it was silly, but still…She glanced toward the stairs. A five-floor climb. It wasn’t like she didn’t need the exercise.

As she rounded the second flight of stairs, she caught sight of something on the step. Folded green paper. She paused, leaned over. Twenty dollars. She laughed, the sound echoing through the empty stairwell. Twenty dollars toward a new dress. How perfect was that?

As her fingers brushed the bill, a current of air swished behind her. She looked up to see a blur flying toward her head. Over her head. The world went white. She opened her mouth, but something jammed against it. She bit down, tasted plastic. A plastic bag over her head. A hand or arm pressing it into her mouth, cutting off her screams.

Her hands flew up. Too late she felt the keys slide from her fist, heard them tinkle against the concrete. She panicked, clawing, kicking, but hitting only air. She tumbled forward. Felt a hand between her shoulder blades. A shove. Her head struck the sharp edge of the step. Light and pain flashed. Her daughter’s face. Go for his eyes, Mom. Darkness.

The man looked down at her body, sprawled awkwardly over the steps, skirt shoved up to reveal one cellulite-pitted thigh above her knee-highs, her arm stretched over her head, fingers grazing the twenty as if, in death, still reaching for it. He almost laughed.

A twenty placed at eye level. A human trap, guaranteed to catch the first person who climbed these stairs. There was an element of risk here, something he’d never allowed himself before. If she hadn’t been alone, he’d have had to scrap the whole plan. But the thrill of it, the purest surge of power, came from knowing that if this attempt failed, it made no difference in the overall plan. Kill this person, kill another. Kill here, kill there. Kill now, kill then. For once, it didn’t matter. There was no contract, no obligation. He could take risks, enjoy them even, and, to his surprise, he found that he did.

He looked down at the woman. His penultimate strike, perhaps even his last. That was the plan anyway. He’d make this last hit and then, if all went well and the police stayed stumped, he’d stop here. If it didn’t go smoothly—and one always had to plan for contingencies—he had one more victim in mind, someone who could take the blame.

But now he wasn’t so sure he should stop. He told himself it wasn’t the unexpected thrill of this newfound power—that would be unprofessional. Instead, he wondered whether he hadn’t been shortsighted. Perhaps five wasn’t enough. He’d gotten this far and the Feds were still chasing their tails. Why not add another couple of bodies? He always had the backup hit—his scapegoat—if things went bad. And, more likely, another body or two would only add to the confusion. Then he could stop, free and safe.

He smiled and walked away, leaving her lying there, the bag still over her head. As he passed, he glanced down at the twenty lying by her outstretched hand. Let them tie up their labs pulling scores of fingerprints from it, running them through the database. They wouldn’t find his…on the bill or in the database. He took the folded book page from his pocket, unwrapped it and tucked it under her hand, beside the twenty.

One last visual sweep. All clear. He adjusted his driving gloves, picked up his briefcase, then walked down to the main floor door, cracked it open and peered through. Closed doors, darkened windows, an office building still slumbering. He straightened his tie and walked out.

* * *

SIX

I ran into the convenience store and bought Time, Newsweek and Cosmopolitan. No, Cosmo wasn’t running an in-depth analysis of the Helter Skelter killings. I’m sure they would have, but, apparently, the breaking news of “10 Ways to Drive Your Man Wild in Bed” took precedence.

As I climbed into the car, Jack plucked the magazines from under my arm. “Time. Newsweek. And…?”

He looked at the half-naked supermodel on the cover of Cosmopolitan. Most guys would have looked closer. Or at least looked interested. Jack frowned.

“Chock-full of articles on catching a man,” I said. “I thought it might help us.”

Jack shook his head.

“Hey, in this outfit, do I strike you as a Time and Newsweek kinda girl? But if you see anything in there that interests you, it’s all yours.”

Another head shake. He turned the key in the ignition and the subcompact’s engine puttered to life. “I’ll