"Yeah," said Riker. "It's her job bag, all the gear to clean a crime scene, her moon suit, a respirator and – "

"So, in addition to heavy lifting and wearing a respirator on her back, she's doing a lot of bending and stretching."

"Sure. Goes with the job. But she only works three days a week." "Then I can tell you that she spends the other four days recuperating. This woman is either a masochist or a very determined individual. How long has she been doing this sort of work?" "Three months or so."

"By now, her pain medication is probably supporting three pharmacies – addiction levels. At one time, she might have controlled aches and pains with aspirin, but that won't help her anymore. I doubt if she sleeps through the night without pills, so you can add more drugs to the list. Heavy sedatives, anti-inflammatory medication, amphetamines to keep her going after nights when the pills don't work. She's probably under medical supervision. She can't get any of these meds without a doctor's prescription."

"She is a doctor, a psychiatrist."

Slope arched one eyebrow, and this was tantamount to an emotional outburst in his limited range of stone-faced expressions. "And now a psychiatrist is doing menial labor? I don't suppose you're planning to tell me why that – "

"Nope."

'Well – a psychiatrist – that's unfortunate. Then she also has a medical degree. She's probably prescribing her own medication. Doctors make the most dangerous drug cocktails for themselves, things they'd never give to a patient. That's why it's illegal to self-prescribe. But the law is so easily – "

"Back up, Doc. What about the masochist angle?"

"What? Pain for its own sake? Well, many people go into mental health professions because they've been treated for emotional problems of their own." Slope's eyes drifted back to the photograph. "That's a good possibility here. As a small child, her appearance would've been quite normal. Then – age ten to fifteen – she began to change – grotesque change. Hard to imagine a day in her life – curious stares, clumsy remarks. Now, given that teenagers are not the sanest, most stable peer group on the planet, try to picture this woman's adolescent years at the mercy of – "

"Pure hell."

Slope nodded. "At least a thousand arrows to the soul on a good day."

"Her father was a shrink, too."

"Then you can count on a history of long-term therapy. He would have put his daughter in treatment with a child psychiatrist."

"What about this angle?" said Riker. "You say the cleaning job brings on more pain. What if the job is like a hair shirt?"

"Penance? I suppose that's one possibility. Here's another. Given her choice of work these days, crime scenes, she might be coming to terms with death. She could be suicidal."

This last suggestion remained with Riker, riding with him on the subway back to SoHo. And the idea nagged at him as he walked the streets, heading toward an old familiar haunt, where he had agreed to meet Mallory for breakfast. She had a lot to answer for today. He was planning to make it a very short meal, perhaps their last one together. In addition to her other crimes against him, she had yet to mention tailing the fake blind man last night, though she had been given that chance earlier this morning.

…

Charles Butler had not remarked on Mallory's reappearance a convenient five minutes after Riker's angry departure. She had as yet not offered him any opportunity for conversation, but busied herself at a computer. Her fingers were flying across the keyboard. Her eyes were fixed on the screen, and she was stone-deaf to what he was saying – until he unplugged the thick gray cable from the wall and her screen went blank.

Good job.

Mallory's hands came to rest, but she would not look at him when she said, "It's better if Riker knows all of it now – all at once."

"Oh, well that explains everything, doesn't it?" And he knew, in Mallory's mind, it would excuse her for leaving him to face Riker's suspicions alone.

"Did he tell you where he was going?"

"No," said Charles. "I'm not sure we were on speaking terms when he left. He obviously thinks I was part of this scheme from the beginning."

"You didn't tell him how long – "

"Well, he's a detective, isn't he, Mallory? I'm sure he can figure that out. Just a warning." And this advance notice was more than she deserved.

"I'm meeting him for breakfast. I'll patch it up, okay?"

"No, that's not okay. All this deception – that's the least of the damage. He sees you as a threat to Johanna Apollo."

"He said that?"

"He didn't have to. It was – "

"Now that he knows she was on that jury, he'll do whatever it takes to keep her alive." As if this might pass for an answer to all present and future questions, she plugged in her computer, then resumed typing. "It's better this way."

Oh, of course. That, after all, had been her purpose in posing a threat to Johanna Apollo. And Mallory had done it so graphically, so deliberately in every photograph.

"You should have been honest with Riker," he said, "right from the start. Why can't you just sit down with the man and talk to him like a – " He had been about to use the words normal person, words that did not apply to her – nor to himself.

Charles Butler had been raised in an academic womb, entering Harvard at the age of ten, a freak, a thing apart from his peers. Mallory had matriculated to the streets at an even younger age and had also learned to survive on her own, absent any ties to other children. And, thanks to his own more elite education, Charles knew the cantos of Paradise Lost, but he was unable to recite the simplest line of a valentine to her for fear that it might strain their friendship or altogether end it. For her part, Mallory knew all the dimensions of hell on earth, having taken its measurements in her formative years, but she knew nothing about the human heart. And so they coexisted side by side, each in their own separate cell, business partners and prisoners who sometimes met for lunch or dinner, conversing but never quite touching one another.

And now he felt like a fool.

Why should it come as a surprise that Mallory could not sit down with Riker, all that she had left in the way of family, and tell him that she had created all this misery for him – out of love? He stood behind her chair, planning to tread more carefully with his remaining suspicion. "Riker doesn't know everything yet, does he, Mallory?"

She glanced at her watch as a pure distraction. Mallory always knew the exact time to the second. This was a gift, an odd quirk of her brain, and perhaps she made finer distinctions in increments of time for all he knew. Charles watched her quickly gather up keys and coat, playing out the charade of being late for her appointment, as if that could ever happen to one so pathologically punctual. And now, without further complaint, he watched her go. What else could he do? Mallory had taken hostages.

Riker walked into the din of conversation, clattering plates and silverware, with no hesitation, not pausing this time to examine every face with a wary eye, nor to check the patrons' clothing for the bulges of concealed weapons, for this was a haven, a safety zone, and most of the regulars carried guns. The rest were tame tourists with I-Love-New-York T-shirts and souvenir buttons.

Breakfast in this SoHo cafe was a habit that he had cast off during his extended leave from NYPD, not wanting to meet any familiar faces from his squad, and he had missed this place so much. The ritual meal had spanned twenty years, beginning with his oldest friend and continuing with that man's foster child, his partner – ex-partner – Kathy Mallory. It was nine o'clock, still crazy hour for the morning trade, but the small table by the front window was magically vacant, as if the third chair were still occupied by the late Inspector Louis Markowitz.