“Thank you so much,” the woman said as she slid into the rear of his taxi. She seemed so proper and respectable. He checked her furtively in the mirror. She didn’t have much to offer up top. Pretty enough face, though. Long brown legs encased in sheer stockings. He tried to imagine what Shafer might do now, but he couldn’t.

Shafer had boasted that he was killing people in the poorer sections of Washington, since nobody cared about them anyway. Bayer suspected he was telling the truth. He knew things about Shafer from when they were in Thailand and the Philippines. He knew Shafer’s deepest, darkest secrets.

Bayer drove the attractive and well-spoken black woman to her apartment and was amused when she gave him a sixty-cent tip for the four-dollar ride. Fifteen percent to the penny. He took the money and thanked her graciously.

“An English cabdriver,” she said. “That’s unusual. Have a nice evening.”

He continued to drive until past two in the morning. He drank in the sights, played the dizzying game. And then he had to stop again. Two young girls were hailing for a taxi on the corner. The area was called Shaw, and Howard University was very close according to several signs.

The girls were slender, delectable in stacked heels and shiny clothes that glowed in the dark. One of them wore a microskirt, and he could see the tops of black or navy thigh-highs as he stopped to pick them up. They must be hookers — Shafer’s favorite prey, Bayer thought to himself.

The second prostitute was even prettier and sexier than the first. She wore white stacked bath sandals, side-striped white athletic pants, a teeny tank top in blue camouflage.

“Where are we going?” Bayer asked as they scampered over to the taxi.

The girl in the microskirt did the talking. “We’re going to Princeton Place. That’s Petworth, darlin’. Then you’re going away,” she said. She tossed her head back and issued a taunting laugh. Bayer snickered to himself. He was beginning to get into this now.

The girls climbed in, and Bayer couldn’t resist checking them out in the mirror. The foxy one in the microskirt caught him looking. He felt like a schoolboy, found it intoxicating, didn’t avert his eyes from hers.

She casually flipped him the finger. He didn’t stop looking. Couldn’t. So this was how it felt to Shafer. This was the game of games.

He couldn’t take his eyes off the girls. His heart was pounding. Microskirt wore a tightly fitted ribbed tank top. Her long fingernails were airbrushed in kiwi and mango colors. She had a pager on her belt. Probably a gun in her handbag.

The other girl smiled shyly in his direction. She seemed more innocent. Was she? A necklace that read BABY GIRL dangled between her young breasts.