"I've got another job for you. Can you stick around a few minutes?"

Just the barest inclination of her head passed for a nod.

He turned another page of the dossier. "My God, this is what he pays for rent? His apartment must be a palace. And what's the deal with Riker's first name?"

"He doesn't have one," she said. "I checked his birth certificate. Just the initial P. And it cost you five hundred dollars to have me wait in line for his records. You want to waste more money on that?"

"No, this is fine." There was contempt in everything she said to him, and he loved it.

She stared at the lighted screen of his laptop computer. "So this is your database?" Even that sounded like an insult.

"Yes, that's it," he said. "Couldn't play the game without it. Are you any good with computers?"

Without bothering to answer him, she sat down at his console and tapped the laptop keyboard, creating split screens to view two files at once. He watched all these images quickly flicker and change as she scanned his entire repository of fan sightings and personal information on the twelve jurors, living and dead.

"All the easy ones have been murdered," he said. "Those were the idiots who gave television interviews. So my fans had their names and photographs."

"I'm sure your lawyers had all the background stats on your jury. Addresses, too, right? So why didn't you give the fans – "

"I couldn't." He paused, wondering if he had just admitted to a crime. Legally, he had not been entitled to any of that information. "My lawyers wont let me. It's a technicality." He watched the file change to the related murder of Agent Timothy Kidd. Next, she scrolled the file on a national hunt for a major player. The Chelsea Hotel was the only highlighted address out of hundreds on the screen.

The investigator glanced in his direction. "So your fans located Dr. Apollo, but you never mentioned her on the air."

"She used to be in a witness protection program. The FBI got a gag order from a federal judge. If I just say her name on the air, I'm toast and the station loses its license. So I screen out all the hunchback calls."

"That's why you want her to do an interview? You think Dr. Apollo's going to expose herself on national radio?" Unspoken were the words you fool.

"You underestimate me," he said.

Her mouth dipped on one side to tell him that this was not possible.

"Next job." He handed her a sheaf of papers with the name and last known address of a surviving juror as well as drawings of the man's face. "I bought those sketches from a courtroom artist. I want you to find information on this man, but don't tell anyone the sketches came from me."

"Your attorneys wouldn't like that, would they? Cause and effect that ties back to you."

"Just a minor departure from the game format," he said. "The fans are a bit slow in developing solid leads. I want your report in the form of anonymous e-mail. And for God's sake, don't use a computer from Highland Security." His lawyers would go into cardiac arrest if they knew he was stepping outside the rules and gathering his own data.

She pocketed the papers, never taking her eyes off the screen and the latest sightings for fresh victims. "How stupid are your fans? You think they know what they're doing?"

"Well, it's pretty basic," he said, "tracking down helpless people so they can get their throats slit. But I don't think my fans give it that much thought. They call in a sighting, a juror drops dead. They never connect those two events. It's only a game, right? Now here's where I part company with the Reaper. He hates imbeciles, but not me. Without all these morons, I'd have no show. But the game's getting unwieldy – way too much information on the players. I can't tell good data from bogus."

"You're not really into computers, are you?" Her head turned his way, but the glasses were so dark, he could never be certain that her eyes were on him.

"I can open my e-mail," he said. "What more do I need?"

"More sophisticated software." She closed his laptop. "If I cross-index the fan reports by geography, date and time, I might get a line on the juror. But first I need to install my own programs." And now she was leaving – with his computer under her arm.

"Wait! You can do the installation here."

Her head slowly turned in his direction, dark glasses giving away nothing as she patiently waited for him to realize that they were going to do this her way.

She was barefoot, and her feet were dirty. At first, Riker had mistaken the strange young woman for one of the homeless insane. Her clothes were soiled, her hair was matted, and the odor of unchanged underwear was pungent. Yet she had identified herself as the sound engineer and personal assistant of the hottest radio star in America. As he trailed her through a maze of hallways, she said, "Everyone calls me Crazy Bitch." This nationally known victim of verbal torture and humiliation was the first show-business celebrity he had ever met.

"You're really mad, aren't you? Yeah," she said, "Zack told me you'd be mad."

"Lady, you've got a gift for understatement."

Crazy Bitch suddenly flattened against a wall, giving Riker a clear view of the tall blonde in sunglasses striding down the narrow corridor. He followed the example of his guide and joined up with the wall, for Kathy Mallory was not losing any momentum. This was why civilians always moved aside for her; she assumed they would want to save themselves before she could walk over them or through them. Riker had sometimes taken advantage of that, wading through crowds in her wake. Now she passed him by, never even glancing his way, as if they had never met.

"She's from Highland Security," said Crazy Bitch. "They cater to celebrities." The sound engineer continued down the hall, then stood to one side and gestured toward a doorway. "This is my booth." She nodded toward an adjacent door with a formidable lock. "And that one leads to the studio. Zack's just signing off. He'll buzz you in when the delivery guy leaves."

Riker walked into her own domain, a claustrophobic space of electronics and blinking telephone lights. On the other side of a plate-glass window, Ian Zachary was seated before a desk of dials and levers and one clear space for his catered meal. An apron-clad delivery boy laid out a late supper that no steak-and-potatoes man could identify: slimy round things covered with white sauce and garnished with the leaves of alien vegetables. Bubbling designer water was poured into a wineglass. For that alone, Riker would have disliked the man, but he had larger issues tonight – a message left on his answering machine in Zachary's voice and the words, So what's it like to screw a hunchback?

The radio host flashed a smile at the uninvited guest in the sound-booth window. Riker wondered if this man knew him on sight, or was he simply anticipating a fast reaction to his telephone message? Zachary tapped a button on his console. After the loud buzz, Riker entered the studio and slammed the door behind him. That made the other man jump, perhaps believing that his visitor was homicidally angry. He had no way to know that Riker slammed all the doors in the world all the time. "Pull up a chair, babe. Make yourself at home."

Riker preferred to stand. He hoped his clenched fists would impart a strong desire to break the Englishman in half.

Unfortunately, Zachary was smiling again and taking no offense, "Have I got a deal for you – a fortune in free advertising."

"I don't give a shit about the advertising. Go fuck yourself."

"If that was possible," said Crazy Bitch, "he would've done it already. That's his big dream."

Ian Zachary stared at the woman walking toward him from the far side of the room. "I didn't buzz you in. How did you get past the lock?"