She gave a cryptic laugh. “And what’d the lawyer say?”

“Basically the same thing Kessler and the wife said. He buys out Creeley’s share at fair market value. It’s all legit. Kessler said his partner had been drinking more and had taken up gambling. His wife told me she was surprised he did that. Never was an Atlantic City kind of guy.”

Sachs nodded. “Gambling—maybe some mob connections there. Dealing to them, or just taking along recreational drugs. Money laundering maybe. He win or lose, you know?”

“Dropped some big money, seems like. I was wondering if he hit a loan shark to cover the loss. But his wife said the losses were no big deal, what with his income and everything. A couple hundred thousand didn’t hurt much. She wasn’t real happy about it, you can imagine. . . . Kessler said he had a good relationship with all his clients. But I asked for a list. I think we ought to talk to them ourselves.”

“Good,” Sachs told him. Then she added, “Things’re getting gluier. There was another death. Murder/robbery, maybe.” She explained about her meeting with Gerte and told him about Frank Sarkowski. “I need you to track down the file.”

“You bet.”

“I—”

She stopped speaking. She’d glanced into the rearview mirror and felt a tug in her gut. “Hm.”

“What?” Pulaski asked.

She didn’t answer but made a leisurely turn to the right, went several blocks more and then made a sharp left. “Okay, we may have a tail. Saw it a few minutes ago. Merc made those turns with us just now. No, don’t look.”

It was a black Mercedes with darkened windows.

She turned again, abruptly, and braked to a stop. The rookie grunted at the tug from the belt. The Merc kept going. Sachs glanced back, missed the tag but saw that the car was an AMG, the expensive, souped-up version of the German car.

She spun the Camaro in a U-turn but just then a delivery truck double-parked in front of her. By the time she got around it the Merc was gone.

“Who do you think it was?”

Sachs shifted hard. “Probably a coincidence. Real rare to get tailed. And, believe me, it never happens by some dude in a hundred-and-forty-thousand-dollar car.”

Touching the cold body, the florist lying on the concrete, her face as pale as white roses scattered on the floor.

The cold body, cold as the Cold Moon, but still soft; the hardness of death had not yet set in.

Cutting the cloth off, the blouse, the bra . . .

Touching . . .

Tasting . . .

These were the images cascading through Vincent Reynolds’s thoughts as he sat in the driver’s seat of the Band-Aid-mobile, staring into the dark workshop across the street, breathing fast, anticipating what he was about to do to Joanne. Consumed with hunger.

Noise intruded. “Traffic Forty-two, can you . . . they want to add some barriers at Nassau and Pine. By the reviewing stand.”