Phil scowled. She was winning; she could feel it.

“And Dr. Adeline Glen?” Phil prompted. “The Rose Killer has been stalking her, too. We assumed as a fan, but under your theory . . . ?”

D.D. considered it. “The crescendo,” she murmured. “Because this game can’t go on forever, and the Rose Killer must end on a high note. By killing the daughter of his idol. The bloody finale.”

“Then what? The Rose Killer simply disappears? Never to kill again?” Phil wrinkled his nose. “Pretty disappointing, if you ask me. In real life, and in a book.”

“You’re right: The case demands resolution. Otherwise, Charlie won’t be able to get quotes from the detectives involved, let alone clearance for publication. For Charlie’s plan to work, the Rose Killer must end up caught. But how . . .” D.D. rubbed her temple, starting to feel the beginning of a headache.

“Charlie plans on surrendering?” Phil asked. “Wait, that won’t work, either. Killers can’t profit from their crimes. We nail Charlie as the Rose Killer, Charlie’s publishing career is over.”

“Sacrificial lamb,” D.D. deduced. “Only way it could work. Charlie frames someone else for the murder. Hell, maybe that was why he brought in Samuel Hayes. Charlie would kill Dr. Glen, then return to Hayes’s apartment and ambush him with chloroform. Once Hayes was unconscious, Charlie could hide the murder kit in the apartment, maybe even forge a suicide note, then load Hayes into the tub.”

“The tub? Why the tub?”

They were almost at Charlie’s apartment now. D.D. talked faster.

“Because that’s how Harry Day died, remember? Slit wrists in a bathtub. A fitting end to a fitting criminal career. Wraps up the case, launches Charlie’s publishing empire. Five, six months from now, Charlie’s signed a major publishing deal while making the talk-show-circuit rounds. Maybe he even goes on to score his own show, à la Nancy Grace or John Walsh. Fortune and fame. What more could a Great Pretender ask for?”

“Samuel Hayes to have not fallen off a ladder.”

“Details, details.”

Phil pulled up just down from Sgarzi’s apartment building. D.D. immediately popped open her door. She wasn’t feeling her shoulder or Melvin or her headache anymore. She was feeling anticipation and excitement and adrenaline. She was feeling everything she loved best about this job.

“Wait.”

Phil’s firm tone brought her up short. “Stay,” he ordered. “No way you’re going to confront a possible triple murderer, D.D. You’re not even on the job. Let alone, if anything happened . . . Alex will kill me.”

“Alex won’t kill you,” she argued reasonably. “He’ll just process the scene of your death very sloppily.”

“D.D.”

“Phil.”

“D.D.”