. There were plenty of rooms for rent in
the area, and she walked around looking at the signs
until she found a house that looked cleaner than
the rest. She knocked on the door.
A youngish man answered. He had a long
face and large teeth like a horse, but a
pleasant expression.
He smiled at her. "I guess you've come
about the room?"
Mary Mallory nodded. "Can you tell me how
much it is? Because if it's too expensive, I
don't want to waste your time."
He looked her speculatively up and down,
then beyond her at the old car by the curb. "You have a
job?" he asked mildly.
She lifted her chin and looked him in
the eye. "Not yet," she said in a steely
voice, "but I sure as hell will."
Their eyes met, and he laughed. "You betcha,
woman," he said, still grinning. "Okay, there are
two rooms. One's kind of small, up in the
attic, but it's real cheap. The other is on the
first floor. It has the big bay window you see
above you and is more spacious and more expensive."
He told her the prices, then said, "Care
to take a look?"
"I'll take the cheaper one," she said, already
heading back to the car to collect her things.
"But you haven't even looked at it yet," he
protested.
"I don't need to. Your house is clean,
and the price is right. Beggars can't be choosers,"
she added, lugging her duffel from the trunk.
He ran down the steps after her. "Here, let
me help you." He lifted the bag easily and
said, "By the way, my name's Jim Fiddler."
"Mary Malone," she said, shaking his hand.
"This is all you have?" He peered into the
cavernous empty trunk.
"That's it." She slammed it shut and followed
him up the steps. "About that job," she said
hopefully, "you wouldn't happen to know of any around
here, would you?"
"Try the supermarket," he said over his
shoulder, leading the way up four flights of
stairs. "They're always looking for help. You
can't miss it--it's two blocks away. And if
you strike out there, try the drugstore, or
Burger King."
As she panted up the final steep flight of
stairs, she told herself sarcastically that she had
really come a long way--from one supermarket
to another. Then she stepped inside the small
attic room that was to be her new home, and her
decision to do better than this, to get out and move
on and become someone, hardened into rocklike
resolve.
The room was small, all right. There was just about
enough space for a single bed with a scratched wooden
headboard, and a chest of drawers that doubled as a
nightstand with a wobbly, pink-shaded lamp. Metal
pegs were screwed into the wall for clothes, with a
sagging pink curtain that pulled across to hide them.
There was a pink rug on the wooden floor, and a
pink armchair in front of the dormer window that
didn't let in much light. Even though
the chair was old, it looked comfortable, and there was a
wooden standard lamp on one side of it and a
small table on the other.
"Not much, but at least it's
color-coordinated," Jim said with a cheerful
grin. "This do for you, Miss Malone?"
"It's perfect," she said, and she meant it.
All she wanted was to kick off her shoes and sit
in that old chair and not have to drive or even think.
He said, "The rent is payable one week in
advance." She looked around for her purse, and he
added, "That's okay, whenever." He peered
closely at her. There were shadows under her eyes,
and she gave off nervous vibes. She looked very
young and absolutely exhausted.
"Care to join me in a cup of coffee?" he
asked casually. "It was just brewing when you
arrived."
She looked suspiciously at him through her
big glasses, then decided he was only being
kind. It was just that she wasn't used to kindness.
She beamed gratefully at him. He thought,
surprised, that when she did that, she lit up like the
Fourth of July.
Mal followed him back downstairs. She
worried that they might prove a problem in the coming
months, but she pushed that out of her mind and settled
for thinking only about the immediate future. That was the
way she intended to get through the next months: day
by day, hour by hour, even minute by goddamn
minute if she had to.
Jim's apartment took up the entire basement.
Another young man was standing in the kitchen, slicing a
cake, and he glanced up as they came in.
"This is Alfie Burns, my partner," Jim
introduced him casually. "Mary Malone, our
new tenant in the attic."
"Welcome, Mary," Alfie said, taking out
an extra mug and pouring coffee.
He was very tall and very thin and very handsome, Mary
thought, studying him over the top of her mug. The
hot coffee steamed her glasses, and she took
them off and rubbed her eyes.
Alfie said, "Hey, anybody ever tell you,
you've got beautiful eyes? I've never seen
such a deep blue." He heaved a dramatic
sigh. "Wouldn't you just die for them, Jim? You should
think about contact lenses," he advised. "Shame
to hide such beauty behind those big bottle-tops."
He laughed, but it was a good-hearted kind
of laugh, and Mary knew he wasn't making fun
of her.
They asked where she was from, and she told them
Oregon, and that her mother had just died and she was
dropping out of college for a year because she had no
money and couldn't cope.
"Poor kid," Jim said sympathetically.
"Listen, about that job at the supermarket--the
manager's a friend of mine. You tell him you know
me and that you're living here, okay? He'll do his
best for you, I'm certain of it."
Jim was right. Mentioning his name to the manager worked
like a charm, and the next day Mary had herself a job
as a checkout girl. Everything seemed to be going
smoothly--even the morning sickness had
subsided, though she was careful to eat as little as
possible in the hope that the baby would not grow and the
bulge would not get much bigger. Sometimes she worked
the morning shift, sometimes the evening, but either way
by the end of the day, her legs had swollen and her
feet ached.
She walked slowly back home and trailed
up the endless flights of stairs to her room, where
she sat with her feet in a bowl of cool water
until the ache eased. Then she went to the kitchen
downstairs, heated a cup of soup or made a
sandwich, and went back to her room to read one of the
books she borrowed from Jim. Occasionally he would
pop his head out as she passed his door and say,
"Hey, how about a cup of coffee and some
gossip, Mary?"
But it was Alfie who would do all the gossiping,
about their friends and the parties they went to, and who was
going out with whom. She liked hearing about it, even
though she didn't know their friends; it made her
feel a part of their lives.
"Do you have a boyfriend, Mary?" Alfie asked
casually one evening a few months later. He was
drinking beer, and she and Jim were drinking coffee.
She took a sip and said, "Oh, no.
Definitely no."
"But you're not gay," he continued.
She looked shocked. "Of course not."
He smiled at her. "Mary Malone, you are
the most unworldly innocent I have ever met."
She stared at him, suddenly realizing what he
meant. "I--that's all right. ..." she stammered.
"I--it's just that I never met anyone before. ..."
They laughed, and Jim said mockingly, "Of
course I'm not prejudiced. Some of
my best friends are gay."
"The thing is, Mary, how did such an innocent
like you get yourself pregnant?" Alfie asked
gently.
The heat of embarrassment flushed from her toes
to the top of her head. She was nauseated with shame
as she realized they knew. She hung her head,
fighting back the tears, saying nothing.
"Have you seen a doctor?" he asked. His
voice was kind and without a hint of criticism.
She shook her head. "No."
They looked at each other, eyebrows raised,
sighing with exasperation. "Sweetheart, this is not
going to go away like a cold in the head," Alfie
warned. "You've got to take care of yourself, make
arrangements, decide what you're going to do."
Mary lifted her head. They were sitting at the
kitchen table opposite her, staring at her with
concerned eyes. "Arrangements?" she asked
nervously.
Jim sighed again--she was from another planet.
"For the birth, Mary. You can't have it here."
She hadn't thought about that, hadn't been able
to face up to the fact that one day the child would be
born. That it would live, and she would be its mother.
"Maybe you want to tell us about it," Alfie
suggested, but when she looked at him, horrified,
he said quickly, "Okay, okay, you don't have
to. But we're concerned about you, Mary, and we
want to help you before we go."
"Before you go?" she repeated, her jaw dropping.
"Jim and I have decided to put the house up for
sale. We're off to live in paradise, on a
tropical island in the South Pacific. We
can't just leave you here, like unfinished business, and not
know you're going to be okay. We'd be lying on the
beach wondering what the hell happened to you. So we
want to help. But in order to do that, you have to fill
us in on a few details."
"Like when is it due?" Jim prompted. He
reached out and took her hand. "Come on, Mary,
get it over with. 'Fess up."
He held her hand while she told him. The
baby was due in three months, and she didn't
know what she was going to do because she couldn't bear
to think about it. But she did know she wanted to give
it up for adoption. "I never ever want to see
it," she cried passionately. She looked
apprehensively at them, but they didn't seem
shocked.
"I did a little research," Jim said.
"There's a place out in the suburbs that takes
care of young women in your delicate condition. I
hear it's very pleasant, a big old house set
in some gardens. It's not luxurious, but it's
well equipped and peaceful. And it's free."
"A home for unwed mothers," Mary said dully.
"They don't call it that anymore," he said
briskly, not allowing her to indulge in despair.
"Be practical, Mary. They take you in and
look after you. Your baby will be born there, and they
will take care of the adoption procedures. In other
words, sweetheart, they take a load off your
shoulders. Just look at it this way--in three or
four months you'll be able to go back to college.
They won't even have to rehabilitate you and get
you a job."
"I still have my scholarship," she said, as a ray
of hope penetrated the gloom of the future.
"Sure you do. So here's the number, and there's
the phone. Why don't you give them a call?
Alfie and I will take a walk around the block.
Perhaps we'll go pick up a bottle of wine.
We'll drink to our tropical island and your
future at college. Okay?"
Mary could have kissed him, but she was too shy.
She waited until they left, then took a
deep breath and made the phone call.
A pleasant-sounding woman answered, and she
explained nervously who she was and what her
circumstances were.
"Come and see us tomorrow, if you can make it,"
Mrs. Rhodes said briskly. "Places go
fast here."
Ranier House was a long drive away in a
leafy suburb that petered out into real countryside
a mile farther down the road. It was raining, a
fine Irish-mist sort of rain that soaked her
hair as she walked the short distance from the parking
area to the glass front door, and the garden
smelled fresh, of rich loamy earth.
The house had been built as a country estate
by a wealthy logging baron at the turn of the century
and was a mix of English Tudor-style gables and
Washington State red brick. It was big and
square and forbidding, with bare wooden floors and
white walls, like a school. It had plain
pull-down shades at the windows and worn-looking
furnishings, and the smell of institutional cooking
lingered in the hallways.
A couple of heavily pregnant young women
came by, arms linked, as she waited in the
hall. They eyed her up and down as they walked
past. She thought, horrified, that in a couple of
months she would look like that.
Mrs. Rhodes hurried into the hall. She was
small, thin, and brisk. Mary told her the
details: her age, where she was living, her job.
She explained about college and the scholarship. And
she told her about her mother. Mrs. Rhodes
wrote it all down, then asked who the baby's
father was.
Mary shook her head, her mouth set in a
firm line. "There is no father," she said
grimly.
"But my dear, if the child is to be adopted, the
natural father should be informed." Mrs. Rhodes
looked at her with irritation. They were all the
same--they never wanted to tell.
"I'd rather kill it," Mary said in a calm,
dead voice.
Mrs. Rhodes glanced sharply at her. She
could see from her face, hear in her tone that she was
dealing with a severely traumatized young woman.
The mother recently dead ... the girl just eighteen
... they had better do something to help her.
"Very well, my dear," she said, trying not
to sound patronizing. "I think it would be best if
you came to us at the end of the month. You can work out
your notice at the supermarket and contribute
whatever small amount you can toward your upkeep
here. If there's nothing, well, so be it. Ranier
House is run as a charity. We'll see you
through, and that's the important thing."



Mary had been locked in a safe little time warp
--she had not thought beyond the next day. All she had
wanted was to continue living in her own attic
room, occasionally sharing a cup of coffee and a
sandwich with Jim and Alfie, and picking up her
paycheck regularly every Friday. Now it was
over. Jim and Alfie had made up their minds,
the house had been sold quickly, and they couldn't
wait to be off. The hardest part was saying good-bye
to them.
They shared a final celebration dinner the night
before they left. There was a smile on her face,
but she was dying inside. They had been
kind and treated her as an equal. They had been
her friends.
When the taxi came to take them to the airport
the next morning, Jim hugged her. He ruffled
her hair and said, "Chin up, Mary Malone.
You'll get through it. I'll be thinking of you." And
Alfie kissed her hand and said, "Go for it,
Mary. We'll drop you a postcard."
She stood on the steps, waving good-bye
until the taxi turned the corner, then trailed
heavily back upstairs and packed her own bag.
The next day she took up residence in the home
for unwed mothers.
There was a nursery wing at Ranier House, and
she often heard the sound of babies crying, but she
never wanted to see them. Eventually the matron
insisted that she look around, and she walked her through,
pointing out the facilities: the labor ward, and the
delivery room where she would give birth, with
curtained-off beds where two young women lay
sleeping. "Being a new mother can be exhausting,"
Matron warned her.
"Not for me," she said quickly. "Mine is being
adopted right away."
Matron frowned. "I'm afraid it will take
a few days," she said. "We have to know the baby
is healthy and feeding properly, and then we'll
wean him. We'll have to expel your breast milk,
make sure he's thriving before he can go."
Mary stared at her, horrified. "I can't do
that," she said, panicked. "I can't breast-feed
it, I can't--"
Matron had heard it all before. "We'll
see," she said calmly.
As usual, Mary kept to herself as much as she
could in those last few weeks of waiting. She
didn't want to talk to the other girls because when
she left, she wanted to put this behind her, as though
it had never happened. It was the only way.
The days dragged by, though they kept the
expectant mothers busy all the time, and even those
who were giving up their children were taught how to look after
an infant, how to bathe and diaper it, and about
sterilizing bottles--all the things Mary did not
want to know.
She learned what would happen when she went
into labor, that it would probably take a long time
--ten, twelve hours, maybe longer--because first
births always did. She told herself she didn't
care, she just wanted it over and done with.
The morning she went into labor, she received a
postcard from Jim and Alfie. It was a blurred,
brightly colored picture of a palm-fringed
island, and they had headed it, "From Paradise."
"Good luck, Mary," they had written. "And
remember, Paradise is where the heart is."
Her water broke right after that, and the contractions came not much later. They surprised her with their
intensity, but she told herself bravely that they were
bearable. Matron came to inspect her. She said
the doctor would be along shortly and that she was doing
fine, but she had a long way to go yet. Mary
glanced at the clock on the wall: it was eleven
A.m.
At eleven P.m. she was lying in a metal
hospital bed in the labor ward with the sides up
to keep her from falling out when she thrashed around,
crazy with pain. She gritted her teeth and told
herself to take it one minute at a time, one
second--just get through it, and tomorrow it would be all
over, and she would be free. The pain ripped through
her, and she gasped, clenching her jaw, not making a
sound.
"Scream, for God's sake girl, why
don't you," the nurse said, astonished. "If ever
a woman was entitled to a good scream, it's now."
But Mary just clenched her jaw tighter. The
face of the man who had raped her floated in
front of her closed lids. His staring dark eyes
were drilling into hers as she wavered between the agonizing
contractions. She would rather die than give him the
satisfaction of screaming.
Eventually, when she thought she could bear it no
longer, at around five in the morning, they gave
her an epidural, and suddenly the pain was no
longer there. She floated in a pleasant haze
somewhere above the bed, and then they dragged her back
to reality. "Push, Mary, come on, girl, get
on with it. Push more, harder, harder. ..."
She didn't feel the baby sliding out of her,
but she heard its cry. She wanted to put her
hands to her ears and shut it out, but she couldn't move
--her feet were in the stirrups, and the nurses were
holding her hands, and she was trapped. All she
could do was lie there and think horrified, "That's
his baby. The monster has been born."
"It's a girl," the doctor said, handing the
infant to the nurse to clean.
"I don't want to know," she muttered, lost
in a muzzy nightmare. She began
to cry, and the nurse wiped her tears. "It's all
right," she said kindly. "You were brave, Mary.
You can cry now."
A short while later she was safe in bed in a
curtained-off cubicle in the ward. The window was
wide open, and the sun had just come up, and its warmth
touched her face. She felt peaceful and very
calm; it was all over now.
"Mary," Matron said.
Her eyes flew open, and she stared
nearsightedly at her.
"Here's your baby," Matron said, holding out
a pink-wrapped bundle. "It's feeding time."
And she laid the baby down in the crook of
Mary's arm.
Her whole body went rigid with shock. Her
throat was as dry as cinders, and she was unable
to speak. She could feel the small weight resting
against her arm, but she could not look at it.
"Unbutton your nightdress, dear,"
Matron said.
"I can't," she croaked, unwilling to look.
"I can't."
"She's a beautiful baby," Matron
coaxed. "She needs you to feed her. Come on now,
Mary. Accept your responsibility."
Mary dragged her eyes away from Matron and
looked unwillingly at the creature who was about
to draw nourishment from her. She stared at her
daughter for a long moment, then she lay back on
the pillow again and closed her eyes.
The sweet scent of lilacs drifted on the
breeze from the tree outside her window, and their
fragrance filled her with sudden blissful
happiness. She looked at the child again. The
baby's eyes were exactly like hers, big and
blue and slightly unfocused. She had a round
pink face and a sweet rosebud mouth and a
delicate fuzz of blond hair. The baby was
not a monster at all--she was beautiful,
perfect. And she was hers.
Mary leaned back against the pillows, her arm
around her baby. She ran a finger wonderingly
across the blond down on her head. The scent of
lilacs surrounded her, and the sunshine warmed her.
And she knew that what she felt for the small,
helpless infant, was pure love.
The next day she told them she had changed her
mind and could not give the child up for adoption after
all. Matron tried to reason with her,
pointing out all the difficulties that lay ahead.
She would miss her college education, men did not
marry single mothers, and she would have to work hard and be
both parents at once. Besides, they had a
well-to-do couple waiting to take the child, ready
and eager, with a nursery all prepared. The baby
would have a wonderful life as their daughter. She
would have a proper home and a real family; she would
go to good schools and college.
Mary dug her heels in and stubbornly
refused to listen. Finally they recognized defeat
and helped her find a small studio apartment and a
job in a drugstore.
The day Mary took her little girl "home" was
the second happiest of her life. She had a
week before she started work, and she had to find someone
to look after the baby. The tiny apartment was hot in
the June sunshine, and it smelled damp, but it was
soon homey, awash under a sea of blankets and
bottles, with tiny baby clothes hanging over the
shower rail to dry.
She called her baby Angela because she was such
a perfect little angel. She pushed her around the
streets to the local park in a thirdhand stroller
given to her by Ranier House, and she fed her and
bathed her and dressed her up in the free hand-out
clothes, as if she were a little doll. The baby
gazed at her with those huge blue eyes, and Mary
cooed loving words to her, "Precious," she said,
and "baby," and "darling," and "I love
you." The words were like a foreign language, but they
came easily to her, now that she knew what love
was.
In order to go to work, she had to wean the baby
onto a bottle, and she exhausted herself pumping
out her milk and sterilizing bottles and doing all
the other hundred-and-one little tasks that are necessary with
an infant. When the day came for her to start work,
she wheeled the baby three blocks to the
baby-sitter's house and handed over the bottles
of milk and the diaper bag and all the other infant
paraphernalia. She kissed the baby good-bye,
then hurried off to the drugstore and work before she
broke down and cried.
She worried all day, and at lunchtime she
called to see how she was. "She's doing
okay," the woman told her laconically. "At
this age they just sleep a lot anyway."
Maybe the baby did sleep all day, but she
certainly didn't sleep nights, and
neither did Mary. Just when she would climb wearily
into bed and close her eyes, Angela would cry
again. She tried feeding her, tried putting her in
bed with her, tried holding her and walking around and
around the small room. But Angela was a night
person, and the baby-sitter reaped the benefit of a
sleepy infant all day, while the exhausted
Mary crawled around the store trying to keep her
eyes open and her wits about her, then walked the
floor all night.
A couple of months passed. She had made
several mistakes at work, and the manager warned
her, but when she goofed again and gave a woman
change for fifty instead of five and her cash
didn't tally, he hit the roof.
"That's it, Miss Malone," he said. "I'm
sorry, but you can't go on like this. You sure as
hell can't hold down a job the state you're
in."
"You mean I'm fired?" she asked, close
to tears.
He sighed and gave her another chance. "Just
think what you're going to do about it," he warned.
"You can't be a mother and work full time."
But Mary couldn't be a mother if she didn't work
full time because there wouldn't be enough money.
It was December, and Christmas was looming when
she finally realized she couldn't go on. The baby
cried all the time, and she thought guiltily that it was
because she was unhappy--she didn't have a proper
home, a full-time mother, the right care and attention.
All Mary had to give her was love, and that was
cheap. Anyone would love her.
Her pay disappeared on rent, the
baby-sitter, and food. There was nothing left
over, not an extra cent. She didn't even have
enough to buy her baby a Christmas gift. She
sat limply in a chair at the side of the crib,
watching the baby toss her head from side to side,
wailing. She didn't have the strength to pick her
up. Total despair overwhelmed her. She was
at the end of her rope.
The baby slept that night, but Mary paced the
apartment, asking herself what to do. The next morning
she dropped the child off and dragged herself unwillingly
to the drugstore. Somehow she got through another day
and picked up the pay packet, which had mostly
been spent even before she received it. She bought a
newspaper and a Snickers bar for a treat and
walked wearily back to pick up
Angela. This time when she saw her, the baby
smiled.
Mary's heart turned over, and she smiled
back, hardly believing it. It was like a shaft of
sunlight on the gloomy cold December day.
Later, when the baby had been fed and was lying
content for a few minutes on a blanket on the
floor, Mary opened her pay packet and counted out the money. She stared at it, surprised. He
had given her two weeks' pay instead of one.
Then she saw the pink slip still in the envelope, and
her heart sank. He had not even had the guts
to tell her she was fired.
The baby lying peacefully on the fleecy
blanket was so sweet and pretty in the pink
baby clothes that were already too small. Her heart
plummeted as she finally faced the truth.
At about eleven o'clock Angela began to cry.
Mary walked around and around with her in her arms,
patting her back, shushing her, telling her she
loved her, until at last she dozed off again.
She put her in the crib and went to the little
cupboard she called a kitchen and fixed a cup
of tea. Then she sat down and began to scan the
newspaper for jobs.
It was two weeks before Christmas, the column
was short, and nobody was hiring. Her pay and the
week's severance were still on the table where she had
flung it. She calculated quickly that by the time she
had paid her rent and the baby-sitter and bought a few
other necessities, she would have about twenty-three
dollars. And she would have to buy baby food and
new baby clothes.
She thought of welfare and shuddered, burning with
remembered humiliation. Her mother had inflicted that
on her, and now she was repeating the pattern and
inflicting it on her own daughter. She was
trapped in the same old downward spiral--and so
was her daughter. They would never get out, never
survive. She was looking into the bottomless pit
of their future.
Glancing at the newspaper again, her eye was
caught by a picture of a small child, a pretty
little girl. Mary read the article quickly, then she
read it again. Slowly this time.
The child was the daughter of a wealthy Seattle
couple, and she had been born with a heart
defect. They had fought desperately to save
her, flying in expert doctors from Texas and
London to try to help. Time and time
again, their hopes had been raised that she would be
miraculously made well. But a few days
ago the child had died. The mother said she would never get
over it, that every time she went into the empty nursery,
it broke her heart all over again.
Mary didn't give herself any time to think about
what she was doing. She put the rent she owed in an
envelope for the landlord and said she was sorry, but she
could not afford to stay on. Then she packed up her
few things and her baby, put them in the ancient
Chevy, and drove through the cold night
to Seattle.
She knew where they lived from the newspaper
article and found their house easily--a beautiful
place overlooking Lake Washington. She sat
in the car in the dark, holding her baby, waiting.
When the sky began to turn gray, she gave the
baby a bottle, changed her diaper, and
wrapped her in her fleecy blankets. She
folded a quilt around her for extra warmth, then
held her tightly, watching the house for signs of
life. The sky was turning pink when a light went
on upstairs, and she knew that the family was
waking up.
She wrote a note and pinned it to the baby's
blanket. She looked lovingly at her little
daughter, she kissed her tenderly and held her
close for the last time. Then she walked silently
up the drive and laid her on the wide stone
steps.
She hesitated, thinking about the note. It said,
"I know you need her and can take good care of her.
Please love her." She was sure she was doing the
right thing; it was the only thing left.
Still, she hesitated. Her heart was in the pit
of her stomach as she looked down at her baby.
She loved her so much, but if she kept her, they
would both go under, in Golden or its equivalent.
Her beautiful daughter deserved better than that.
Mary raced back down the drive, into the car,
and away.
They never traced her, though she was sure they
tried. She left the state and got herself a new
job many hundreds of miles away. It was a
year before she dared to return to Seattle and take
up her studies at the university again. She did
not cry for her baby. The hurt was too deep for
that, and she buried the memory in her mind, the way
she had buried all the other bad things that had
happened.



"I kept my vow," Mal said wi/lly
to Harry. "I never went back to that house. I
never saw her. The first years were the worst. I
can't explain what it means to lose a child like that,
to know she is alive and so close, I could almost
touch her.
"But she is their daughter. They needed her as
much as she needed them. They gave her their hearts
and their love and shared their lives with her. And no
one ever knew the truth about her real father." She
looked beseechingly at Harry, as if seeking his
approval. "I had no choice. It was the only
way she could be free."
Her eyes were dark with anguish. Harry
understood the struggle she had gone through, dealing with the
guilt and the despair, always wondering if she had
done the right thing. Mal had endured all those years
alone and unloved, and she had paid a terrible
price.
He drew her into his arms and held her
close, rocking her. She clutched him,
trembling. She could not cry; her tears had been
shed long ago, torrents of them, until there were
none left. She felt his fingers touch her closed
lids, then his lips, barely stirring her long
lashes in a gentle kiss. He traced the
contours of her face, the cheekbones, her soft
trembling mouth. Her eyes were still closed. She
couldn't look at him, couldn't bear to see his
pity.
He unfastened her shirt and slipped it over
her shoulders, then her skirt. His fingers followed
the curve of her neck, the swell of her breast
under the pale satin chemise, in the subtlest of
touches, light as a breeze. Slipping the
chemise over her head, he ran his hand down the
length of her body.
He inclined his head. "Beautiful," he
whispered in her ear. "You're a beautiful
woman, Mal." His mouth sought hers, caught her
soft lower lip, tasting it, then covered her in little
butterfly kisses, infinitely tender.
In the bedroom, he stripped quickly, then sat
next to her on the bed. He took her hands,
pulled her to him. "Open your eyes, Mal
darling," he said urgently. "I want you to look
at me. Look at me."
She didn't want to, couldn't bear to know
what she would see.
"Look at me, Mal," he commanded. "I
need you to look."
He was holding both her hands. There was no
escape. Slowly, she lifted her lids. His
lean handsome face swam into nearsighted focus: his
rumpled dark hair and strong stubbled jaw. His
gaze was fierce, commanding her.
"Look into my eyes, Mal," he said,
gripping her hands tightly, because he did not want
to lose her now.
She lifted her head, stretched her neck
proudly, and set her mouth in a grim line,
ready to tell him she did not need pity. All
she wanted was justice. Then she looked into his
beautiful gray eyes and could not look away.
They held her just as close as his arms did, when
he made love to her.
She was aware that his body was hard and beautiful,
that his eyes were telling her something. His energy flowed
into her fingertips, filled her senses, yet he
had not moved, had not kissed her, did not
attempt to make love to her. His eyes commanded
her, drew her into him and her limbs seemed
to soften until she was weightless, floating in a
silvery opaque space: All she knew, all
she saw was his eyes, and the tenderness in them.
He leaned toward her then and whispered in her
ear. "This is love, Mal. It's touching each
other's minds as well as bodies. I'm taking
you into my head, into my heart, and I want you to do
the same."
The breath came out of her in a little gasp, and the
pulse in her throat jumped as he angled his
head to kiss her again--light and soft and infinitely
tender. "Do you feel it, Mal? Now do you feel
it?"
He was kissing her neck, letting his lips
drift down the smooth curve of her shoulder,
across the swell of her breast, circling the
nipples, down the gentle slope of her belly.
He kissed the soft inner side of her thighs, the
tender female parts of her, and then he inched his
way up her body again until she cried out from
wanting him.
He was hard and ready, but he took her
slowly, wanting her to know that he loved her, that this
was what lovemaking should be: a man and a woman in
total harmony with each other, in mind as
well as body.
When he finally entered her, she cried out and
wrapped her legs and arms around him, moving with
him, feeling the fire in him, the pleasure and the
power of it as they reached the peak of ecstasy together.
But when it was over, it was not finished. He was still
inside her, still clasping her. He ran his hands
over her sweat-slick body, dropped kisses
on her face and neck, sucked the little gasps of
air from her open mouth. "Now do you feel it? Now
do you know what love is?" he murmured.
"Oh, Harry." She was breathless with the sudden
joyous feel of it. "I love you, Harry," she
said.
They lay entwined together in their own private
rarefied silvery space. She had no secrets
anymore. After a while he disentangled himself,
went to the kitchen, and fixed her a cup of the tea
she liked.
Carrying it carefully, he placed it on the
night table, and she smiled her thanks.
"I should be thanking you," he said, humbly.
"No one should have to go through what you did. No one
should ever have to live through those experiences, or
relive them in the telling. But there's one
important question I have to ask you. Are you sure in
your heart--and your gut--that it's the same man as
the one we're looking for?"
"Yes," she said quietly. "His name is
Wil Ethan." She breathed a sigh of relief.
Finally it was out.
"We're going to need your help, Mal, if
we're to catch him before he kills again."
This time she did not hesitate. She knew she
could trust him. "I'll help," she agreed.
Her sigh when she said it was soft, but Harry knew
now exactly what those words had cost her.



The publicity machine went into overdrive.
Mallory Malone had sensational news
to divulge on her program that week. They could
not say what it was, except that it was deeply
personal. And in a departure from her usual
taped format, it would be live, and there would be no
studio audience.
The staff and crew of Malmar Productions were
not told what the news was, either. Even Beth was
in the dark.
"Are you sure you want to go through with this? Whatever
it is?" she asked Mal with a worried frown when
Thursday finally crawled around. She thought Mal
looked like hell--shadowy-eyed from lack of
sleep, wired from too much caffeine and tense as a
coiled spring.
Mal prowled the empty sound stage like a cat
in a cage seeking a way out. She glanced up
at Beth and saw concern in her eyes. "I have
to. It'll be okay."
Alarmed, Beth caught her arm. "Don't do
it, Mal. Cancel--there's still time. We have enough shows
taped, we can run another one instead."
"I have to do it."
Mal wandered around the studio without seeing it.
All she saw were the private pictures in her
head.
Harry strode into the studio half an hour before
the show would begin. He spotted her sitting alone
in the semidarkness while the last-minute action
whirled around her. Her eyes were closed and her
head was tilted back as though she were resting. But
he knew from the tensely clasped hands that she was
not.
He walked over to her, put his hands on her
shoulders, and bent and kissed her cheek. Her
eyes flew open, and she said gratefully,
"Oh, Harry, you're here."
He sat next to her. "Everything's set.
All the incoming phone lines are tapped,
including your home line, and there's a police guard on your apartment." After tonight, the killer was
going to know that she knew. They expected him
to make a move, but he didn't tell her that.
He looked apprehensively at her; he
hoped she would make it through. He kissed her
lightly on the lips. "Fingers crossed,
Mal," he said, holding up his hands. "This could be
the end of it."
"Fingers crossed," she replied.
It was time. The hot lights illuminated the
simple set with its hard little sofa and the low table
with the bowl of lilacs and peonies that Mal had
requested. She was wearing a simple blue
sweater and skirt; her blond hair was brushed
back from her forehead, and she wore not a scrap of
jewelry. She did not look like the famous TV
personality, the forceful interrogator, the tough
investigator. She looked tired, almost plain,
as though a light had been turned out
inside her.
She took a seat, picked up her notes,
rifled nervously through them, then put them down again.
In the darkness beyond the lights, she saw Harry with
Beth. He lifted his hand and showed her his crossed
fingers. Then the director counted off the
seconds, and they were rolling.
Mal said good evening in a calm voice,
looking directly into the camera. "Tonight our
program is different. You will remember a few
weeks ago that the families of the young women who
had fallen victim to the Boston Serial
Killer were generous enough to share their grief and their
deepest feelings with all of us. Their steadfa/s
in wanting the killer brought to justice prompted
many different emotions in many of you and in myself.
"I have never spoken about what happened to me
until this past week, when I could no longer
live with it. I began to despise myself for keeping
my own ugly little secret, when those other young
women had not even been given the chance to speak out.
Now I must speak try and do it for them.
"A friend said to me, "You are alive, and they
are dead. What can you be hiding that is so
important?"'"
She took a deep shaky breath. "I was
hiding the fact that I was a rape victim--and very
nearly a murder victim.
"I want to tell you about it, to impress on you
how it feels to be that person. The one who has
been brutally violated and is about to die. I
want to tell you about the pain and the humiliation and the
shame that kept me from speaking about it until now.
And about the fear. Because this man threatened me. He
said that if I ever told anyone, he would find me
and kill me."
She lifted her chin proudly. "Well,
William Ethan--for that was the name you told me,
though now we know it was a lie. Here I am, and
I'm telling America about you."
The camera moved closer, looking deep into her
eyes. "I'm telling about the rapist and
murderer you still are. Because I believe that you are the
same man who raped, mutilated, and killed
Mary Ann Latimer. And Rachel
Kleinfeld. And Summer Young. And Suzie
Walker."
Beth looked at Harry, her eyes wide with
horror. "Is this true?" she whispered. He
nodded. "Oh, my God," she gasped.
"Oh, my poor Mal, my poor, poor
Mal."
"I'm going to tell you what he did and how it
happened," Mal said, "so you will know how it feels
to be at his mercy."
Beth grabbed Harry's hand and clutched it
tightly. Tears slid down her cheeks as her
friend told the terrible story of that long-ago night.
When Mal had finished, she was silent for a
moment. Her shoulders drooped with fatigue and
strain; she was almost at the end of her tether. She
gripped her hands tightly together, drew herself up,
and willed herself to be strong, to go on.
It was as if the light went on inside her again,
and she was Mallory Malone, the clever TV
investigator, the beautiful woman, the
celebrity. She was no longer the victim. She
was a strong woman, homing in on the killer like a
heat-seeking missile.
"I was able to provide the information for this new
Identikit picture," she said, clearly in
control of herself now. "This is exactly the way the
killer looked when he was younger, when I met
him."
The picture of a crop-headed, bearded man with
piercing dark eyes filled the screen.
"And this is the way he may possibly look
now." A picture of the same man, aged, took
its place. "I'm asking you please, if you know
him or anyone who might resemble him, to call
us.
"And now I have a message for William
Ethan--though I am certain he no longer uses
that name. I know you are out there, listening and watching.
And I want you to know that from now on, America and
its people will be out there, watching and looking out--for you.
"There is no escape for you now. And when you are
caught, which will be soon, you will no longer awaken
to enjoy the freedom of a pleasant summer day or
a crisp winter morning. You will no longer
participate in our society. You will be taken like
the beast that you are and locked away in a prison with
bars to hold you. You will never again breathe the fresh
clean air of freedom that is the prerogative
of normal, decent Americans."
She looked straight into the camera and said to her
audience, "I had to forget about myself, about my own
fears. I had to come clean and tell you, because we have
to try to stop these killings. Digging up my ugly
memories is nothing. We want to stop
digging more graves.
"Thank you for listening to my story. I hope you
understand and that you will help. Remember those parents,
remember those young women. Please, don't let
any of us forget them.
"Good night. And thank you again."
There was total silence in the studio.
Mal stared down at the notes she had not used.
She had spoken freely, without prompting,
straight from the heart.
She got up and walked out of the circle of
light, then spread her arms wide as if
to embrace them all--the production team, the
crew, the cameramen. "Thank you for putting up with
all the secrecy, and for everything else I put you
through this week."
They stared back at her, then broke
into spontaneous applause. As though unlocked
from a spell, Beth ran and flung her arms around
her. "Oh, Mal, I'm so so sorry," she said
tearfully.
"Don't be, Beth," she said gently.
"It's over now." But it was Harry she was looking
at as she said it. He took her hand and said
quietly, "Thank you, ma'am."
She leveled her eyes at him. "Thank you,
detective," she said, meaning it.
All the telephone lines were jammed before she and
Harry even reached the door. They drove
straight home. His hand still gripped hers and she
felt comforted, as though his strength were flowing into her.
He slid his arm protectively around her
shoulders as they walked into her apartment building and
took the elevator upstairs.
Inside all was peaceful; the fire was burning
in the grate, the lamps were lit, and the apartment was
fragrant with the smell of flowers.
Every surface was covered with roses: Mal
knew Harry must have ransacked the florists of
Manhattan for them. They were glorious, fat
full pale pink buds about to burst into bloom.
"They're Vivaldis," Harry said. "I
couldn't find any called Enigma, but I thought that
was kind of pass`e now anyway, if you see what
I mean."
He thought with relief that it was worth every rose in
town just to see her smile again. He took her hand
and kissed it. "You did good, Mary Mallory
Malone, ma'am. You're the best, you're the
top."
"I'm the Eiffel Tower," she finished. "Or
did the song say the British Museum."
"You're better than both." She moved
into his arms, and they hugged as though they never
wanted to let go. "Thank you, thank you, thank
you," he murmured into her ear. "I know how hard
it was. No, it's not true, I don't really
know. I can never know. All I can do is thank
you, along with a great many other Americans. I
don't know how you did it."
"How could I not?" she asked simply.
"I don't know how you feel about this," he said,
changing the subject, "but you've been living on
coffee and Snickers bars for the past few days.
I took the liberty of ordering in a little food.
Just in case," he added.
They walked hand in hand into the kitchen and he showed
her the treats arranged on a pretty tray.
"Miffy just got home. She called Le
Cirque," he said. "She's been going there for
years, and Sergio will do anything for her."
He opened a bottle of merlot, poured a
glass, and told her it would put the roses back
in her cheeks again.
"As if I didn't have enough roses," she said,
smiling.
"That's my girl," he grinned, pleased.
"Woman." She put him straight. He
raised an eyebrow, and they both laughed.
Mal felt as though life had suddenly
switched back to normal mode again. It was just her
and Harry, alone in their own little world. She wished
it would never change. But even as they nibbled at
their exquisite supper and sipped red wine, she
knew he was waiting for action.
She could see it in the restless way he glanced
around the room, deliberately not looking at the
telephone. She knew he was waiting for the killer
to call.

At first the man had been amused by her
program, titillated by the idea that everyone was
talking about him. He had laughed at the
ludicrous representation of him as he was
supposed to be today. He had aged far better
than they had depicted and looked a good ten years
younger. They had got the hair wrong, and because he
had worn a beard when he was young, they couldn't
get the jaw right. Lucky for him. But the early
picture still had him worried. True,
it had been many years ago, but somebody might
remember him.
He went to the kitchen, poured himself some vodka,
then wandered over to the window and stared angrily out at
his roses. The greenfly were sucking the life out of
his carefully nurtured plants. Anger at the
aphids, over which he had so little control, spilled
into violent anger at Mary Mallory. He
shut his eyes, and a turmoil of red floated in
front of his closed lids. He wished it were her
blood. He wondered how much time he had left.
Grabbing the keys to the Volvo, he ran to the
garage. He was out of there in a second, driving
quickly. They were closing in on him, but he would get
her first, the cheap overconfident bitch. He
wanted her dead, and he knew the perfect way
to do it.
As he drove, he congratulated himself again on
having had the foresight to keep tabs on Mary
Mallory. She had been his first. He had
botched the killing, and he had always been afraid
of her.
He had not left the state as he had told the
waitress at the caf`e. All the time Mary
Mallory was in Tacoma, he had been just a
short drive away in Seattle. He had rented
a cheap car, so as not to be recognized, and
followed her. He saw she was pregnant and
knew it could only be his. He had kept
track of her, knew when she had disappeared and when
the baby was found in Seattle, knew whose it was.
In fact, he knew more about her daughter than she
did.
He was searching for a pay phone on a quiet
street corner. Her phone must be tapped, but he
knew how the police worked. If he was quick, he
would be safe.

The hours slid by. It was one in the morning and
still not a peep from Mal's phone.
"You should go to bed," Harry said, but she shook
her head, drooping against him.
"Not without you," she murmured sleepily.
And then the phone rang.



They shot apart. She looked at Harry,
wide-eyed with fear.
It shrilled again; shattering the silence
into sharp little fragments.
"It's now or never, Mal," Harry said,
letting go of her.
She stared apprehensively at the shrilling
phone. She licked her suddenly dry lips, then
picked it up.
"Hello," she whispered.
"Well, Mary Mallory," the man said.
"That was a very creditable acting performance you gave
tonight."
The sound of his voice sent a tremor through her.
It was like an earthquake, shaking her foundations.
She couldn't breathe, couldn't speak, didn't
want to listen. But she had to keep him on the
line. ...
"I've been thinking," he said. "Isn't it
about time I met my daughter?"
Mal gave a terrified little gasp. Harry was
listening on the other phone. The man's voice
sounded muffled, as though he were holding something in
front of his mouth.
"She must be about the same age you were when I
met you," the man went on. "Now isn't that an
interesting thought?
"And you know what, Mary Mallory?" he
continued. "I'm on my way to visit her right
now. But don't you worry, she won't know who
I am. I'm too clever for you, Mal. Too
clever for all of you. You'll never catch me."
He was timing the call on his fancy sports
watch. He switched off seconds before they could
complete the trace. He was home free. Again.
It had been a brilliant idea, he thought,
killing two birds with one stone. He would light
up those tabloids like never before.
The line went dead. Harry was on the mobile
phone to the squad room, where they were monitoring the
call. He said, defeated, "He was too quick.
All we know is that the call was made from
Boston."
She had crumpled into her corner of the sofa,
looking like a woman who had just had a bad encounter
with a steam roller.
He said, "The girl is in danger, Mal.
You have to tell us her family's name, so we can
trace her."
"I don't want her to know about him," she
cried, panicked.
"I promise you, she never will. Please,
Mal, before it's too late."
She gave him the name he wanted, then sat on
the sofa, a tight ball of agony while Harry
called the Seattle Police Department. It was
easy. The family was a prominent one, well
known in the city for its charitable contributions and its
humanitarian work. They had a daughter and two
sons. The girl was now a sophomore at
Boston University.
Harry looked at Mal. They stared,
horrified, at each other. "Oh my God,"
she wailed. "Oh my God, Harry--" but he
was already talking to the chief of police in Boston.
Two minutes later, Harry slammed down the
phone. "Get your coat," he said.
She pulled herself together, ran to the bedroom, and
grabbed a jacket and her purse. He had the
elevator waiting. "Where are we going?"
"Boston. We can just make the next shuttle
if we step on it."
An NYPD patrol car was waiting outside.
Harry thrust her into the backseat and got in next
to her. With sirens wailing, they sped through the
traffic to La Guardia.
He was right, they did just make the flight. He
held her hand all the way to Boston. They
hardly spoke, and she thought sadly that there was
nothing to say. All she could do was pray for the girl
who was her daughter.
Rossetti was waiting at Logan. "You're
not gonna believe this, Prof," he said, "but the
kid wasn't in her dorm. She was supposed to go
to a concert tonight with her friends, but she complained of not
feeling well. She went to the clinic, and they
admitted her to Mass General with a suspected
kidney infection. I've got uniforms posted
outside her room and in the halls."
They were hurrying, half-running through the
terminal. The squad car was parked outside, and
they piled in.
Rossetti said, "Like you said, Prof, we
kept it low key. The girl doesn't know the
killer has targeted her. She knows nothin'
except she's sick."
Harry was thankful that at least she was safe.
Then he remembered uneasily the imprint of the
Gucci shoe on Suzie's forehead and that several
of the doctors at Mass General wore them.
He said to Mal, "I'm going to drop you off
at my place. You'll be okay there with
Squeeze to look after you. I have to get
back to the precinct."
They were at the Louisburg Square house in
minutes. He let her in, and the dog came
running. Harry looked around and checked the windows
and doors. Their eyes met for a long minute before
he left. "Chin up, Malone," he said with a
grin. "It's all going to be okay." And before she
could reply, he was gone.

Back in the squad room, he reran the
computer list of male doctors in Boston and the
surrounding area. The FBI had delved into their
past lives as well as the present, and every cv was
on the list. He knew where they were born and when;
he knew the details of their educations, from grade
school to university, and all the marriages,
births, and deaths. He knew their medical
qualifications and what towns or cities they had
lived in prior to Boston. He knew their home
addresses and what schools their children attended, and
who their wives were.
An image of Suzie Walker came into his
mind. He could hear her saying over and over again,
"What are you doing here."
Suzie had worked closely with Dr.
Waxman. He pulled up Waxman's
curriculum vitae and read his life history
again.
It was simple enough. Aaron Waxman was
fifty-six years old and married to his
college sweetheart. He lived in the
suburbs and had three children, one of whom was in med
school. He came from a blue-collar family
in Chicago, had never been involved in any
medical disputes, and was known as a good doctor.
He drove a black Mercedes, and his wife
drove a white Suburban.
Harry frowned: he couldn't find a gap in
Waxman's life that suggested aberrant
behavior. The doctor scarcely had time; his
hours were long, plus he was a busy family
man, deeply involved in the affairs of the local
Jewish community.
Frustrated, he drummed up the names of the other
doctors Waxman had said Suzie had worked with.
He worked patiently down the list. All were
longtime married and all were family men--except
for Dr. Bill Blake.
He studied Blake's credentials again. He
was forty-eight years old, and for such a
comparatively young doctor, he had held a lot
of different positions, moving around the country from
San Francisco, to Los Angeles,
to Chicago, to St. Louis, to Boston. He had
impeccable credentials from good medical schools,
and he had been employed by the City of Boston as
a medical examiner for the past three years. On
the personal side, he had been a widower for
seven years, lived alone in an apartment in
Cambridge, and drove a gray Volvo.
Something clicked in Harry's mind. He
remembered the Volvo in the hospital parking
lot and Squeeze frantically trying to get in
there, barking and snarling. He even remembered the
number. Did it belong to Blake? But it couldn't
be him--he worked with the cops, they all knew him.
He said uneasily to Rossetti, "What do
you know about Dr. Blake?"
"Bill Blake?" Rossetti looked
surprised. "He's okay, I guess. Kinda
odd, you know, but that's just a personal feeling.
Any guy who does what he does for a living
seems odd to me."
Harry pictured the chilly white-tile
autopsy room with the air conditioning blasting and
Blake humming with the knife poised over Suzie
Walker's naked body.
Something wasn't right. He felt it in his
bones.
Acting on a hunch, he called the Seattle
hospital where Mal had told him Wil Ethan
had worked as an intern. He asked them
to double-check on a William or Bill
Blake. An hour later, they got back to him.
A Dr. William E. Blake had been an
intern there many years ago.
"William Ethan Blake," Harry said
triumphantly to Rossetti. "He's our
man."

Dr. Blake parked the gunmetal Volvo in
his usual spot. He strode into the hospital and
walked straight into a uniformed cop.
"Sorry, sir." The uniform stepped back
respectfully, and Blake breathed again.
"What's happening?" he asked, looking
nervously over his shoulder.
The cop knew Dr. Blake was the medical
examiner--he had seen him at several
homicides and had no reason not to trust
him. "The chief placed guards on all the
entrances, Dr. Blake," he replied.
"There's a young patient he wants protected."
"A student?" Blake knew the answer before
he even replied.
"That's right, doctor."
"I guess Detective Jordan must be in
charge," Blake said coolly. "We've done a
lot of work together. I hope it's not going to be
another disaster for him."
"We hope not, sir."
"Jordan's not here, is he?" he asked,
perfectly at ease.
"No, sir, he's back at the precinct.
But we're expecting him."
"I wonder, is Miss Malone with him?"
"She flew in from New York, sir, a
couple of hours ago."
He walked as calmly as he could down the
hall, then exited by the fire door and sprinted
back to the parking lot. He sat in the Volvo
thinking about what to do. He knew it was over and he
wondered how long he had before they got on to him.
He didn't care--all he cared about was the bitch
who had ruined him.



Dr. Blake cruised slowly down Charles
Street, keeping an eye out for patrol cars.
He swung right on Pinkney, pulled into a
no-parking zone on the corner of Louisburg
Square, and slapped an "Emergency Doctor"
sign on his dashboard.
From where he was parked, he could see the house.
Only one light was showing, and it came from
Harry's garden-level apartment. If Harry was
on his way to the hospital, she must be in there
alone.
He pulled off his nice tweed jacket and
threw it onto the passenger seat.
Rage welled inside him, as he thought of what
Mary Mallory had done. She had exposed
him, spoiled his master plan, ruined his
meticulous life. His hands were trembling. He
thrust them into his pockets, and his fingers closed
around the knife in its plastic sheath.
He watched the house for a few minutes until
he was sure no cops were lurking in the shadows.
No one came in or out; nobody was
around. He strolled across the street. Light shone
from the big bow window on the left; the curtains were
drawn, and the sound of Sade singing "Cool
Operator" filtered into the night. He smiled
grimly--it was an appropriate choice.
At the top of the shallow front steps, he
rang the bell, glancing uneasily over his
shoulder into the lamp-lit street. Inside, a
dog barked.
"Quiet, Squeeze," Mal said, clutching
his collar. She stared nervously at the door,
wondering who it could be. It rang a second
time. Squeeze was on his hind legs, barking his
head off. "Who is it?" she called out shakily.
"Police, ma'am. Officer Ford. The Prof
called the chief, asked him to put a guard on
you. If you don't mind, Miss Malone, I'd
like to come inside for a few minutes, check the rear
entrance, make sure you're secure."
Mal breathed a sigh of relief. He must be
all right because he had called Harry the Prof.
She shut Squeeze in the bedroom. She could
hear him whining as she hurried back across the hall
and opened the front door.
His foot was inside. He thrust the door
into her chest, pushed her backward, slammed the
door shut. He had her in an armlock, her
back pressed to him, his hand over her mouth. From the
bedroom, the dog barked loudly.
She struggled, and he smiled, enjoying her
helplessness. It was one of the parts he always liked
best.
"You opened your big mouth, Mary Mallory,"
he whispered into her ear. "I warned you what would
happen if you told. Everything was fine. I left
you alone, you left me alone. Now you've gone and
spoiled it all." He was scowling like a
petulant schoolboy whose treat had been taken
away from him. "Don't say I didn't warn
you," he murmured, sliding the knife from his
pocket.
His grip relaxed for a split second, and she
jammed her elbows back as hard as she could. They
sank into something soft, and he gasped for air.
She had got him in the solar plexus, the area
just below his sternum, with a vulnerable network of
nerves. He doubled over in pain, letting go of
her as the air whooshed out of him.
She was screaming, making for the door, and the dog was
barking loudly. He panicked. Someone
was sure to hear, to come running. ...
He threw himself after her in a rugby tackle,
grabbing her by the ankles. She crashed to the
floor, twisting, pulling herself away. He
gripped his fingers into her short crop of hair,
jerked her head back, and thrust his knee into the
base of her spine. "Be quiet," he snarled.
The knife was at her throat, but she was still
screaming. He was sweating with the effort. The others
had not been like this--she was stronger than he had
expected. He ran the knife across the soft
flesh along her collarbone.
Mal felt blood oozing and the cold steel
against her throat. She was catapulted back in
time to that long-ago night, on the deserted road
with the mist wreathing through the leafless trees. The ugly
image of him, half naked after he had violated
her, flashed through her mind. She remembered the
press of cold steel against her flesh then, and his
calmness as he had run the blade across her
throat, testing it. ...
Now she could feel his eyes burning into her,
willing her to see, to look at him, before he
killed her. ... They drew hers like a magnet.
She had to look at him. He stared into her
eyes.
He knew he finally had her. He was in
control again.
"So, Mary Mallory," he said, relaxing and
beginning to enjoy himself. "I see you've learned a
thing or two since we last met." He gave a
sneering little bark of a laugh. "What a pathetic
little nobody you were. The surprise of it was that you
actually thought a man like myself would be interested in
you." He laughed again. "Cheap feminine vanity was
what brought your downfall, not me, Mary
Mallory."
Mal stared into the eyes that had haunted her
dreams for almost two decades. They were drilling
into hers as he told her what a poor imitation
of a woman she had been when he met her, how he
had known she would be easy, how he had despised
her.
Hatred bloomed like a giant flower inside
her. The knife was at her throat, but she was no
longer afraid. She felt immune from his
taunts, immune from his evil.
Closing her eyes, she prayed for strength,
telling herself to remember what this man had done
to her, how he almost ruined her life, the
anguish he had caused her. She thought of
Rachel and of Mary Ann, of Summer Young and
Suzie. And then of her own unknown daughter, who
had so nearly been his next victim. And she
knew somehow she had to kill him.
He was enjoying himself, telling her what he was
going to do to her. He wanted her to hear every detail
of what was about to happen to her, the pain she would
suffer, the hell she was about to enter.
"Remember, I'm a pathologist," he
whispered. "I'm an expert. Except I
usually dissect people after they are dead." He
laughed at his own joke as he told her
graphically exactly which parts of her he was
planning to cut out and what he would do with her.
Mal shut out his obscenities and concentrated
on gathering her strength. Somewhere in the background,
she could hear Squeeze barking and his claws on the
bedroom door, but this was no time to tell herself what
a fool she had been to shut him in. She was
going to die. ... Oh Harry, Harry, she
thought. I want so badly to see you again.
He looked up, frowning. The dog was becoming
a problem. The neighbors would be sure to hear him
and come over to complain or call the police. He
had to get her out of here. He was on his knees,
bending over her. "Get up, bitch," he said,
grasping her arm and pulling at her.
It was her only chance. She twisted round and
stabbed her fingers in his eyes. He cried out in
pain, let go of her. She kicked out at him--he
grabbed her foot, and she fell to the floor. She
screamed, fighting with her elbows, knees, fists.
The rug twisted under his feet, and he came
crashing down next to her. Lashing out with the knife,
he caught her on the cheek, but she didn't even
feel it. She was engulfed by rage.
She was no longer fighting for her life. She was
fighting for his death.
Squeeze made a final leap at the door
handle. He zapped it with his paw the way he did
the snooze button on the alarm clock, and at
last it swung open. He hurled himself down the
hall, fangs bared in a snarl.
Too late, Blake saw him coming.
Squeeze launched himself through the air and sank his
teeth into Blake's shoulder.
Mal scrambled to her feet. Harry had told
her the dog was like Houdini--he could squeeze out of
anywhere, including his bedroom. But she
wasn't finished yet--she was crazy to kill him,
to kill. ... She ran to the kitchen to get a
knife.
The dog sank his teeth into Blake's throat,
and he screamed. His fingers scrabbled on the
carpet, he found the knife. He told himself he
was cleverer than the dog, he was cleverer than all
of them. And he drove the knife into the dog's
chest.
Mal came running from the kitchen with Harry's
butcher's knife. She heard Squeeze whimper
and saw him stagger backward. His legs trembled,
his head drooped, andwitha whimper he sank to the
floor.
"Oh, God," she screamed, horrified.
Tremors ran through the dog's body, rippling his
thick silver coat. Blake was hauling himself to his feet. He was covered in blood, and she
could see where the dog had ripped his neck open.
They stared at each other for what seemed an
endless moment.
Mal stood, the knife lifted, ready
to strike. She could kill him now, while he was
weak. He turned and staggered to the door. His
eyes were full of hatred as they met hers again.
Then he was gone.
The knife dropped to the floor with a clatter.
She put her head in her hands, moaning. She
couldn't do it--she just could not do it. If she
did, then she would be evil like him. She ran to the
door, slammed it, and locked it.
Tears pricked her eyes as she looked at
Squeeze. Blood was seeping into the rug all
around him. Dropping to her knees, she touched his
soft fur. His beautiful pale blue eyes
looked at her. He was panting, in quick short
breaths, his tongue lolling from his mouth.
She ran to the phone, dialed the emergency
police number, and said that Dr. Blake had just
been there. He had tried to kill her but had almost
killed the dog instead. They should tell
Detective Harry Jordan the killer was on
the loose again. And she was going to need a vet right
away.

Dr. Bill Blake knew he did not have much
time if he was to complete what he had to do, but he
had promised his mother, and he always kept his
promises to her.
He got in the Volvo, wrapped the
expensive silk scarf over the wound in his neck,
put on his jacket, and smoothed back his hair.
It was imperative that he look normal and
calm, a regular citizen on his way home.
They had his license number, but it would lead them
to his Cambridge pied-@a-terre, because that was the
only address listed on his records. Still, the
concierge there would be sure to tell them where his home
was, so he had to get there first.
Traffic was minimal, the green lights were with
him, and he did not encounter a single patrol car.
It was as though his mother were helping him, he thought with a
little smile. Blood was seeping through his sweater, and
he pulled the jacket tighter. He tried not
to think about the pain, concentrating on his driving.
It seemed no time before he was turning into his
manicured suburban street. There were no
patrol cars with flashing lights, and he felt
invincible again as he drove into the garage. He was
home. He had beaten them after all.
He locked the garage and let himself into the
house, bolting the door after him. Staggering into the
kitchen, he opened the refrigerator and took out
the vodka, filled a tumbler with it, and took a
long drink. He felt lethargic and weak, and his
hand shook. He had lost a lot of blood. He
was a doctor, he knew what was happening to him,
and he knew he had to hurry. He downed the rest
of the vodka, then he walked, step by slow step,
up the stairs.
At the door to the special room, he sank
to his knees. He was breathing heavily. Blood
flowed freely from the wound in his neck, spattering
the carpet, but he no longer cared. He fumbled in
his shirt for the key and scrabbled at the lock trying
to fit it in. It took all his effort to turn it.
The room was in darkness, except for the dim
greenish glow from the big aquarium along one
wall. He was on his hands and knees now,
crawling painfully toward the shining sea-green
tank. The liquid gurgled gently, soothingly,
and the light in the tank had a strange underwater
radiance.
At last he was there. He rose up on his
knees and lifted his hands in supplication. "I'm
home, Mother," he said. "I've come home, just the
way I promised you."
The woman revolving slowly in the limpid
ocean-green liquid could not answer him because her
mouth was stitched shut. She could not see
him because her eyelids were stitched. She could no
longer suckle him because her nipples had been
cut off. And she had been dead for many years.
Her fleshy body was in as perfect condition as
the day he had embalmed her, and her stitched-up
mouth seemed to smile in a way it never had when
she was alive.
He had always known he would stop her evil
talk, once and for all, one day. It was one of the
reasons he had decided to become a doctor.
Doctors could get away with things other people could not.
They had access to poisons and drugs; they could
decide the cause of death and sign the
certificate with no questions asked. When he learned
about forensic pathology, it was like being handed a
gift. As a pathologist, he knew exactly
what to do with a dead body.
He had killed her on a sunny summer afternoon
by the side of a dreary little lake in Washington
State. She had not been feeling well and he had
told her he would take her for a drive. He had
been feeding her small amounts of arsenic in her
orange juice--not enough to kill her but just enough to make
her complain to the neighbors that she was sick.
They sat on the bank overlooking the lake and
he listened to her bitching about him as usual.
"Heaven knows, you're the doctor," she ranted
on irritably. "And you can't even cure your own
mother. You never were good for much as a boy, and now
you're even worse. You're not even a man."
He hadn't thought twice about it. His glance was
as chilly as his heart as he turned and chopped her
across the neck. Her eyes went big, and she stared
at him, surprised, as she sank
into unconsciousness. He dragged her from the car,
ripped open her dress, and began to punch her, his
head down like a boxer. Punch after solid angry
punch. He sat back to catch his breath, then he
fell on her, biting her, clawing her. And then
he raped her. He thrust into her again and again but
couldn't climax. She was right. He was a
failure.
Crazed with anger and humiliation, he took the
scalpel and slit her wrist. Her bright red
blood spurted out and he felt the excitement
mounting inside him. He grabbed her other wrist and
ran the knife across it, and as she was dying, his own
juices spurted along with her blood.
He was shaking with the thrill of it, the sheer
exhilaration of what had happened. He was
the one in control now. He thanked her every night of
his life, after that, for finally showing him the way.
He wrapped her in the body bag he had
brought with him, zipped it up, and lifted her into the
trunk of her own white Lincoln Continental.
He turned on the radio, humming happily
along with the Brahms violin concerto as he drove
slowly back home.
When he was safely back in the garage and the
door had clicked shut, he opened the trunk,
lifted her out, and carried her into the kitchen. There
was no blood, no mess--everything was in the body
bag. He had his equipment stored in the garage--
the instruments, the embalming fluids, the containers.
He covered the floor with plastic cloths, put
on his rubber gloves, and began.
A couple of days later he informed his mother's
few friends and neighbors that she had suffered a
stroke and died in her sleep. He said it had
always been her wish that she be cremated and that there
would be no service. Those who wished to remember
her could send a donation to the charity of their choice.
A few weeks later he told them he had
been offered a job out of state. He put the
house up for sale and said good-bye. Then he
packed her embalmed body into the trunk, along
with the rest of his baggage, and drove to Chicago.
With the proceeds from the sale of her house, he was
able to buy a nice home in Bloomington
Hills. When he moved in, he gave her her
own room just like before, and built an aquarium for
her so he could see her whenever he needed to.
It gave him great pleasure to watch her
spinning gently in the eddying preserving fluid,
smiling soundlessly at him as he told her about
"his girls."
Later, he moved to San Francisco, then
to L.a. for a while, then on to various other big
cities with colleges where there were plenty of
girls. And finally, he moved to Boston.
He knelt before her, his hands clasped
meekly. The blood was still seeping from the wound in his
neck.
"I've finished now, Mother," he said.
He lay down in front of the aquarium. He
took the blood-stained knife from his pocket, and
wiped it fastidiously. He turned his hands
palm up and stared at them for a long moment. Then
he drew the scalpel cleanly across first one
wrist then the other, the perfect
pathologist to the end. He held up his bloody
hands to show her. "I did it, Mother," he
screamed. "I did it."
His knees crumpled, and he sank to the ground.
He lay on his back, watching his blood and his
life gush away, as he had with others so many times
before. He turned his head slowly, so he could see
her. Hatred bubbled from him like the blood.
"Bitch," he said.

Harry wished he were driving the Jag--the
Ford's sirens were screaming as he cut through the
straggling traffic, shooting the red lights, but it still
wasn't fast enough for him. He was trying to keep
all thoughts of Mal in the back of his brain,
concentrating the force of his energy on Blake.
Mal was okay. He didn't want to let himself
think what he would have done to Blake if he had
killed her, but it would not have been nice.
The Ford's tires screeched as he swung
sharp left into the nice suburban street, the
squad cars following noisily behind. Lights
flashed on in upstairs windows as startled
neighbors leaped from their beds to see what was
happening. But the house of Dr. Bill Blake
was dark and silent.
"This is it, Rossetti." Harry flung
open the car door and reached into his shoulder
holster. The Glock fit his palm like a glove,
smooth and lethal. Keeping to the shadows, he
walked to the house, Rossetti behind him. The
SWAT team spilled from the patrol cars, went
down on one knee, and shouldered their rifles,
aiming at the doors and windows. Lights were set
up and focused on Blake's neat, well-kept
house, and down the street officers were keeping
back the swelling group of neighbors. Clutching
their bathrobes around them, they gawked in
astonishment at the drama taking place on their
quiet, respectable street.
Roadblocks had been flung hastily up
around Boston, and patrol cars were on the
lookout. Harry didn't know if Blake was in
there, but they could take no chances.
He took the microphone and said, "Dr.
Blake, you are surrounded. I'm asking you to open
the front door and come out with your hands over your
head. It's in your own best interests to comply."
The silence from the house was palpable. A plane
droned high overhead, and the stars
glittered in the clear sky.
"Blake, this is your last chance," Harry said
into the mike.
The marksmen shifted their positions, creeping
closer. Some were stationed on the roof of the house
opposite; more had gone over the wall to the back
of the house.
The silence stung his ears. Harry glanced at
Rossetti. He shrugged. "I'll bet a
hundred he's in there."
"Let's go for it," Rossetti said.
Harry gave the signal, and shots rang out,
shattering the upstairs windows. Still nothing
happened. Harry shot the lock off the door, but
it still wouldn't open.
"There's enough goddamned bolts for a fortress,"
Rossetti muttered, struggling.
Keeping close to the house, they ran around the
side. Rossetti smashed a window, then
flattened himself against the wall, listening. The
silence was so total, Harry could hear his own
blood pounding in his ears. He quickly punched out the
rest of the glass, and they were over the sill and
inside.
Searchlights lit the kitchen with a surreal
glow. The refrigerator door was open, and an
almost-empty bottle of vodka stood on the
counter. Even from that distance Harry could see blood
smeared across the white tiles. He looked down,
following the trail through the open doorway, into the
hall. He looked at Rossetti and nodded.
The SWAT team filtered silently after them,
flattening themselves against the wall. Three of them
dropped to their knees, their rifles trained on the
dark area at the top of the stairs.
Harry's mouth was set in a grim line as he
remembered Summer Young's last words. He
thought, sickened, of the way pretty Suzie
Walker had looked when they found her, and of Dr.
Blake carving her up, again, on the autopsy
table, his knife poised over her as he hummed a
happy little tune. He thought about the terrible things
Blake had done to Mal, and that she had never
gotten over them. He wanted to get Blake so
bad he was trembling.
He took the stairs two at a time,
Rossetti after him. At the top, they swung
around, checking. The upper hall was empty, all
the doors were shut, and everything was in darkness.
Rossetti nudged Harry, indicating
with his eyes a faint greenish glow under one door.
Harry heard something. He leaned forward,
listening, to the faint gurgling sound. Like a swimming
pool, he thought, puzzled.
He gave the thumbs up to the hit squad; they
raced up the stairs. He flung open the door,
and he and Rossetti charged in, guns ready.
Harry held out his arm to stop the men. Blake
was lying in a pool of his own blood. His eyes were
open, and it didn't take a genius to know he was
dead.
"What the fuck ..." Rossetti
exclaimed, stunned.
Harry lifted his eyes from the body on the
floor to the mutilated dead woman spinning
slowly, around and around, in the aquarium, and he
knew he was looking at the sickness that had lain in
the soul of William Ethan Blake.
"Christ," Rossetti said, shaken, "it's like
a fuckin' horror movie."
Officers crowded in the doorway, staring stunned
at the grisly scene. "Okay, guys," Harry
said. "Show's over."
He was suddenly drained of all emotion. It was
beyond him how any man could do such a thing, how he
could live with it all these years, the desolation and
evil of it.
"Let the ME in," he ordered as a
doctor shouldered his way past the officers.
"Business as usual," he said grimly
to Rossetti, as the familiar routine began all
over again: the police photographer, the medical
examiner, the guys from the crime lab. It was a
cop's life.
"You'll have to excuse me," he said
to Rossetti, suddenly formal. "I have to go and
see Mal. If he asks, tell the chief
I'm off on personal business." At that moment
he didn't give a damn what the chief thought.
After observing what Blake was capable of, he
needed to see for himself that Mal was okay.
Rossetti thought Harry looked as sickened as
he felt. "Summer Young was right," he called
after him. "He was the biggest bastard of them all.
But she can rest easy now, Prof. And so can
Suzie and the others." He crossed himself as he
said their names, praying that what he had said was
true.



Mal was sitting on the yellow brocade sofa
in Miffy's pretty little drawing room. The
family portraits gazed down at her, and the
black-nosed pugs were pressed against her like a
pair of cushions. Miffy sat anxiously
opposite, wearing a gold satin Chinese robe
with a cloud pattern on it. She was pouring tea.
"Cucumber on the white, smoked salmon on
the brown," Miffy explained, passing her a
plate of neat little finger sandwiches.
Mal took a cucumber and smiled her
thanks. "Are you sure you wouldn't like to lie
down?" Miffy asked worriedly. "After all
you've been through ..." She didn't finish her
sentence because she was afraid to put into words
exactly what Mal had been through. It was too
terrible, too terrifying. Too close for comfort.
"I'm waiting for Harry," Mal explained.
"I have to tell him about the dog."
Miffy understood. "Well, at least we know
they found that terrible man, Blake," she said.
"He can't harm anyone now." Harry had called
and told her that Blake had killed himself.
Mal took a bite of the cucumber sandwich.
It tasted fresh, simple, and delicious. She
took another bite, suddenly ravenous. She
smiled. "I could eat the whole plate."
By the time Harry arrived, she had finished half
the sandwiches. He strode through the door, then
stopped and stared at her. Everything he felt about
her was in his eyes. Concern, fear, relief.
Love.
She was wearing one of his mother's white cotton
nighties with a yellow bathrobe thrown over it.
A gauze pad covered a cut that ran from just below
her left eye to her jawbone.
He went to her and put his hand on her shoulder.
"Are you all right?" he asked quietly.
She looked up at him. His hair was wild,
as though he had run his hands through it a million
times, and she liked what she read in his eyes.
"Now I am," she said.
"It's all over, Mal. He's dead as a
doornail. He killed himself, the same way he
killed all the others. It's the best thing he could
have done."
She sighed. "The bastard," she said softly.
"We know how he got the phone
numbers," he said. "He came to the precinct and
brought a report over. Rossetti said he
left him in the office alone for ten minutes, and
when he came back, he was fiddling with the computer.
He made some excuse about being fascinated by it.
Rossetti thought no more about it."
She nodded. He had been clever--almost clever
enough to get away with it. She hesitated, but she had
to ask. "What about my ... the girl?"
"She's okay. She doesn't know anything,
isn't even aware she was involved." He knew
what she was thinking. "She'll never know about him,
Mal. No one knows."
Mal understood that the girl was no longer her
daughter. She belonged to the family who had taken
her into their lives and their hearts, who had sheltered
her, guided her, loved her. The girl would never
know about her connection with Dr. William
Blake, would never have to carry that horrifying
burden. She was bright, young, and lovely. She was
happy, and that was the way it was going to stay.
"She's free. Finally," she said with a sigh.
Harry took her hand and kissed it. "So are
you," he said, and she smiled at him. "I almost
blew it," he added. "I thought you would be safe
at my place. I didn't know Blake knew
where I lived. I should have realized when I saw the
Volvo--I'd seen it parked in the square."
"Squeeze did his Houdini act--he
squeezed out of your bedroom just in time. Blake
stabbed him. The knife just missed his heart.
He's lost a lot of blood, but they operated,
and he's going to be okay."
Harry sank onto the sofa next to her. He
put his head in his hands. "Jesus," he said,
thinking how nearly he had lost everything that night.
She took his hand, and they looked searchingly at
each other, hardly believing it was finally over.
Miffy thought what a handsome couple they would
make. She surely hoped he wasn't going
to let her slip through his fingers.
"Another sandwich?" she asked, smiling.



It was a couple of weeks later. The light
summer rain fell soft on Harry's face as
he rounded the corner to Ruby's. Squeeze
tugged on the leash, stopping to lap up a puddle
here and there. The vet had shaved his chest
fur, and the scar gleamed a livid red. "Take
your time, old fella," Harry said indulgently.
Squeeze had earned all the time in the world. He
thought they looked like a matched set--his scarred
head and the dog's scarred chest--like a couple of
tough street scrappers. "Ain't nobody
gonna mess with us, old fella," he added,
grinning.
The bell over Ruby's door jangled as he
walked in. Shrugging the rain off his black leather
jacket, he looked around, taking in the scene.
It was much as usual. The windows were steamed,
shutting out the dark wet evening, smoke curled
blue to the nicotine-yellow ceiling, and the smell
of decades of hash browns and fried chicken, of
draft beer, coffee, and cigarettes, lingered in
a comforting haze.
As usual, it was packed. Every table was taken.
He caught Doris's eye over the counter, where
she was busy assembling huge slabs of
chocolate fudge cake and vanilla ice cream
on thick white plates. "Be with ya in a
sec," she mouthed.
She served her customers, then came over,
wiping her hands on her apron. "Yeah?" she
said.
"Yeah what, Doris?" He grinned at her.
"Whaddya want?"
"I want a table, goddammit."
"Don't ya always come at my busiest time,"
she grumbled. "If it weren't that your brave dog
needs a good meal and a rest, I'd tell ya
to wait your turn, detective." She patted
Squeeze's head, and he wagged his tail, gazing
hopefully at her. She sighed, "He sure
knows a soft touch when he sees one. Just like his
master."
"Mal Malone will be joining me"--Harry
checked his watch--"in about fifteen minutes."
"Well, why the hell didn't you say so?"
She scanned her tables, then marched to the corner
booth, raking the customers and the half-empty
cups of coffee with narrowed eyes. "Youse guys
finished?" she demanded, hands on hips. "Can't
ya see there's a line waiting?"
Harry grinned--Ruby's never changed and,
thank God, neither did Doris. She had them out
of there in five minutes. The table was cleared and
wiped with a damp cloth, and red-checkered paper
placemats were laid down. Cutlery and
napkins appeared in a flash, and a water glass
containing a yellow daisy. "It's all I could
find. Think yourself lucky," she muttered,
slamming it on the table.
"Thanks, Doris. You're terrific,"
Harry said.
Squeeze whined, still looking hopefully at
her, and she said, "Thought I'd forgotten you,
huh?" She went behind the counter and returned a
few minutes later with a bowl of steak. "Nothin'
but the best for you, brave boy," she added, watching
him wolf it down. "He's the most famous dog
in Boston," she said proudly to Harry.
"I know." He grinned at her. "And I'm the
most famous cop."
"And big-headed with it," she sniffed. "You
wanna beer? Or did you invest in a bottle of
champagne for Miss Malone?"
"Beer will do just fine," Harry said mildly.
He glanced at the door and remembered the last
time he had waited for Mal, in this same booth,
on a rainy night just like this, not so many weeks
ago. It was miraculous how a guy's life could
change, just like that, from a chance encounter. He ran his
hands through his rumpled hair. Maybe he should have
dressed up for her, put on a proper jacket
and shirt. No tie, though. He drew the line
at that.
The doorbell jangled, and she was standing there,
looking around, eyebrows raised slightly as though
wondering what the hell she was doing there. He
grinned as he loped toward her. Mal never
changed.
"Hi," he said, holding out his hand.
"Hi to you." She shook it.
He looked her up and down. She was wearing a
blue work shirt, jeans, and a black leather
jacket. "Snap," he said, grinning.
"If you can't beat 'em, join 'em, is what
I figured," she said.
Their eyes linked, shutting out the smoky little
caf`e and the other patrons. "You okay?" he
asked. She nodded, sending her blond
chrysanthemum crop bouncing, the raindrops
sparkling like sequins under the lights.
"This way, ma'am." Still holding her hand, he
led her to the corner booth at the back.
"Our table," she said, remembering.
"Doris brought you a flower." He showed her the
yellow daisy, and she smiled.
"Doris is okay."
"Salt of the earth," he agreed.
"I know, you have a soft spot for
waitresses." She remembered Jilly.
"And TV detectives." He watched her as
she slid into the booth with that nice little movement that
brought to mind the way she had looked in that minimal
flutter of a dress she had worn to his mother's
party.
Squeeze emerged from under the table. He sat
on his haunches, gazing devotedly at Mal.
"Hi, Squeeze," she said, taking his paw.
"How's my boy?"
"Love me, love my dog." Harry sighed.
"You wish!" She smiled mockingly at him, and
he sighed again.
"You know something? You don't change,
Malone."
Doris bustled toward them. She wiped her hand
on the front of her apron, then stuck it out.
"Hi, Mal, how're ya doing?" she asked,
beaming. "Is the cheapskate buyin' you champagne
tonight, or just the usual?"
"Just the usual, I guess," Mal said.
"How are you doing, Doris?"
"Can't grumble." Doris straightened her cap
and looked earnestly at her. "I wanna tell
you, you're one brave woman, doin' what you
did. Gettin' out there and sayin' what you said.
It's because of you the Boston Serial Killer got
caught. Us women gotta stick up for each
other, like I said before."
"Thanks, Doris." Mal turned pink at
the praise, and Harry stared at her, astonished that
she still was so shy she blushed. "I just had to do it,"
Mal admitted, and Doris patted her shoulder
approvingly.
"Beers are on me," she called over her
shoulder as she walked away.
They looked at each other across the table. "You
up for Vanessa's party tonight?" he asked.
She nodded. "Of course. I wouldn't miss
it. I'll get to dance with you again."
He grinned and ran his hand through his hair. "A
little hot salsa, huh?"
He wriggled his shoulders, looking sexy, and
she laughed. "I can't wait."
"You seen Squeeze's medal?" Doris
asked, back with the beers, as proud as if he were
her own dog.
"A medal?" Mal looked astonished at
Harry.
"The chief gave him the Dog Medal of
Honor. He didn't really qualify because
he's not technically a police dog, but
everybody figured he'd earned it."
Squeeze slid from under the booth again. He
lifted his paw and gazed adoringly at Doris.
"You gotta teach him a new trick," she
sighed. "This is gettin' kinda monotonous."
She hurried back to her counter. Harry
whispered to Mal, "Wait."
She was back again in a flash with another helping
of steak. Harry heaved an exaggerated sigh, and
Doris said defensively, "So he'll get
fat? So what?"
"He's earned it," Mal agreed. "And besides,
it's more fun than the medal. Thanks, Doris."
"Want me to order for you?" Harry lifted a
questioning dark brow at her.
"Sure, I like a surprise." She folded
her arms, ready for a challenge.
"Two ham steaks, home fries, and all the
trimmings, Doris please." He looked at
Mal, grinning. "Like the lady said, if you can't
beat 'em, join 'em."
Doris went off to place the order, and Mal
took a sip of beer. She gazed at Harry
across the table. His rumpled dark hair was growing in
over the scar, and there was a fuzz of blue-black
stubble across his jaw. He was so close, she could
see the tiny dark flecks in his clear gray
eyes. He was the best thing she'd ever seen in her
life.
"So? Now that it's all over, what happens
to us?" he asked coolly.
She lifted her eyebrows in surprise.
"Is this a new Detective Jordan I'm
hearing?"
"It's just the old one, come to his senses."
She looked hesitant, and he added, "You think
we're going to fight, Mallory, Malone,
ma'am?"
"I'd prefer it if you'd just call me
Mal," she said.
He rolled his eyes, exasperated. "Okay,
Mal. Are we fighting now?"
"You are fighting." She glared at him.
"I thought it was you."
"Well, you would, wouldn't you!"
They stared at each other, then he grinned. "Just
think of the making up."
A smile lurked at the corners of her mouth.
"You were saying? About us?"
He shrugged. "It's tough. What with a cop's
hours and a TV personality's hours. And you being
in New York and me in Boston."
Mal took a deep breath. She knew it was
now or never. "Think maybe they need a weather
girl at WNET Boston?" she asked him with a
smile.
Squeeze sank down, laid his head on her
feet, and heaved a happy dog sigh.
Harry glanced at Mal. Their eyes locked.
"Seems we've both lost our hearts," he
said. And he leaned across the table and kissed her.