figure out what it means?”

“Sometimes. Mostly, I help patients find ways to express themselves—”

His cell phone rang, but he nodded, apparently not interested in a description of my profession. “Anyhow, you’re trained, an expert in human behavior.” He took the call, and I remembered that Stiles had a degree in psychology. Shouldn’t he know what an art therapist did? Why was he playing dumb? On the phone, he gave gruff instructions in words of one syllable, then continued as if there had been no interruption.

“Not only are you trained, but you’re also in a unique position. You live smack in the middle of the area where serial crimes are being committed. Women are being abducted within a five-block radius. Experience and two profilers tell me that the perp most likely lives or works within that radius.” I swallowed. What was he saying? That the person taking the nannies was one of my neighbors?

“What I’m about to say is between you and me, okay?” He leaned closer. I smelled aftershave. “I want to enlist your help. Unofficially, of course. You know the neighborhood, the people, as no outsider can. You’re also a mom, right? Presumably, you know at least some of the victims and potential victims—local babysitters and nannies.”

I closed my eyes. Yes, indeed. I did.

“And you know people who’ve been in contact with those women. We want to find out who has links to the victims. Especially men who’re connected somehow to all of them.”

I blinked, remembering gymnastics. The conversation about coach Gene asking out Tamara and claudia, getting rejected by both. Did he know the other missing women, too? I thought about him while Detective Stiles kept talking. Everyone liked and trusted Gene; kids loved him. No one would suspect a peppy, friendly guy like him. And, working with young children, he had daily contact with lots of nannies.

“Think about it,” Detective Stiles was saying. “As you come up with names, make me a list. Also, I’d like you to study Dr. Gardener’s perp profile. See if you recognize anyone who fits the picture. Anything that rings a bell. Even if nothing does, I’d like you to be on the lookout, keep your eyes and ears open.”

I was confused. I pictured Charlie on his porch, alert, standing guard. Was I supposed to join him? “You want me to spy on my neighbors?”

Half his mouth rose in its lopsided smile. “That’s pretty cold, Ms. Hayes.” The smile disappeared. “But no. It’s nothing that extreme. Just read the profile, look around you, and communicate any relevant thoughts directly to me. What do you say?” His eyes waited, alert and intense.

What did I say? I pictured myself leaping a fence, chasing suspects around the corner like a damn charlie’s Angel. He couldn’t be asking for that. More likely, he wanted me to be his local informer. A snitch. How did I feel about that? Did I want to sleuth around the neighborhood, hunting a dangerous psychopath? I had a child, a home. A bubble to protect. But that was the whole point, wasn’t it? I wanted to protect my home and child and Angela and Bonita and the whole neighborhood. Yes, I’d help. You bet I would.

“Of course, I’ll do whatever I can.”

Stiles gave me a hearty half grin. “Good. Let me get you a copy—” His cell phone rang again and he picked it up. His free hand rubbed his eyes, then brushed through his hair. What had happened? What was wrong? His gaze returned to me and stayed there. What was he looking at so hard? Was there paint on my nose? His eyes were disturbing, intense. Something awful had happened. “Mother of God,” he blinked. “Give me five minutes.”

He stood there, watching me. “Sorry, I have to cut this short.” He stood, reached for his coat.

Again, I saw the finger drop into the Baggie, felt a dizzy spin.

Stiles’s coat was on, the doorknob in his hand. “You all right, Ms. Hayes?”

No. I was cold as ice. “Yes. Fine.”

“We’ll need to go over the profile some other time. To talk, uninterrupted.” Detective Stiles glanced at his watch. “How’s dinner?”

Dinner?

“You know Ristorante La Buca? Near Washington Square? I can have a car pick you up—”

Wait. Detective Stiles was asking me to dinner? “No, that’s okay—thanks.”

He winced. Why was he wincing? “Oh, well. Then, maybe we can meet in the—”

“Oh—I mean, La Buca is close to my house. I can walk.” He brightened and I understood; he’d winced because he’d thought I