There was, in a way, a sense of romance in the air. Swann looked at the woman sitting nearby. Her hair was down, she wore one of his T-shirts, black, and plaid boxers, also his. He believed he could smell a floral scent, laced with spice. Smell and flavor are inextricably linked. Swann never cooked anything of importance when he had a cold or a sinus infection. Why waste the effort? Eating at a time like that meant the food was simply fuel.

A sin.

The woman, whose name was Carol Fiori—odd moniker for a Brit—looked back. She was crying softly.

Occasionally she’d make the uhn uhn uhn sound, like earlier. Carol was the jogger who had approached him in the alleyway earlier and ruined his chance to disable Amelia Sachs. A throat-punch and into the trunk she’d gone. He’d driven off quickly, returning home. He’d get the detective later.

Once back in Brooklyn, he’d dragged Carol into the house. While she initially said she was traveling with “friends,” she was actually single and touring the United States on her own for a month, thinking of writing an article about her adventures.

Alone…

He’d been debating what to do with his trophy.

Now he knew.

Yes, no?

Yes.

She’d given up staring at him pleadingly and whispering pleadingly and now turned her damp eyes to the Deba as he sharpened susss, susss. She shook her head occasionally. Swann had bound her wrists and legs to a very nice and comfortable Mission-style chair, à la Lydia Foster.

“Please,” she mouthed, her eyes on the blade. So the pleading wasn’t quite abandoned.

He examined the knife himself, tested the edge carefully with his thumb. It gave just the right resistance; perfect sharpness. He sipped more wine and then began to remove ingredients from the refrigerator.

When Jacob Swann was a boy, long before college, long before the military, long before his career after the military, he came to appreciate the value of meals. The only moments when he could count on spending time with his mother and father involved preparing and eating supper.

Bulky Andrew Swann was not stern or abusive, simply distant and forever lost in his schemes, obligations and distractions, which derived mostly from his job in the gambling world of Atlantic City. Young Jacob never knew exactly what his father did—given his own present career, Andrew might have been on the enforcement side of things. That genetic stuff. But the one thing that Jacob and his mother knew about the man was that he liked to eat and that you could get his attention and hold it through food.

Marianne was not a natural cook, probably had hated it. She’d begun to work on her skills only after she and Andrew started dating. Jacob had overheard her tell a woman friend about one of the first meals she’d served.

“Whatsis?” Andrew had demanded.