Young legs, old faces. A high-stepping, prancing parade. Very little auto traffic. No one but working girls willing to brave the cold.

Dirgrove drove past them, unmindful of Jeremy trailing a block back, the Nova’s headlights switched off.

A stupid, dangerous way to drive, a couple of times Jeremy narrowly missed hitting dope-blurred women who stepped off the curb.

His reward: curses, uplifted fingers, but what was his choice? Worst-case scenario, some cop would pull him over for a traffic violation. Not likely. No patrol cars in sight. Too cold for the cops.

That made him realize something: There was no police presence at all on these meanest of streets.

For all Doresh’s talk about working the killings, these were throwaway women, no one cared. Tyrene Mazursky’s name had made the paper, but the following victim, the woman left on the spit, hadn’t even merited that. At this rate, the next one wouldn’t get a line of ink.

Expediency trumps virtue.

Dirgrove kept going, at a moderate speed, past coveys of hookers. Jeremy waited for him to choose his prey, but the Buick never slowed, cut right through Iron Mount, crossed under a land bridge, passed a grid of shuttered commercial buildings, and entered the neighboring district.

Also low-rent; Jeremy wasn’t sure if this area had a name. Not really a neighborhood, just a dark, uninhabited stretch of businesses closed for the night.

Wholesalers and small factories. No streetwalkers, here. No reason for there to be. The nearest bar or strip joint or dope peddler was a good mile away.

Deserted.

Except for the woman who stepped out of the shadows and stood at the curb, in front of a long stretch of chain-link fence. She waited, bobbed up and down on needle heels.

When the anonymous gray-blue Buick came to a halt, she tossed her hair.

43

The prostitute got into Dirgrove’s car, and Jeremy sat watching, a hundred feet up, his lights off. Same for his engine; no exhaust or noise gave him away.

Between him and the Buick were two parked cars. He opened his window, stuck his head out a bit to get a better view. Cold air seared his lungs. He suffered gladly.

His key remained in the ignition. Ready at any moment to follow the Buick. Knowing he had to be there if-when things got ugly.

He’ll have to take her somewhere. Keep his car clean.

He needs space to work. Dissection- some makeshift operatory in the bowels of the slums…

The Buick’s lights went off. White smoke curled from its exhaust pipes, then dissipated. The car just sat there, five minutes, ten, fifteen. At twenty, Jeremy began to panic, wondered if he’d been horribly wrong. What if Dirgrove did use the car- maybe that’s why he drove an old one. No, too careless. You could never get rid of the blood- perhaps he anesthetized them in the car, strangled them- should he chance a closer look?

The clap of a car door closing broke into his thoughts.

The prostitute had gotten out, was tugging at her clothing. She waved at the Buick, and Dirgrove drove away.

Decision time: follow the car, or talk to the woman? Warn her. Yes, he’s a charming guy, this time you got off easily-

The prostitute walked up the block, heels clacking, butt swaying, long legs stiltlike.

She got into one of the parked cars.

A streetwalker with her own wheels. That was a switch.

Nice wheels, a Lexus, one of the smaller models, a light color, shiny hubcaps.

Maybe this one had no pimp, kept all her earnings.

But working out here, away from the motorcade of potential customers that cruised Iron Mount, how lucrative could it be? And why work a freezing street if you could afford a car like that?

Unless this one went for quality, not quantity. Men like Dirgrove paying a premium for whatever it was she offered.

The Lexus pulled away from the curb. Jeremy waited until she’d made a right at the next corner before turning the ignition key.

She drove toward downtown. Checking her image in the rearview mirror, talking on a cell phone once, but otherwise driving carefully, conventionally, with no eye toward snagging any more business.

One good customer a night? What did she do for him?

The Lexus held its course, neared the hospital district. Neared City Central.

The prostitute drove to a quiet street around the corner from City Central. Just yards from the nurses’ lot, where Jocelyn had been taken. Parking, she switched off her headlights.

She stayed there for four minutes, during which time Jeremy saw her arms rise and a garment slip over her head. Then another piece of clothing- something with long sleeves- was rolled down in its place.

Changing outfits.

When she was through, she consulted the rearview again, switched on a reading light. Not long enough for Jeremy to get a good look at her, but he could tell what she was doing. Touching up her lipstick. Then, she was cruising again.

One block. To the doctors’ lot. Into the lot.

Jeremy followed, okay now out in the open, because this was a place he belonged.

So did she. She slid a card into the slot and the gate opened.

They both parked. The Lexus was pale blue. When she got out of the car he recognized her as a physician he’d seen around but had never met. An internist he was pretty sure had come on staff fairly recently.

Midforties, good figure, pleasant but unremarkable face, blond hair textured in an efficient bob. She wore a knee-length charcoal wool skirt in place of the mini she’d sported during her tryst with Dirgrove. The garment she’d slipped over her head was a pink cashmere cowl neck sweater that she quickly concealed with a long, gray herringbone coat with a black velvet collar. Spike heels had been replaced by sensible loafers. She wore glasses.

When Jeremy passed her on the way to the covered walkway, she smiled at him, and said, “Brrr, it’s chilly.”

Jeremy smiled back.

Diamond wedding ring on her finger. What was her name? Gwen something…

Should he warn her?

Or did other women need to be warned about her?

Every two years, a face book was issued to the medical staff. Jeremy had never found it necessary to consult his, wasn’t even sure he’d kept it. But he found it in a bottom drawer of his desk. Hundreds of faces, but only 20 percent were women, so the tale was told soon enough.

Gwynn Alice Hauser, M.D. Internal medicine. An assistant professor.

Dr. Hauser had a secret life.

How far did it go?

Over the next four days, Jeremy observed Gwynn Hauser on the wards and in the doctors’ dining room. She made no contact at all with Dirgrove, generally took her meals alone or in the company of other women. A cheerful sort, prone to laughter and flamboyant gestures. When she really got into a conversation, she removed her eyeglasses and leaned forward. Listened actively, as if what the person before her was saying was profound beyond belief.

One time, she lunched with a tall, dark, handsome man in a blue, double-breasted suit and the square, impassive face of a CEO. Wedding band on his hand, too, and he was openly affectionate with her.

The husband she’s cheating on.

Not a doctor, some sort of financial type, Jeremy was willing to bet. Taking the time out to share a meal with his busy wife. If he only knew how busy she was.

He encountered an internist he’d worked with, a man named Jerry Sallie, and asked him if he knew Gwynn Hauser.

“Gwynn? Sure. She make a move on you?”

“She’s like that?”

“Big tease, I’m not sure she’d come through,” said Sallie. “At least not that I’ve heard. She’s married to a bank president, has a sweet deal- he lets her do what she wants. She’s a pretty good doc. World’s biggest tease, though. Nice legs, huh?”