“By that time he probably knew the husbands wouldn’t bite, and taunting their wives was a subtle form of aggression. Or he just felt like being extra-naughty. What makes him a tough quarry is it’s hard to say what he wants. I’m not sure he always knows.”

“What do you mean?”

“I see his brain as a battlefield, with logic and compulsion constantly skirmishing. His lifestyle — his ability to adapt, to live simply when he needs to — says logic dominates. Then there are the times he needs to work off a little energy and people die.”

“That lifestyle of his was grubstaked by slashing his way to a million-plus inheritance.”

“Most psychopaths would’ve burned through the money quickly. He managed to parlay it into affluence. I wouldn’t be surprised if he really does trade commodities. It’s a loner job with high thrill capacity.”

He rubbed his face. “Eight years between the Safrans and Kat is way too occasional.”

“I agree. There’re bound to be more bodies.”

“No other black-car murders so far, but that means diddly,” he said. “Lots of stuff never hits the news.”

“The cars are props,” I said, “not his signature. He uses them in locales where everyone drives. He’s adaptable. Never registered a vehicle in New York.”

“Walking the Safrans somewhere and doing them… then what, off to Europe? Something he actually told the truth about?”

“Good liars mix it up. He used his own name in New York but adopted a new identity when he returned to California. That could be covering his tracks for the bad deeds he pulled off during the interim.”

“Nicko St. Heubel, continental naughty boy… wonder where he came up with the name.”

“Could be the old-fashioned way.”

He plugged Heubel into criminal databases, came up negative. A Web search proved no more fruitful.

“Okay,” he said, “the antiquated way.”

The chief’s secretary said the boss was in Sacramento, smoking cigars with the governor, she’d pass on the message.

I called Sal Polito and he greased access to his brother-in-law the Manhattan deputy chief. The D.C.’s secretary took down the information and ten minutes later a clerk in Albany phoned.

Nicholas Heubel, born in Yonkers the same year as Ansell “Dale” Bright, had died of meningitis at the tender age of five. No Social Security number issued until twenty-five months ago.

Milo wrestled with the IRS for half an hour in order to learn that Heubel had filed tax returns for the last two years.

I said, “Six years he’s out of the country. He comes back, goes the legal route.”

“I’ll get an Interpol thing going, but with the focus on terrorism, it’s gonna take time. Meanwhile, Tricky Nicky’s having leisurely breakfasts at the Brentwood Country Mart.”

He stood, grabbed his jacket, checked the magazine of his gun, and holstered up.