When the murders – "

"No, I met him before the first juror died. No one had even heard of the Reaper yet. And Marvin Argus met Timothy after the second murder."

"They didn't work together?"

"No, Timothy worked out of Washington, D.C. Argus is based in Chicago, and he wasn't investigating the Reaper case either. Argus was only responsible for rounding up jurors and witnesses for protective custody. He probably thought Timothy was in town to check up on him. The second juror died in Argus's custody."

"So, Jo, in your professional opinion, which one of these agents was the most paranoid?"

She smiled. "Timothy. No contest. He cultivated paranoia, thought it enhanced his insight. And maybe it did. After two minutes, he could tell you your life story and how it would end. Or that's what he thought. I'll show you how he did it. Now remember, this isn't my style. My trade takes more time."

She nodded toward a lone patron between two vacant stools at the other end of the bar. "He's perfect for one of Timothy's stunts."

The young man's greasy hair was parted down the center and bluntly chopped off below his ears. He was smiling at some lame joke he had told himself, and one pudgy hand tapped out the rhythm of a tune that only he could hear. His polyester shirtsleeves were buttoned down and his collar buttoned up. Riker noted the pocket protector lined with pens and mechanical pencils. Without looking underneath the bar, he knew the pants would be black with shiny knees.

Jo colored in the rest. "I saw him walk in. He's wearing heavy correctional shoes, but there's nothing wrong with his feet. Trust me, I'd know by the walk. He's probably been wearing them since childhood. There's a whiff of smothering mother in that detail. He lives with her – that's why he still wears those shoes. And no barber cuts his hair that way. His mother does it, and she's always picked out his clothes. That's why he never fit in with the other kids at grammar school. All his life, she's destroyed any possibility of a friend his own age coming between them. He wishes he'd killed her while he was still in his formative years – maybe nine or ten. That's when the matricide fantasy started. When he finally gets around to murdering Mommy, you'll find him at the crime scene, probably the kitchen, knife in hand. He'll be very cooperative with the police – and very proud."

Riker was not impressed with what the FBI agent had taught her. It was only a parlor game compared to the real carnage, bloody and insane, that was the daily work of Special Crimes Unit. The profiler tricks had never solved a single case, never replaced solid police work. And, as Jo had pointed out, this was not her style either. He picked his next words carefully. "I have to wonder why you're doing Kidd's old act. Good job, though. I bet you've been practicing since he died."

She met his eyes, then looked down at her drink. "It's only a game."

"Yeah, and that's why your friend never would've made the cut for Special Crimes. I was a better detective."

Jo's head lifted slightly, and he could read her thoughts. Though she would never voice this aloud, she clearly had a higher opinion of the murdered agent's brains and talent.

"I didn't say I was smarter, Jo. But I was better. No tricks, no flimflam. I was the genuine article – a cop. I don't need to look at your hair and your clothes to tell where you've been and where you're going. I only had to read your notes on Agent Kidd and the liquor store."

And now those notes were ashes in his fireplace, along with the paper trail for her wine.

She started to rise. He put one hand on her arm to keep her with him. "You think you were close enough to that poor dead bastard to crawl inside his skin. You collect the Reaper's favorite wine because that's what crazy Timothy Kidd would've done. And that's why you only cleaned homicide crime scenes. It made you feel closer to his job, his life. You're actually hunting the freak who killed him. You're not a woman in hiding. That hotel is a damn goldfish bowl. It must drive the feds crazy trying to protect you, covering foot traffic and all the exits. And now you're really good at ditching those bodyguards whenever you like. You've been practicing that, too. Think you can actually finish Kidd's job for him? Am I close, Jo? I think I am – because you won't even look at me."

And here the conversation ended. Jo was done with him. She slid off the bar stool and moved toward the door, donning her jacket on the fly, long legs carrying her out to the street and away.

His gut was tied in knots. Prior to meeting Jo, he had no idea that it could physically hurt him to lose a woman's company. This was not the way he had wanted the evening to end. If he could have been any crazier about Jo, he would have shot her in the leg to prevent her from leaving him tonight.

And me without my gun.

Once the door had closed on Johanna Apollo, the bar became a desolate place. And then he remembered that she had worn lipstick – perfume, too. That fed him awhile as he followed her away from the bar. And down the deserted street they went, twenty yards between them, heading toward the glowing green balls that lighted the way down to the underground station. During the subway ride, he kept her in sight through the window of a trailing train car. And though he was right behind her as she made her way up the stairs to the Chelsea sidewalk, she had no clue that he was there and watching over her. He stayed with her as far as the hotel, where a nervous FBI agent was pacing before the front door. And then, sadly, Riker turned around and left, for his job was done; he had seen the lady home.

Chapter 10

Ian zachary was thoroughly pleased with the young investigator from Highland Security. The tall blonde was beyond cool – sunglasses at night. Ah, but were those Armani shades a disguise or an affectation? His lawyers had warned him that he trod a fine line between freedom of speech and felony entertainment. The authorities would always be close by, waiting for him to trip over FCC regulations and federal laws.

However, this woman was not from any tribe of bureaucrats and hardly the type for undercover police work. Days ago, her bad attitude had made an excellent first impression. The expression of ennui, her tone of voice and stance, all said to him at their first encounter, You're a cockroach. You know it, and I know it. Now, that had attracted him to her, but it was the fabulous black leather coat that had actually sold him. On this criterion alone, he placed her at the top of her profession. The other investigators, hired and fired in quick succession, had been discount shoppers, every one. He also admired the more mundane aspects of his lovely private cop. From the dangerous bulge in the tailored line of her cashmere blazer, he knew that she carried a very large weapon. And he had sexual fantasies about this woman in handcuffs, but in all the most realistic scenarios, he was the one who wore them.

The investigator entered his studio while he was racking up a pretaped interview for his audience, not trusting his insane engineer to do this right. He leaned into a stationary microphone, saying, "Crazy Bitch, take a break." And now that they were guaranteed some privacy, he turned to the blonde from Highland Security. Wasting no time on civility, she handed him a fat manila envelope that bore the name of Johanna Apollo's employer, an ex-detective from Special Crimes Unit.

Over the past few months, her predecessors had failed to turn up anything in Riker's habits or his history that was even mildly dishonest. As Zachary perused her paperwork, he smiled, liking what he saw, the evidence of a man living beyond his means. And that would explain why NYPD had gotten rid of Detective Sergeant Riker.