Charles bent down to the small statue and gently cleaned the blood off her hands lest it stain the marble. “I don’t know what that was about.”

“Take a guess.”

“It was supposed to be a very simple illusion, one thing changing into another. When I released the birds and draped the statue, he should have seen the stone turn into a flight of doves. I didn’t expect the birds to fly straight at him like that. How could I know they were going to attack him?”

“I still don’t get it, Charles.”

“It was an accident of his own mind, a collision of illusions. The birds took the form he expected to see. He must have been very frightened. He’s half crazy now.”

Riker nodded. He was reminded of magical eyewitness testimony, the bane of every cop. If the witness heard a shot, he would swear under oath that he had seen a gun – whether it was there or not. And sometimes the gunshots were not real, either. Yet the witness was truthful.

“Don’t beat yourself up, Charles. Cass Shelley was terrified when she saw the stones fly.”

“Jimmy Simms was only thirteen years old when she died.”

“Killer kids get younger every day. We got one back in New York who’s only nine.”

Of course, this was no comfort to Charles, who only wanted the workings of the world to be sane and fair. He was constantly being disappointed.

“You know, Riker, Jimmy never actually said he threw the stones.” Riker smiled at this. Charles was still hanging in there, pitching a case for civilization – another illusion. Welcome to the new world, the animal planet.

“It was a great technique,” said Riker. “I’ve spent days breaking a suspect down to a puddle, and you guys did it in under ten minutes. I really thought Mallory would drag it out more – turn those screws a little tighter. So Jimmy’s the future state’s witness in her mother’s homicide. Am I right?”

Charles nodded. “Yes, you finally got it right.”

There was still more work to do. Riker knew this night would be uncommonly long. He lifted one hand in a farewell to Charles, and then he followed after the women and their captive.

He turned back once and saw Charles putting his shoulder to an angel, tipping and jogging her on the pedestal until she was facing south again. Henry moved along the path, rolling the pallet of a lesser angel, a copy of the little girl Riker had known as Kathy Mallory.

The small group ahead of him was leaving the wide oak lane, crossing open ground toward the house. Riker walked through water, soaking his shoes before he learned to follow Augusta’s zigzagging example and avoid the puddles.

The suspect fell, and the two women knelt down to help him up again. Augusta stroked Jimmy’s head as if he were a dog.

Riker gave them lead time going into the house, and then he opened the door slowly, minding the possibility of a creak.

He reached the end of the hallway and peered into the kitchen. Aw, Mallory, no – not this way. This was all wrong. It sickened him.

The two of them were seated at the table, where a tape recorder was glowing with a green ready light. Mallory had one hand on the suspect’s shoulder; it was almost a caress. And she was trying to show the man how much she really liked him.

It would have been easier on Riker if he had found her crying. Mallory’s strange attempt at a smile was hurting him so much more.

Riker cleared his throat. She looked up, and he gestured for her to join him outside the kitchen – right now.

When she stood before him near the front door, her arms were folded. Though it was dark at this end of the hallway, he could see that she was angry.

“Stay out of my way, Riker. Get out of here.”

“I’ll do it myself,” he said. “I’m better at this than you are.”

“Get out!”

“I should be the one to do it, Mallory. You know I’m right.”

She turned her back on him and would have walked away, but he came up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders to keep her with him. “Just hear me out, kid. You’ve got to turn this perp around. There won’t be another chance. If you blow it, the rest of them will scatter.”

He felt her go rigid under his hands, yet she stayed. When he spoke again, it was in a soft tone of voice he could never use if she were facing him. “In every homicide case, you learn too much about the victim. Some strange woman is lying dead on a slab, and you’re using her name fifty times a day, talking to people who knew her, learning intimate details her own family doesn’t know.”

He bowed his head close to her ear and said, very gently, “Then comes that moment when you realize you’re calling a dead woman by her first name – like she was an old friend of yours. And then it gets a little harder, doesn’t it? It’s more personal. But this time, Mallory, you call the dead woman Mommy. It’s the only name a little kid has for her mother, the only name you ever called her by.”

He held her closer, and every word he breathed disturbed the strands of her hair. “You know why you can’t do this, kid.” He didn’t want her to hear his voice break. He slowly measured out his next words, pausing in the places where they strained and cracked. “I’m going to turn him around for you… I’ll hold his hand, and rub his back… and tell him it was perfectly natural… to break your mother’s body with rocks, to knock out her teeth… to leave her lying in the dirt, bleeding to death.”

Mallory nodded.

The deal was done.

His hands dropped away from her shoulders, but she would not turn around. Though Mallory made no sound to give away any emotion, he was careful not to look at her face as he moved around her and walked back down the long dark hallway toward the light of the kitchen.

CHAPTER 24

“This is the last of it.” Augusta moved a stack of papers to one side and set a mug of hot coffee on the kitchen table. “I’ll have a fresh pot in a few minutes.”

Riker sat semi-upright, elbows propped on the table, hands covering his ears to block out the constant torture of cheerful twittering and chirps. The birdcalls had penetrated the kitchen with the first light of morning through the bank of tall windows. He missed his New York lullaby of car alarms and fire engines, screams and gunshots.

Different country – different songs.

“Don’t those damn birds ever shut up?”

“No. They sing all day long.” Augusta switched on the coffee maker and cocked her head toward the hallway, listening. “That’s Charles at the door. He’s got a soft way of knocking.”

When Augusta had quit the room, Jimmy Simms stirred in the chair next to Riker’s. The young man was snoring lightly, head pillowed on his arms. His sleeping face was unlined, so innocent.

Well, what’s in a face?

Riker rubbed his red eyes, and then rushed the caffeine into his bloodstream, hardly pausing to taste the coffee. He knew he was too old for these all-nighters, but he had even better reasons to quit his job. He wondered if he would ever feel clean again, for he had recently made himself at home inside the younger man’s head, and lain back among the creepy crawlies. Jimmy Simms’s mind stank, and Riker wanted to take a hundred showers.

“Morning, Riker.” Charles Butler had a way of filling up a room. He seemed to understand this and sat down immediately, almost apologetically, to meet Riker at a more egalitarian eye level. “Mallory’s not up yet?”

Riker swallowed his envy of the well-rested man. He looked at his watch. It was just past eight o’clock. “Well, the kid had a busy day.”

“And I spiked her supper with passionflower and valerian,” said Augusta, staring at the coffee machine, as though watching it would make the carafe fill up faster. “The girl wasn’t getting enough rest. She’ll be out for the rest of the day.”

“Nice work,” said Riker, grinning. “Can I have the recipe?”