‘Nobody believes witnesses anyway, Mel.’ He eased up to the evidence chart and stopped.

Not spilling a drop.

CHAPTER 46

Amelia Sachs was sitting at a coffee shop in Midtown, one of those traditional delis you see fewer and fewer of, dying off in favor of corporate franchises with faux foreign names. Here, stained menus, Mediterranean staff, unsteady chairs – and the best comfort food for miles around.

Fidgety. She dug a thumbnail into a finger, avoided blood. Bad habits. Unstoppable. Some things Sachs could control. Other things, not.

And stopping Pam’s sojourn with Seth?

Sachs had left two messages for the girl – her limit, she decided – but had called once more and on the third ring Pam had picked up. Sachs had asked how Seth was doing after the attack: ‘The doctors at the hospital said he’s okay. He wasn’t even admitted.’

Apparently he wasn’t as mad as earlier; at least they were talking.

‘And you?’

‘Fine.’

Quiet, once again.

Sachs had taken a figurative breath and asked if they could meet for coffee.

Pam had hesitated but then agreed, adding she had to be at work anyway. Suggesting this deli, which was across the street from the theater.

Sachs now toyed with her phone to keep from digging into flesh.

The Skin Collector …

What could she say to Pam to convince the girl not to quit school and go on the worldwide tour.

Well, wait. You can’t think of her that way. Girl. Of course not. She was nineteen. She’d lived through kidnapping and attempted murder. She’d defied militiamen. She had the right to make decisions and the right to make mistakes.

And, Sachs asked herself, was her decision a mistake at all?

Who was she to say?

Look at her own romantic history. High school for her was, as for everybody, a time of exploration and exhilarating fumbling and false starts. Then she had hit the professional world of fashion. A tall, gorgeous model, Sachs had had to take the repel-all-boarders approach. Which was a shame because some of the men she’d met on photo shoots and at ad agency planning sessions had probably been pretty nice. But they were lost among the vast number of players. Easier to say no to everyone, slip into her garage and tune engines or go to the race track and work on lap times with her Camaro SS.

After joining the NYPD, things hadn’t got much better. Tired of the relentless pressure to go out, the filthy jokes, the juvenile looks and attitudes offered up by fellow cops, she’d continued to be a recluse. Ah, that was the answer, the male officers understood, after she’d rejected their overtures. She was a dyke. Such a pretty one too. Fucking waste.

Then she’d met Nick. The first real love, true love, consuming love, complete love. Whatever tired adjective you wanted.

And, with Nick, it’d turned out to be betrayed love, too.