More than a thousand miles away and years away, a dying woman had written a telephone number on the little girl’s palm. All but the last four digits had been smudged off her hand before that terrible day had ended. Kathy continued to obey long after her mother had died. Though she had forgotten the reason for these telephone calls, she continued making up numbers to replace the three that were missing. Whenever she heard a feminine voice on the line, the child would become inexplicably hopeful and say the ritual words, It’s Kathy. I’m lost.

None of the startled women on the receiving end of these calls had known who she was, thus giving themselves away as impostors. That night, one of them had cried into the telephone, ‘Won’t you tell me who you are? How can I – ’

Click. And another connection was severed, another woman left in tears, and hope died. The child had become an addict of hope, and the best part of this game was that she could get it back again every day, any time she wanted it.

The fever had given way to violent chills. Her small hands were shaking as she tried her last coins, her last call, saying, ‘It’s Kathy. I’m lost.’

Out of a thousand women, only Sparrow had responded, ‘Where are you, baby? I’ll come get you.’ This had been said with the lilt of the Southland – so like a dead mother’s voice.

Anticipation had kept Kathy from giving into sleep and death while she waited for the Southerner to come and find her. The little girl’s eyes had begun to close when she saw a shadow on the other side of the fogged glass. It was coming for her, moving quickly, flying through the storm. The door opened, and a woman’s arms reached into the telephone booth to gather up the shivering child, warming Kathy with fake fur and perfumed body heat.

While the delirium lasted, the little girl believed that her dead mother had come to carry her home, and all that was lost had been restored. The night of the snowstorm, pressed up against the warm breast of a whore, was the happiest time that Kathy Mallory had ever known.

‘ – our life is not over yet,’ said the actress on the screen.

The summer heat was stifling in the small theater, yet the young detective remained in her seat after the play was done. Head bowed, she sat in absolute darkness, awaiting the video’s next run – so she could continue to nurse her deep hatred of Sparrow.

Riker had already made a case for combining the investigations, and he had lost. Mallory should have handled this, but she had failed to show, and this worried him. Coming late to any appointment was outside the pathology of a punctuality freak.

She was still wearing dark glasses when she entered Jack Coffey’s private office and pulled up a chair without waiting for an invitation to sit down. Riker smiled in the belief that she had picked up this bad habit from him.

Lieutenant Coffey leaned back in his chair, only glancing at his wristwatch to remind Mallory that she was late. ‘Riker tells me the scarecrow has a type – stage-struck blondes.’

‘Hmm. His victims were stand-ins for Natalie Homer.’ Mallory seemed almost bored as she leaned toward the stack of newspapers at the edge of the desk. ‘Her case is the key to the scarecrow’s hangings.’

The lieutenant was not rising to this bait, but it was early in the game, only round one by Riker’s reckoning. The boss kept his silence, expecting Mallory to elaborate. She picked up a newspaper, cast it aside after a minute, and opened another. After folding back a page, she glanced at Coffey, her eyebrows arching to ask him why he kept her waiting.

‘The scarecrow is a copycat, and a bad one,’ said the lieutenant. ‘He was nowhere near Natalie Homer’s crime scene.’

Did that sound defensive? Riker thought so.

‘And I say he was there.’ Mallory lowered her sunglasses to scan a column of newsprint that interested her more.

‘Too many things don’t fit,’ said Coffey, ‘all those candles, the wrong noose. I know this perp never saw that crime scene.’

‘I would’ve thought just the opposite,’ said a friendly voice, and Coffey spun his chair around to stare at the tall man whose head barely cleared the top of the door frame. Misunderstanding the look of surprise, Charles Butler glanced at his watch, saying, ‘Oh, sorry. I’m too early?’

The lieutenant would be wondering why a civilian had been invited to the briefing. Riker gave up on the idea of damage control and braced himself for a shouting match. It was predictable that Coffey would do all the yelling. Mallory would sit back and let the man knock himself out. And perhaps then she would drop the bomb of Lieutenant Loman’s presence on Natalie Homer’s crime scene.

There were no free chairs, and Charles Butler was always self-conscious about inadvertently dwarfing people and their furniture. He leaned against the glass wall, believing this would make him smaller and more polite. ‘The inconsistencies make sense to me.’

The lieutenant was forcing a smile. ‘So you’re siding with Mallory?’

What a damn surprise.

‘Yes,’ said Charles. ‘The scarecrow is working from a twenty-year-old memory – bound to be errors. At least, he has a fair idea of how many flies were at the original crime scene. I understand he brings them in ajar.’

Coffey turned an accusing eye on Mallory, but before he could nail her to the wall for this breach of case details, she said, ‘He’s our consulting psychologist. I know how much you hate the department shrink.’

The lieutenant nodded, for this was true. The consultant on call for Special Crimes was an incompetent hack and an irritant to the entire squad. A year ago, he had offered the job to Charles Butler only to discover that the city of New York could not afford a man with more than one PhD. ‘It’s just too bad we don’t have the budget for him.’

Riker had the distinct impression that the lieutenant was overacting.

‘Not a problem.’ Mallory was still working through the stack of newspapers. ‘He can’t earn any more money this quarter.’

‘Right,’ said Charles. ‘It’s a tax thing. I’m at your disposal, free of charge.’

The lieutenant was rightly distrustful of something for nothing, but he had not yet worked out the potential for treachery.

Mallory folded the last newspaper from the pile on the desk. ‘There’s nothing in here on Kennedy Harper. And the reporters botched the story on Sparrow’s hanging. They’re still calling it a hooker’s sex game. Sounds almost accidental. Charles thinks this will send the scarecrow into a homicidal rage. The next kill could be any day now.’

Riker could see that this opinion was a big surprise to her new consulting psychologist.

‘If you believe the papers,’ she said, ‘the only women at risk are hookers. It’s time to go public’

‘All right,’ said Coffey, ‘we’ll give the actresses a sporting chance to stay alive.’ He turned to face his generous gift from Mallory – Charles Butler. ‘Let’s say you’re right about the scarecrow being pissed off. Why doesn’t he call the media and set them straight?’

‘It’s just my impression, but I think he wants the police to work it out.’

‘And he’s stalking the next victim right now,’ said Mallory. ‘We need the public tip lines up and running.’

Coffey shook his head. ‘We don’t have to panic every blonde in the city – only women who fit the profile. And we’re not gonna mention the Cold Case file to the press.’ He turned to Charles Butler. ‘Any more ideas about the scarecrow?’

‘I assume his tie to Natalie Homer is very strong. He’s restaged her murder twice.’

‘Well, that’s one theory.’ Coffey turned to his detectives. ‘I put Gary Zappata on the short list.’

Mallory abandoned her role as the Laid-back Kid. Her fist came down on the arm of her chair. ‘What possible – ’

‘Hold it.’ The lieutenant put up one hand to silence her. ‘Did you know his father was a detective? Yeah, Zappata wanted to be one, too.’ Coffey turned to Charles. ‘When this guy was a cop, he was real close to getting fired. That’s when our desk sergeant sold him on the idea of applying to the fire department. Sergeant Bell told the kid it was easy to make the fire marshal’s squad. Then he could carry a gun and play detective.’