‘So who’s your victim?’ Langer asked.

‘Guy called Ben Schuler. Ever hear of him?’

Langer shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Well, apparently he and Morey knew each other pretty well.’

Langer’s brows peaked. ‘You found your thread.’

‘The beginnings of one, maybe, but just between Schuler and Gilbert. Rose Kleber’s still the odd man out. We talked to her family yesterday, looking for a connection between her and Morey Gilbert, but there was nothing there. Now Leo’s checking with them to see if she knew Ben Schuler. Maybe we can tie them all together that way.’ He glanced over at Magozzi. The phone was still pressed to his ear, but he was shaking his head and held one thumb down. ‘Or maybe not.’

Magozzi hung up the phone and pulled a rolling chair close to Langer’s desk. He didn’t look nearly as depressed as Gino thought he should. ‘Rose Kleber’s family never heard of Ben Schuler.’

‘Yeah, I got that.’ Gino was an unhappy man.

‘But I’ve been thinking how weird it is, we’ve got a string of killings, and now it turns out the murder Langer and McLaren are working has a string behind it…’

‘Do not go there,’ Gino warned him. ‘We’re busting our balls trying to connect three murders and now you want to bring in another one? Come on, Leo, we looked at it, then we shit-canned that idea the first day. The murders were just too different, and so were the victims.’

‘They were all old, Gino, three of them lived in the same neighborhood if you count Arlen Fischer.’

Langer was regarding Magozzi, chin in his hand. ‘Guns don’t match. Victim profiles don’t match. Yours were Jews, camp survivors; ours was a Lutheran.’

Magozzi grimaced and scratched the back of his neck. ‘Yeah, I know. You look at this thing head-on, you see four old people, all executed within a few days and a few miles of each other; but then you look at the details, and they shoot it all to hell. But it’s still weird. They’re as much alike as they are different.’

Langer frowned at him. ‘No way we could justify running this as a tandem with all the holes.’

‘Yeah, I know that. Let’s just keep the lines of communication open, okay?’

Gino was looking frighteningly shrewd, tapping a plump forefinger against his lips. ‘You know, come to think of it, I could like this a lot. Jack Gilbert, kingpin of a gang of international assassins.’

Langer laughed out loud. ‘Jack Gilbert? You’ve got to be kidding.’

‘Ah, I don’t know. Something’s just not right with that guy. When he heard Ben Schuler was shot, the blood drained out of his face so fast I thought he was going to keel right over.’

‘Well, maybe he knew him.’

‘He said he did, but it was more than that. You should have seen him, Langer. Jack Gilbert was scared to death.’

24

Marty walked into his house and felt like a trespasser. He’d only been gone for two days, but already the kitchen looked strange and unfamiliar, like a place somebody else lived.

You should sell the house, Marty. Get a condo, maybe. Or come to live with Lily and me. We could use the help at the nursery, anyway.

I can’t, Morey. I belong here.

No. You and Hannah belonged here. The two of you. Now you have to find where you belong without her.

It isn’t over.

Of course it’s over. The case is closed. The animal who murdered my daughter is dead. This is as it should be. I thank God for this. I dance around his grave in my heart. And now we can live again.

That had been months and months ago. He’d never seen Morey alive again.

The.357 was still in the hamper, buried beneath the mildewed, shower-drenched clothes he’d thrown in there when Jeff Montgomery had come to tell him Morey was dead.

He went down to the basement and spent thirty minutes cleaning and oiling and checking out the gun before it was fit to carry and shoot. It wasn’t department issue. It didn’t fit in the smaller belt holster he’d worn on his hip for over half of his fifteen years on the force, so he stuffed it in his suit jacket pocket.

He’d never planned on carrying this gun around. He’d bought it for one reason, and one reason only, and holstering the thing after it had served that purpose wasn’t part of the package. Dead men didn’t need holsters.

But he couldn’t tag around after Lily all day with a.357 flopping in a jacket pocket. Not that he really believed he needed the gun, or that she needed his protection. He was half convinced that Jack had already taken a giant leap over that line between sanity and madness, and was seeing imaginary demons everywhere, but it wouldn’t hurt to humor him for a while, until he could figure out what was really going on.

He frowned as he put his cleaning tools and oil back into the kit, trying to figure out the logistics of making a trip to the gun store for a holster without leaving Lily alone, and without frightening her by lending credence to Jack’s paranoia. It seemed an insoluble dilemma, and he decided to deal with it in the morning.

He carried the hamper out to the curb for the garbage-men, ruined clothes and shoes inside, and then went to the big back bedroom to pack. He’d already worn almost everything he’d hastily tossed in a duffel on the morning of his aborted suicide. If he really intended to stay close to Lily for a while, he might as well take the job seriously, and that meant he wouldn’t want to leave her every day to run home for fresh clothes.

The closet smelled like Hannah. It was a light citrusy scent, and yet it nearly knocked him over when he opened the folding doors. He stood there with his big hands hanging helplessly at his sides, massive shoulders hunched forward as if he’d just taken a hard punch to the stomach, staring at whispery silks and soft cottons that moved in the breeze the opening door had created. Sad, empty shells of gentle colors that had once held his wife’s body. The man who had killed her, dead for seven months now, was still killing him. Over and over again.

She was wearing the long white gauzy dress that made it look like she was floating when she walked. He’d seen it in a store window that very day, hanging lifelessly on a mannequin, longing for Hannah’s slender curves to give it form. She was halfway into her old black suit when he carried it into the bedroom, draped over his muscular arms like some gossamer altar cloth. She cried when she put it on, which only made Marty smile. Hannah always cried when she was happy.

They were celebrating life that night. After seven years of trying, Hannah was pregnant.

‘Don’t call it that,’ she told him.

‘Why not?’

‘Because I don’t like the word. It has a hard g. Why would you use such an ugly-sounding word to describe such a wondrous thing? I’m not going to be pregnant, I’ve decided. I’m going to be with child.’

‘Very biblical.’

Her laugh was music in the nearly empty parking ramp. They’d lingered too long at the restaurant after dinner, and now shadows were everywhere. One of them jumped from behind a pillar and grabbed Hannah from behind, laying the evil gleam of a serrated knife against her white throat.

He’d been so smart, that desperate, lanky, wild-eyed kid with the greasy blond hair and the needle-marked arms. He’d taken Hannah first, knowing it would stop Marty cold.

But Marty was a cop. A narcotics detective, for God’s sake. He dealt with people like this every day of his life. He knew what they wanted. He knew how to handle them.

‘Take it easy, son. I’ve got almost fifty bucks in my wallet. It’s not much, but it’s all I’ve got, and it’s all yours. Just let her go.’

‘Money first. Toss it over here.’

‘No problem. I’m going into my inside pocket, okay? See? I’ll go really slow, I’ll throw down the money, then we’ll turn around and just walk away. Is that all right with you?’