"I knew I'd find you here." And this was only half a lie. "I figured you'd stake out Jo's hotel."

Argus smiled, so willing to believe that this visit was on his own account. "So you've given my offer some more thought." He splayed both hands to say he was waiting for the decision. "And?"

Riker had never been susceptible to prompting. He drank his water, dragging out the silence and listening to the fast nervous tap of Argus's shoes under the table. He set the plastic bottle down very slowly. "Did Timothy Kidd ever give you a name for the Reaper? It's not like I think you'll tell me who the guy was. All I wanna know is – did Kidd give you a solid suspect before he died? Did he get that close?"

Argus was startled. His eyes shifted to one side, a hint that he was preparing another fairy tale. In this moment, when Riker was not being watched, he glanced at the door to the Chelsea Hotel. The FBI man held his silence as the counterman appeared with a fake cheeseburger. Riker gave it the sniff test, and it failed. "Try again, pal. This isn't even close."

The man walked away with his rejected offering, and another backroom discussion with the cook ensued, guaranteeing Riker at least fifteen minutes of privacy. He rapped his knuckles on the table to remind the fed that he was waiting for the next lie.

"Timmy had a suspect." Argus pretended interest in the beverage cabinet by the table. "But he named the wrong guy. Poor bastard. He was really past it by then, seeing things that weren't there." The agent turned back to Riker, watching his face in earnest now. "I could give you more details, but first I'd need a little something from you. Just a little – "

"How did you rule out Kidd's prime suspect?"

"The alibi was me and my crew. The next juror died at three in the morning. We were watching Timmy's suspect round the clock, covering all the exits of the apartment building."

"How many men were on that detail?"

"What? Four agents. All day, all night. I'm telling you, the suspect's alibi was solid."

Riker did the math of twelve-hour stints, partners split between two exits and no one to keep each agent company and awake in the graveyard hours. He recalled the drowsiness of that late shift, the first night of a detail when no amount of coffee -

Agent Argus was turning round to look at the hotel as Jo walked out the front door and down the sidewalk, and Riker said, "I know who the Reaper is." The window was forgotten, and he had all of the agent's attention. "I'm betting it's the suspect Kidd gave you. One of your guys screwed up and went to sleep on the job." Riker rose from the table, hoping to convey that he was suddenly fed up with this man's company – and that was true. "You had the bastard's name and address all this time." He laid down the cash to cover his uneaten lunch and walked quickly to the door, never glancing back to catch Argus's reaction.

The slow hydraulic pump above the restaurant door prevented him from slamming it. Standing out on the sidewalk, he watched Jo's gray shawl in the distance. She was so changed in this disguise, he had almost failed to recognize her. But even without eyeglasses, he knew that long-legged walk; he knew it better than any man on the planet; he had spent that much time speculating on the shape of the limbs beneath her jeans. In the short skirt she wore today, her legs more than lived up to the fantasy. There was no need to close the distance as he followed her down Seventh Avenue, then underground and onto a southbound train. He already knew where she was going. According to his source, the woman was good at spotting and dodging her shadowers. This, of course, was Mallory's rationale for sometimes losing Jo's trail. But no one had ever shaken off Riker, not once in all his years on the force.

It was a cold day, yet Victor Patchock was perspiring profusely. He blamed this on the cheap red wig and the press of the surrounding subway passengers. He had no fear of getting caught by the cop in the brown leather jacket. Riker was so intent on following his own prey that he never looked back at his stalker, a smaller man lost among the taller riders.

The train stopped at the Franklin Street station in Tribeca. Victor had lost sight of the detective. With swipes of both hands, he wiped the sweat from his eyes, and the white cane dropped from his slippery fingers. He bent low to retrieve it, and the dark glasses slid down his wet nose and fell to the floor, where they were trampled by departing feet. He snatched up cane and glasses, holding each in a tight fist. And now his vision was blurred not by sweat but tears. He turned his crying face to another passenger, and the man stepped backward slowly in that New York drill of no sudden movements while encountering a lunatic. For the moment, Victor, the faux blind man, had truly lost his sight as he fought his way to the door of the train, colliding with those who were boarding. Tears falling, his mouth wide open in a silent scream, he waved his cane in the air, and the crowd magically backed away as he rushed off the train, stepping onto the platform, which might well have been a dark hole for all he knew. He made his way toward what he hoped was the exit, looked up and saw a bright patch of daylight.

Victor scrambled up the stairs, stumbling on every second step, and out onto the sidewalk, breathing deep and blinking like a mole. He opened one fist to see the twisted frames of his sunglasses, then put them on, lopsided as they were. He fancied himself to be all but invisible now and fearless. And then he spotted Riker – and he was terrified.

Riker walked the streets of Tribeca, craning his neck to look up at the buildings, unabashed at playing the gawking tourist. He loved this town, terrible and wonderful. Each time he turned a corner, he walked into another state of mind. Though he might flirt with Mexico, he could never leave this great, grand, bitch city; it had him by the balls. His immediate surroundings lacked the hustle of the Financial District or any other distinctive marker. Tribeca was a shifty character among New York neighborhoods. There was no quirky definition to the facades; her face gave no clue to her intentions. Between the sprawling yuppie lofts and the hole-in-the-wall bodegas, anything might be going on.

Riker glanced over one shoulder – just checking his back. He was vaguely unsettled by the blurred shape of a dark coat disappearing round a corner, but this was beyond squinting distance for a man who would not wear eyeglasses in public. He caught only the impression of a splash of bright red and a long slice of white on black. Was this another stalker, one of the people who followed him day in and day out?

No. This feeling was only nerves, nothing more; this was his mantra as he headed toward a renovated warehouse, home to a slew of small commercial ventures. The sign in one third-floor window advertised classes in self-defense. If the feds had ever followed Jo this far, that would have been their first guess for her business at this address. After entering the building, he followed Mallory's instructions, emerging from the elevator on the third floor. There was a sign on the fire door at the end of the hall, large block letters that even he could read told him that there was no access from the stairwell side. Clever Jo had picked this location well. No covert surveillance crew would have dared to use the elevator and risk a hallway encounter with her.

According to Mallory, the offices that did not advertise their businesses were rented on time-shares and paid for in cash – always a good sign of criminal activity. Neither the tenants nor a tax-evading landlord would readily share information with local police or government cops. And any verbal inquiries by a tall blonde with memorable green eyes would have gotten back to Jo and put her on guard. Mallory must have been so pissed off. On his way down the hall, he looked in on the karate class of women slamming one another to floor mats. They were playing roles of victims and attackers, and deeply bowing with entirely too much courtesy. He wondered if these students understood that their training would only help them if a real rapist agreed to strike the classroom poses. Then the guy would have to wait for the women to kick him in the right place. And maybe, given a good-natured pervert, time would be allowed for a second shot if they missed the testicles on the first try.