For real. I met him.” “Did he know who you were?”

“He said sort of cryptically that he’d heard of me, so I guess he made the connection.” “And?”

“And he’s very . . . intriguing. Too bad about that scar. Imagine what he looked like before he got shot.”

I couldn’t. Didn’t want to. “So what happened? Please tell me you didn’t—”

“Don’t worry, I didn’t say anything that would embarrass you.” “You swear?”

“Nothing. I didn’t even directly mention you, except—” “Except?”

“Except I asked if there was any news about your finger—” “Oh, great. Now he’ll think—”

“Wait a second—hear me out. Stiles looks me over like I’m nuts and says, ‘You must mean the finger found in Washington Square.’ I said no, I meant the first finger. The one Zoe Hayes found. And he said he knew nothing about anyone finding another finger.”

“Wait—he said what?”

She repeated herself, doing a not bad impression of Nick. “Believe me, I was tempted to show him another finger—”

“But why would he say that? He knows you know about it.”

“Dunno. Maybe he didn’t want to discuss it. He doesn’t really know me, after all.”

“But he knows who you are—he sat in front of your house last night. And what about Ed and Pete—they know you—”

Molly whispered, “Get off the phone, Mommy. Please? I’m bored.” She played with her loose tooth.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought, too. I’m one of the guys down there. Cops don’t like my clients, but they like me. And they need me. I’m part of the network—it’s give and take in that asylum. But the message Stiles gave me is that your finger is not public knowledge, not to be discussed with ‘civilians,’ even me. It’s a full-blown, official nonevent.”

“Come on, Mommy,” Molly whined. “You’ve been in bed all day.”

I squeezed her and whispered, “In a minute.”

“So I backed off. Not five minutes later, guess what? I overheard Stiles and a couple of the guys talking, so I pretended to be on the phone, but really it was a busy signal—”

Molly sat up and pouted.

“And,” Susan’s voice descended an octave, almost to a whisper, “I heard him talking about trying to contain the press, not to release everything.”

“Why would they do that?”

“The cops? Mostly to sort out false confessions—” “You mean someone’s confessed?”

“Not just someone. Probably a busload of people have confessed already. Crimes like this generally bring out wackos who want to be in the spotlight. So the cops usually hold back some of the evidence, to see who knows about it. That’s standard procedure. But listen to what they’re holding back. A body. An actual body.”

“What? They found someone?”

“I heard Stiles say they think they’ve found one. Right near you, on Lombard.”

I sat up. “Wait. ‘Think’ they’ve found? What does that mean? That she’s dead but not identified?”

“Who’s dead, Mommy?”

“Shh, Molly. I’m on the phone.”

“Who’s dead?” she repeated. “Is it Tamara?”

“Don’t worry—I don’t know who it is,” I whispered. Molly sighed.

Susan was still talking. “. . . means that the police weren’t sure yet exactly what they’d found. The press hasn’t even been told yet—it’s hush-hush. But they can’t keep it quiet for long. It’s bound to hit the news any minute—”

“Wait, what?” I wasn’t following, must have missed part of what she’d said.

Molly tugged at the comforter. “What are we going to do today, Mommy? Can we go somewhere fun?”

Again, her voice drowned out the beginning of Susan’s, but I heard, “. . . by a garbage man on Lombard Street. The bag stank. It was full of body parts. Small pieces. They have to assemble them.”

“Get off, Mommy. Puh-leeeeze.”

I heard the thud of flesh landing in a plastic bag. Susan was still talking, her words blending into a buzz as I envisioned Tamara, her bloodless face and matted hair, her eyes disappointed in death. I closed my eyes. It made no sense. A finger in the park. Body parts in a trash bag. Why? And why nannies? Why babysitters?

Chilled, I glanced out the bedroom window. Charlie was nowhere in sight. But he’d been right. Evil was prowling the city, wearing a disguise. Mailman, fireman, taxi driver, cop. The killer could be anyone, anywhere. He had been here, leaving a memento on our walk.

“Ow, Mommy—let go!” Molly squirmed, detaching my hand from her arm. Until then, I hadn’t realized that I’d been squeezing it. The phone call left me jangled. I didn’t want to be jangled. Didn’t want to think about dismembered bodies or secret fingers or missing nannies or men who