“My middle name is James. Did you know that when you named our son?”

“Yes! Yes! I named him after you!”

“I was lying. I don’t have a middle name.” He added, “But I researched David. His middle name was James.”

For once she had no response.

“Goodbye, Amy,” he said.

He walked back to the car.

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FOUR

A night of deception. A monster one foot away. A gun to her head. On her knees before the Acid Man, Kelly sucked in a breath and stared him in the eye.

“May I sit on the couch?” she asked.

He withdrew the gun. “No tricks.”

“No tricks.” She eased back slowly. The cushions felt like quicksand. She had to cough to speak. “So you have the use of your arms.”

He kept the gun pointed at her heart. “Yes. You shot me in the seventh cervical vertebrae. That’s the cutoff point between having the use of the arms and being totally paralyzed. For two months after my surgery, I was a complete quadriplegic. But as the swelling in the spinal cord decreased, I began to regain the use of my arms.”

“A fact you kept carefully hidden.”

He nodded. “A case could be made for a complete crippie—even a serial killer like myself—being spared a trial. Being put under house arrest rather than thrown in jail. The extreme nature of my handicap helped grease the wheels of my comfort, so to speak.”

He chose his words carefully. Grease was slang for bribe in certain quarters.

“I always wondered why you didn’t have a trial,” she said. “Slate gave me the reasons. You were no danger to anyone. The cost of keeping you locked in a federal prison would be prohibitive. You had humiliated and murdered the wives of prominent men who wanted the case to go away. All these reasons were logical. I suppose most people fell for them. But I never did. Your father was a rich man. Obviously he shared that wealth with you. Tell me, Professor Banks, how many people did you have to bribe to avoid the death penalty and life in prison?”

He was pleased at her insight. “Two major players in the FBI. Three judges on the federal level. A handful of cops on the local level.”

“How much did all this cost?”

“They knew what I was worth. They bled me dry. Ten million.”

“Did Slate take any money?” she asked.

“No. He is a man of principle. He wouldn’t take a cent.”

“But he knew about it?”

“Sure. But the reasons he gave you were still logical. No one wanted to see me brought to trial. The publicity would be too messy for all concerned.”

“Not for me.”

“Still wanting to be acknowledged as a hero?”

“Perhaps. Did you pay Charlie any money?”

“Your partner? Don’t be silly.” He chuckled. “I had you suspecting everyone.”