"Wrong place wrong time, I get that. And of course, you have every right to defend yourself. You had every right. But if you find yourself in a tight spot, you call me. Not 911. Me. This is my personal number. Put it in your contacts. Put it on fucking speed dial. Do not attempt to confront this man on your own. He is a dangerous psychopath, and he will not hesitate to put you in the ground." He left a pause. "Do you hear me, Mr. Savage?"

"I hear you."

"Good. Stay out of trouble, Marty."

"Yeah, fuck you, Detective."

He hung up and tossed the phone on the sofa.

Lumsden had been the lead detective on Barclay's case. Antagonistic toward Martin after the trial, and tightlipped about everything. Lumsden believed Martin had been too close to the Damiani investigation. That when the police had been stumped, when the detective handling the case had run out of leads, Martin had withheld key information in order to take the Mirror Man down himself.

But he never would have gone to Damiani's Bed-Stuy antique shop if he'd known the man was a serial murderer. He'd gone to discuss one of Damiani's employees, a key suspect in the eleven homicides committed by the Mirror Man. He'd believed Damiani could provide the last piece of the puzzle linking small-time hustler Ray Robinson to the murders and had nearly gotten himself killed for it. For a fucking book.

I was so wrong. Just like I was about Barclay. It was the kids he wanted. The poor fucking kids.

Again, the image from Hansel and Gretel appeared in his mind. The children gorging themselves. The old crone lying in wait, sharp-nailed fingers curled over the white frosting windowpane. He couldn't place the memory and he didn't understand the connection. Was it a book from his childhood? Something he'd seen on television?

Whatever it was would have to wait. Bed was calling. He needed to catch a nap before driving into the city. With a police escort.

He had the distinct feeling the tail was more for Barclay's protection than his own.

The drive into Midtown was unremarkable except for the police car constantly in his rearview mirror. Not that he'd had any urge to smoke a joint with the hangover still lingering, but it would have been nice not to have to worry about the baggie in his glove compartment.

He parked in a lot near the bistro the journalist suggested and took a corner table on the patio in the sun. He chose the seat not because of the unseasonable warmth but because it was in direct view of cameras set up in the windows of the electronics store next door, displaying passersby on multiple monitors.

Barclay was reckless but he wouldn't be stupid enough to strike in broad daylight with a whole city block watching. Especially with the cop twenty feet away.

Leaning against the hood of his cruiser, Officer Tanaka unscrewed the lid off a Thermos. He looked young, couldn't have been out of police school long. His hair was crew cut, polarized sunglasses on a lanyard around his neck.