The schnauzer got off at four. They continued on to eight. Side by side, they approached 8B.

Though the door was thick, Alex could hear the strains of an aria from Aida coming from the apartment. He’d never cared much for opera, but he’d liked this particular one. He wondered if it would be spoiled for him now. He rang the buzzer.

He had to ring it a second time before Tremayne answered. Alex recognized him. It was almost as though they were old friends now that Alex had pored over the newspaper shots and stories, the videotape. And, of course, he knew his voice. Knew it when it was calm, when it was amused and when it was darkly, sickly, thrilled.

Dressed in a thick velour robe that matched his china-blue eyes, Tremayne stood dripping, rubbing a thick monogrammed towel over his fair hair.

“Wilson J. Tremayne?”

“That’s right.” Tremayne glanced pleasantly from face to face. He didn’t have the street sense to smell cop. “I’m afraid you’ve caught me at a bad time.”

“Yes, sir.” Never taking his eyes off Tremayne’s, Alex took out his badge. “Detectives Stanislaski and Malloy.”

“Detectives?” Tremayne’s voice was bland, only mildly curious, but Alex saw the flicker. “Don’t tell me my secretary forgot to pay my parking tickets again.”

“You’ll have to get dressed, Mr. Tremayne.” Still watching, Alex replaced his shield. “We’d like you to come with us.”

“With you?” Tremayne eased backward a step. Judd noted that his hand eased down toward the doorknob, closed over it. Knuckles whitened. “I’m afraid that would be very inconvenient. I have a dinner engagement.”

“You’ll want to cancel that,” Alex said. “This may take a while.”

“Detective—?”

“Stanislaski.”

“Ah, Stanislaski. Do you know who I am?”

Because it suited him, because he wanted it, Alex let Tremayne see the knowledge. “I know exactly who you are, Jack.” Alex allowed himself one quick flash of pleasure at the fear that leaped into Tremayne’s eyes. “We’re going downtown, Mr. Tremayne. Your presence is requested for questioning on the murders of four women. Mary Rodell.” His voice grew quieter, more dangerous, on each name. “Angie Horowitz, Crystal LaRue and Rosalie Hood. You’re free to call your attorney.”

“This is absurd.”

Alex slapped a hand on the door before Tremayne could slam it shut. “We can take you in as you are—and give your neighbors a thrill. Or you can get dressed.”

Alex saw the quick panic and was braced even as Tremayne turned to run. He knew better—sure he did—but it felt so damn good to body-slam the man up against that silk-papered wall. A small, delicate statue tipped from its niche and bounced on the carpet. When he hauled Tremayne up by the lapels, he saw the gold chain, the dangling heart with a crack running through it that was the twin of the one they had in evidence. And he saw the fresh white bandage that neatly covered the wounds Rosalie had inflicted as she fought for her life.