But that boy was long dead. A worried Johanna picked up the telephone and dialed the number on Charles Butlers business card.

Mallory edged her chair closer to the lockup cage and its two occupants, the pervert and the old man. She lightly rubbed the back of h hand, feigning an itch. "Damn." She gave the flasher an angry look. "I think I picked up one of your fleas."

The elderly attorney began to squirm and scratch his own hands and face, agitated by the power of suggestion. He pressed his back to the cage door and put up both arms to ward off the smaller man, who slowly extended one hand for the promised skin contact that Mallory had bargained for.

"Don't let him kiss you on the mouth," she said. "We don't know where he's been, and he hasn't been checked for TB yet." This was the flasher's cue to cough.

She smiled as the old man slid into shock. Ah, germs. She had found his soft spot, and she could read the lawyer's thoughts, No, this can't be happening to me.

"This is just a holding cage," said Mallory. "I can move you downtown to a bigger lockup if you like. You'll have more room, more people to talk to, maybe twenty or so – all a lot like him." She shot a warning glance at the coughing pervert, a reprimand for overacting.

Riker pushed the vacuum cleaner across his bedroom rug, drowning out the sound of Johanna's worried voice. She leaned down to the wall socket and pulled out the machine's plug.

"If that psychotic was still alive," said Johanna, "you'd be under police protection right now."

"I am." He dropped the vacuum hose and turned on her. "There's always cops following me around. What's the problem, Jo? Does that sound a little crazy? What about that dead FBI agent? Did Timothy Kidd sound crazy, too? He was paranoid, wasn't he? Did he think he was being followed?"

"But there was somebody following him."

"Yeah, and I know that feeling. Poor bastard – always looking over his shoulder. So now I have to wonder, how does the Reaper get so close to a paranoid fed – close enough to slash his throat?"

"Well, maybe I am a miracle worker. You're all cop now, aren't you? Isn't this how you talk to suspects? You're just trying to evade the subject. This idea of yours that the shooter – "

"How did Agent Kidd lose his edge, Jo? He knew he was being followed – followed by his own people, for Christ's sake. Here's a guy armed with a gun, and his nerves are so shot, he hears pins dropping in other rooms. How did his killer get close enough? According to your own notes, he knew that bastard on sight. So how does a thing like that happen, Jo?"

"The same way it happened to you – twice."

The flasher was more sympathetic than Mallory. He was listening with rapt attention as the elderly attorney rambled on about the death of his wife and the long bout of depression that had followed her funeral.

Mallory 's fingernails rapped on the table, just a hint that he should speed up his story and get to the good part, the identity of the young man who owned the red wig and white cane.

A uniformed officer opened the door and leaned in. "Detective? You've got company, the chief medical examiner."

Mallory was immediately suspicious, for she had done nothing to merit this kind of service. Dr. Slope preferred to have cops come to his shop.

Johanna sat on the edge of the bed, tired and feeling the need of support. Though she had not done any of the physical work, this day was wearing on her.

Riker, however, was showing no signs of all the chemicals she had used to fine-tune his body and his mind. He loomed over her, arms folded, waiting for her to say something – to defend herself. Yes, that was the sentiment, and she could not understand the change in him.

"I've already told this story so many times," she said. "It was all in my statement for the Chicago police and the – "

"And now you can tell it to me."

How did this turnaround come about? Riker was growing more remote in every passing minute. She stared at the floor as she spoke to him. "It had to do with comfort zones. Timothy had one place where he felt safe. My waiting room was very private and secure. Patients were buzzed into that room. When the sessions were over, they left by the back door of my office. Coming or going, they never encountered one another. It was Timothy's habit to come twenty minutes early for appointments. He said my waiting room was like a decompression chamber – his safety zone. I never buzzed anybody into that room after he arrived. I'm guessing the Reaper came up behind Timothy when he opened the door. His throat must've been slit instantly. So that's how it happened – in the one place where he wouldn't expect to be assaulted. And you, Riker – you never expected anyone to shoot you in your own apartment. Not the first time, not the second time."

Riker would not allow the subject to come back to him, not yet. He stepped to one side, exposing the small surprise he had prepared for her on the bureau. It was the packet of letters she had carried in the torn lining of her jacket. He must have found them when he had returned the gun and the clip to the pockets. And while she had been on the telephone with Charles Butler, Riker had been sitting in this room, reading all of them.

He picked up the packet and held it high as a tangible accusation. "Agent Kidd was working full-time on the Reaper case."

"Eventually, yes. But not when we met. I didn't lie to you."

"And you didn't tell the whole truth either. He was looking into the jury murders while the first one still belonged to the Chicago police."

"I know it looks that way."

"And you were lovers," he said. "You lied about that." "I suppose the police might've thought so – if they'd found those letters the day they searched my rooms." "He touched you." "Timothy? He never did." "He touched you."

"Oh, I see." She had not expected Riker to use that sense of the word. "I suppose he did, but Bunny touched me, too, and he wasn't so talented – only a schizophrenic."

"Timothy Kidd loved you." He tossed the letters onto the bed beside her. "And he died because of you. No defense wounds. That's what you told Lieutenant Coffey. The guy just sat down in a chair and bled out – quietly. He wouldn't put up a fight because you were in the next room. So he was bleeding, dying in your reception room. And you – a damn doctor – help was just on the other side of a door." "I didn't know," she said. "He never made a sound." "You said his trachea wasn't cut. He could've yelled for help, but he never did, and you know why. If you'd walked into that room, the Reaper would've killed you too. That's how you knew the freak stuck around to watch his victims die. Because Timothy loved you so much, he never made a sound. He died for you."

"That's not why I kept his letters." She gathered them up from the bedspread and held them in both hands, suddenly realizing that she had betrayed their precious value to her. "He was my friend. This is all that's left of him, his personality." And she should have burned them long ago, for she knew every line by heart. "I didn't encourage Timothy's feelings for me. I thought he was too vulnerable and – "

"Too crazy? He thought his own people were following him – and the Reaper. And even though it was all true, he knew you didn't believe him. And why should you? He was a freaking paranoid. But what about me, Jo? Do you believe me? Cops do follow me around, Jo. And why? Because the psycho who shot me is still out there – still alive. And sometimes it's not cops. I know that boy's watching me, Jo. Do you believe that?"

Paranoia would also go with Riker's job, the half-turned stance to see over his shoulder, the bit of business caught in the corner of his eye as he paused to listen for odd noises, singling out one from the rest. He thought a teenage psychopath was coming to steal his life, and this was his fear every day since he had been shot.