“Well, we’ll give it a shot.” Dance knew he had more information. Her guess was that he’d spoken without thinking—oh, how interrogators love impulsive subjects—and then realized that the man he’d seen might be a killer, maybe even the one who’d committed those horrible murders at the pier and in the alleyway the previous day. Dance knew that people who are happy to give statements about cheating neighbors and shoplifting teens grow forgetful when the crimes turn capital.

Maybe a tough nut, Dance reflected, but that didn’t bother her. She loved challenges (the exhilaration she often felt when a subject finally confessed was always dulled by the thought that the signature on his statement marked the end of another verbal battle).

She poured milk into her coffee and looked longingly at a piece of apple pie sitting in a display case at the counter. Four hundred and fifty calories. Oh, well. She turned back to Parsons.

He poured some extra sugar into his coffee and stirred it. “You know, maybe if we just talked about it for a bit I could remember something else.”

“That’s a great idea.”

He nodded. “Now, then, let’s have us a good old heart-to-heart.”

And gave her a big smile.

Chapter 26

She was his consolation prize.

She was his present from Gerald Duncan.

She was the killer’s way of saying he was sorry and meaning it, not like Vincent’s mother.

It was also a good way to slow down the police—raping and killing one of their own. Duncan had mentioned the redheaded policewoman working at the site of the second murder and suggested Vincent take her (oh, yes, please . . . red hair, like Sally Anne’s). But, watching the police at Lucy Richter’s apartment in Greenwich Village from the Buick, he and Duncan had realized there was no way to get to the redhead; she was never by herself. Yet the other woman, a plainclothed detective or something, started up the street by herself, looking for witnesses, it seemed.

Duncan and Vincent had gone into a discount store and bought the handcart, a new winter jacket, and fifty dollars’ worth of soap, junk food and soda to fill the cart with. (Somebody wheeling around groceries isn’t suspicious—his friend, always, always thinking.) The plan was for Vincent to start trolling the streets of Greenwich Village until he found the second cop, or she found him, then he’d lead her to an abandoned building a block from Lucy Richter’s place.

Vincent would take her to the basement and he could have her for as long as he wanted, while Duncan would take care of the next victim.

Duncan had then studied Vincent’s face. “Would you have a problem killing her, the policewoman?”

Afraid he’d disappoint his friend, who was doing him such a wonderful favor, Vincent had said, “No.”

But Duncan obviously knew it wasn’t true. “Tell you what—just leave her in the basement. Tie her up. After I’m through in Midtown, I’ll drive down there and take care of her myself.”