"Before that, he drank too much. That's been going on for years, hasn't it?"

"Well… yes."

She studied the room, the signs of depression spread in long tentacles of debris, a tangible malaise. Just looking at this clutter made her tired. "Charles, I recall him saying that he's known you for four or five years. In all that time, has he ever been a particularly tidy man?"

"No, but his old apartment wasn't nearly as bad as this." Charles's foot nudged an open carton containing an object that was only recognizable as pizza by the wedge shape of the fungus. "And all the really moldy food? That was kept in the refrigerator." His hopeful smile wavered. "All right, granted Riker has other issues, but he was never unbalanced. Nothing about him indicated an unstable mind. And he never slammed doors."

Johanna nodded, for this supported Mallory's theory. Riker's anger was tied to recent history.

Mallory's mouse in the red wig had learned quickly. She never came closer than twenty paces. Now he actually stopped to place a phone call from the Wall Street station. And then they were off again, more trains, more stations, all around the town. And all the while he was showing more signs of being rattled, dark glasses sliding down his sweaty little nose. The next time he looked back at her, she smiled, and he stumbled. She knew with a certainly that his next stop would be Grand Central.

Johanna leaned forward, already forgiving Charles Butler as she laid one hand upon his arm. "Now, tell me what you're holding back. Something intensely personal?" Yes, she was right. His face was flushing, apologizing for him even before he spoke.

The man's words were hesitant at first. "This has to be in confidence."

"One doctor to another," said Johanna.

"I heard this story from a third party, Louis Markowitz."

"Mallory's foster father."

"Yes. Louis was also the commander of Special Crimes Unit, and he was rather worried about Riker." Charles paused, perhaps realizing that he had just supplied her with more evidence of a man in trouble long before the day he had been shot. "This wasn't an actual consultation. You see, I don't treat patients. It was more like a conversation to put Louis's mind at ease. He couldn't handle this problem internally. He described the police psychologist as a hack and somewhat less than discreet. So I was the only one Louis could talk to. It seems that Riker had been fixated on his former wife. At the time, they'd been divorced for fifteen years or so. As obsession goes, I thought it rather mild."

Charles smiled as he accurately read her mind. "I know. Given the time frame, you're thinking I must be mad. But there was no overt behavior problem. Riker took an apartment a block away from his ex-wife. He kept close tabs on her routine, knew where she'd be on any given day – so that they might pass one another on opposite sides of the street. Oh, and this is what got Louis Markowitz's attention. Riker used police privileges to track down all her parking tickets, scads of them. And he paid them for her – anonymously. That was the extent of his obsessive behavior. He never approached his ex-wife, never even wanted to talk to her. And I don't think he loved her anymore – just the idea of her – of their life together." "A romantic ideation?"

"Yes. Despite appearances, I believe he's a deeply romantic man. Now, if you were to repeat that, I think Riker might shoot me. So his ex-wife merely represented a part of his old life, and he simply couldn't move past it."

"His old life, when it was good." She had made her point, for Charles lowered his eyes as he nodded. After a moment of uncomfortable silence, she prompted him, saying, "And then?"

"Well, then he did get past it. Riker was talking about moving out of that neighborhood even before he was shot. Before that happened, his frame of mind was improving. Hardly a man in decline. And that's why I believe Mallory's diagnosis is correct." He smiled apologetically. "Sorry. That's jarring, isn't it? But I don't think this problem requires burrowing years into his past. And Riker wouldn't want you to know the history with his ex-wife… not you… of all people."

He held her gaze a moment to be sure that she understood the import, the very reason for this disclosure. And there it was, inescapable, as if Charles had written the words within a heart carved upon a tree, Riker loves Johanna Apollo.

Chapter 16

THE JANITOR HAD FINISHED SWABBING THE FIRST TOILET bowl when he realized that he was not alone. A sign had been posted to close the men's room while he cleaned it, but a patron had slipped silently past him when his back was turned. He watched the stall door at the end of one row slowly, softly closing. And he detected a scent unrelated to cleaning solvents, piss and defecation. It was not cologne, for he knew all those smells. Odors were his life. Perfume?

Well, if there was a transvestite back there, he was a quiet one. And, absent the sound of a zipper, what might the pervert be doing? Shooting drugs of course – so predictable. He also knew that the addict would be a newcomer to this downstairs rest room. All the permanent residents, homeless men who made their beds in the stalls, would know better than to enter this place while his cleaning cart barred the door.

After ten years in Grand Central Terminal, the janitor was never taken by surprise. His job had gone stale; he had seen it all and sometimes saw it ahead of time. He could even roughly describe the next person to enter the facility by the light tap of a cane on the floor beyond the door. A blind man was an easy guess – too easy. It was hardly worth the trip around the corner to the section of urinals and sinks. The door opened, and, surprise (yeah, yeah), a white cane preceded – a blind woman? Oh, no, the janitor was not so easily fooled. That was definitely a man behind those dark glasses. Apart from the long, red hair, everything was masculine. So what he had here was a blind drag queen dressed for a day job from the neck down.

But not a redhead.

The wig disappeared into a pocket of the black coat, and the blind man's own snow-white hair was mussed. Leaning toward the vaguely shiny metal that passed for a vandal-proof mirror, the old geezer ran his gnarly fingers over his scalp to smooth down the wild strands.

Not blind either.

But this was hardly surprising. Grand Central was a mecca for bogus beggars. The janitor leaned on his mop, bored by the ongoing striptease, but this was all the spectacle he had. The old man's dark glasses were now secreted in the breast pocket of a very fine suit that really belonged in the posh ticket-holders' rest room upstairs, and the white cane was hooked in the crook of his arm, then hidden beneath the folded black coat.

When the crazy old bugger had closed the door behind him and the janitor believed that the rest room held only one drug-shooting, cross-dressing occupant, he turned in the direction of the toilet stalls. His mouth fell open, and his heart banged against the wall of his chest. A tall, green-eyed blonde blocked his way to the stalls. He quickly stood aside as she marched across the tiles, heading for the door in hot pursuit of the old man. And she was no transvestite, no sir – no Adam's apple on her. This one was all girl and strictly uptown in that long, black leather coat that must have cost the world.

The janitor's heart calmed down. He smiled. Life still had a few surprises for him.

Mallory glared at the old man's back. He stood at the center of the great hall and the crisscrossing traffic of commuters. Once again, she had followed a fake blind man with a long red wig. He had led her back to this same place. But this time, she had passed the young man by, entering the men's room well ahead of him – only to watch him grow old before her eyes. Somewhere along the route of changing subway trains, this elderly man had donned the disguise of the younger one, and she planned to make him pay for that deception. Mallory reached out and clamped one hand on his shoulder, then spun him around. A cellophane-wrapped cigar flew from his hand, and he could only stare at her in bug-eyed surprise. "Where is he?" She grabbed the old man's arm in a tight grip. "Where?" "You'll have to be more precise, my dear. I know so many people." The cultured tones of an educated man were a good match to his tailored suit. She had counted on a little stammering, signs of frayed nerves, the typical response of civilians in sudden encounters with police. So why was this man smiling?