crimes. I knew that some thought they were obeying a higher power who ordered them to kill; others believed their murders were altruistic, that they were eliminating “sinners” to cleanse the world. A third group simply got off on power. They got high, often sexually aroused, by having the power of life or death over their victims, terrorizing them, taking their lives.

“So what do you know about this one?”

He winked. Winked. “Read the report.”

I stared at the red orb in my glass. Now it resembled a blood clot.

“Look, for now, let’s just say he wants to be somebody. Someone famous. In the headlines. His ego’s been fed by the news coverage. He’s begun to think he can get away with anything. He’s getting arrogant. Soon, he’ll go too far and give himself away. Question is, how many more women will he kill first?”

It was a somber thought. “And the finger? You said it might not have been left accidentally.”

“Accidentally or deliberately—either way, where it was found still means something. At the very least, it means the guy was in the area. He didn’t just find his victim there; he also left a piece of her there after he killed her. Which indicates he’s got a place there. Locally.”

He paused, letting that thought sink in.

A guy in the area. Who had a place there. Did he know me? Had he chosen to leave the finger at my front curb instead of, say, the one next door? Why? And the other finger—the one found on Washington Square—had he left that deliberately, too? According to Stiles, he might have. But who could it be? Neighborhood faces raced through my mind. Victor, Charlie. The new neighbor, Phillip Woods. There were a lot more I didn’t know by name, people I passed every day. People who came and went at different hours than I did. Night people. And what about Coach Gene? Or the mailman? Or the guys in Jake’s construction crews—hadn’t Angela said one of them had been bothering her?

“Look, can we talk about something else for a while? Behave like normal people?” He half-smiled. “I’ve been living with this case 24/7. I need to take a break. To pretend to be a civilian. How about we enjoy the ambience? Try to have a civilized meal. Is that okay? I think it’ll be good for both of us.”

“Of course. I understand.” But I didn’t, not entirely. Were we supposed to suddenly pretend that we were just two people out to dinner, that local women weren’t being killed? That I might even know the guy killing them? Besides, what were we supposed to talk about? I clutched my drink, eyeing a nearby painting of a gondolier steering his boat along a Venice canal.

“Tell me about yourself. Who is Zoe Hayes?”

I blinked. Zoe Hayes? It was simple dinner conversation, but it seemed that I, not the murderer, was now the person to be profiled. My lips felt thick and boozy, too heavy to form answers, reluctant to give away information. I stalled, sipping my Manhattan, wanting to jump into the gondola and be rowed away.

“Tell me. Where did Zoe grow up? Where did she go to school? Why did she become an art therapist?”

Loosen up, I told myself. Relax. Give the guy a break. “Baltimore, Cornell, because she doesn’t paint well enough to survive as an artist.”

Half his face laughed.

“And you? Who’s Detective Nick Stiles?” Tit for tat. “He’s this.” He shrugged, pointing to himself. “Just what you see.”

“Not fair. I answered you.”

“Okay. Fair enough. Be more specific. What do you want to know?”

I should have thought before I spoke, but I didn’t. I just blurted out a question, without gentleness or tact. “What happened to your face?”

SEVENTEEN

INSTANTLY, I REGRETTED MY QUESTION. “SORRY—IT’SNOT my—”

“Took a bullet,” he said. “No need to apologize. Took a bullet in the jaw, hit a nerve. Actually, before that, I used to be good-looking.” He smiled.

I smiled back. “Is that a fact?”

“No, I guess not.” Again, a shy glance down at his drink. Shyness didn’t suit him; it was like a jacket that was too small. But there he was, wearing a tight, bashful half grin.

“Who shot you?”

“That’s your second question. It’s my turn again—” “No, you asked three at once—”

Our eyes met. His were twinkling. Then not. The twinkle hardened, sharpened to a gleam. “A woman.” I didn’t know what to say.

“It was a domestic thing. Woman found out her husband was leaving her,” he answered. “So she shot a