“I want you with me, Alexi. Always. And tonight—I don’t think I’d make it through tonight without you.”

She began to cry then. Alex picked her up and carried her to the couch, where they could lie down and grieve together.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Judd flexed his hand on the steering wheel as he turned on West Seventy-sixth. He wasn’t nervous this time. He was eager. The idea of bringing Wilson J. Tremayne III—a U.S. senator’s grandson—in for questioning in the murders of four women had him chafing at the bit.

They had him, Judd thought. He knew they had the creep. The artist’s sketch, the blood type, the voiceprint. It had been quick work on that, he mused. Flavored with luck. Bess’s tape had been one of those twisted aspects of police work that never failed to fascinate him.

It was Trilwalter who’d identified Tremayne from the sketch. Judd remembered that the boss had taken a long, hard look at the artist’s rendering and then ordered Alex to the newspaper morgue. The desk clerk had picked the reprint of Tremayne’s newspaper picture from a choice of five.

From there, Alex had used a connection at one of the local television stations and had finessed a videotape of Tremayne campaigning for his grandfather. The lab boys had jumped right on it, and had matched the voice to the one on Bess’s tape.

It still made him queasy to think about what had been on that tape, but that was something he didn’t want to show to Alex. Just as he knew better than to let Alex spot his eagerness now.

“So,” he said casually, “you think the Yankees have got a shot this year?”

Alex didn’t even glance over. He could all but taste his partner’s excitement. “When a cop starts licking his lips, he forgets things. Miranda rights, probable cause, makes all kinds of little procedural mistakes that help slime ooze out of courtrooms and back onto the street.”

Judd clenched his jaw. “I’m not licking my lips.”

“Malloy, you’ll be drooling any minute.” Alex looked over at the beautiful old building while Judd hunted up a parking space. The Gothic touches appealed to him, as did the tall, narrow windows and the scattering of terrace gardens. Tremayne lived on the top floor, in a plush two-level condo with a view of the park and a uniformed doorman downstairs.

He came and went as he pleased, wearing his Italian suits and his Swiss watch.

And four women were dead.

“Don’t take it personally,” Alex said when they got out of the car. “Stanislaski’s rule number five.”

But Judd was getting good, very good, at reading his partner. “You want him as bad as I do.”

Alex looked over, his eyes meeting, then locking on Judd’s. There wasn’t eagerness in them or excitement or even satisfaction. They were all cold fury. “So let’s go get the bastard.”

They flashed their badges for the doorman, then rode partway up in the elevator with a plump middle-aged woman and her yipping schnauzer. Alex glanced up and spotted the security camera in the corner. It might come in handy, he thought. The DA would have to subpoena the tapes for the nights of the murders. If they were dated and timed, so much the better. But, if not, they would still show Tremayne going and coming.