Jack Coffey’s smile evaporated as he faced the man from Forensics, and so he missed the stunned surprise in Riker’s eyes.

‘I don’t know all the details,’ said Heller. ‘But neither did Markowitz. It wasn’t his crime scene. He only got a quick look at the room and the body, but he couldn’t get it out of his mind. Damn strange way to kill somebody.’

Heller would never back anyone in a lie. No one on the force had stronger credibility. And so Lieutenant Coffey’s eyes rolled up, as if his concession speech might be written on the ceiling. ‘Mallory, I wanna see that Cold Case file. Until I do, your hooker isn’t draining resources from Special Crimes. You got that?’ He was walking toward the door as he said, ‘You can use that man Lieutenant Loman gave you, but that’s all – ’

‘Two men,’ said Mallory. ‘Loman promised two.’

Jack Coffey was close to joy when he turned on her. ‘Oh, did he? Well, I guess the bastard scammed you. He only came across with one detective – half a detective. The guy’s a whiteshield, no experience. And here’s the best part, Mallory – it’s the same idiot who resuscitated the corpse. So Loman’s squad gets rid of a half-dead hooker and a screw-up cop. What a deal, huh?’

Score one for the boss.

Riker was almost happy for the man. Jack Coffey needed these small victories to keep him going. Over time, the lieutenant had learned the value of a hit-and-run game. And now that he had scored, he slammed the door on his way out.

Heller knelt on the floor to close the snaps of his toolbox, then glanced up at Riker. ‘Markowitz never told you about that hanging, did he? Naw, he’d never give up details from another cop’s crime scene. That’s a religion in my job, too. I was the only one he could talk to.’ Heller aimed his thumb at Mallory. ‘And Markowitz never told her a damn thing. She was only thirteen years old. The way I remember it, we caught her listening at the door.’

Riker stubbed out his cigarette. ‘What else can you tell me?’

‘The woman’s hands were bound. Rope or tape – I’m not sure.’ Heller stood up and mopped his brow with a handkerchief. ‘So that knocked out murder dressed up as suicide. And Markowitz said the perp must’ve planned it. He brought his own rope to the party -just like your guy. But why plan a hanging?’ The criminalist grabbed his suit jacket from the back of a chair, and only now did he notice that, despite the sweltering heat of the basement, Riker was the only one not stripped to shirtsleeves.

Before Riker could check the movement, his hand touched the button that kept his jacket closed. ‘What about money? Lou always loved money motives.’

‘No,’ said Heller. ‘On his own time, he looked into that and came up dry. He didn’t see any sex angles either.’

‘And the victim didn’t step off a piece of furniture,’ said Mallory.

‘The noose was around her neck when the perp raised her from the floor -just like Sparrow.’

‘But there was no fire,’ said Heller. ‘No candles, no jar of flies.’ He made this sound like an accusation against her. ‘And there wasn’t any hair in the victim’s mouth. Your old man never mentioned any of that.’

Riker jammed his hands in his pockets. ‘Mallory, why did you have to elaborate so much? You told Coffey the hair was – ’

‘It’s not a problem,’ she said. ‘Without a name or a case number, no one can find the file. We don’t even have a date.’

‘She’s right,’ said Heller. ‘That case was years old when Markowitz told me about it. It bothered him for a long time. Too many things didn’t fit.’ He shrugged. ‘That’s all I remember.’

The door opened, and a technician from Crime Scene Unit entered the room to pick up an armload of canisters. Heller grabbed two evidence bags and followed his man outside to the waiting van.

Riker took one last look at the departing bag of ashes and unburned fragments. He could see the charred spines of magazines, yet some miracle had preserved the brittle tinder of an old paperback novel. It had not even been scorched when he had retrieved it from the water. He could feel the wetness on his skin under the pressure of his holster’s strap.

Mallory was attracted to the damp spot spreading across the breast of his suit. Her gaze dropped lower. ‘I bet you never used that button before.’

True, he never bothered to close his jacket, but on any other night, there would be nothing to conceal.

You spooky kid. Always picking up on the oddest things.

Mallory met his eyes, and her gaze was steady. She was clearly waiting for him to say more.

To confess?

Damn her, she knew he had robbed the crime scene. But she could not pose a direct question. A cop could never ask a partner, Did you break the law?

Riker went out in search of a cold beer, and Mallory stayed behind to double-check Heller’s work. On the subject of forced entry, she deferred to no one. There were no recent scratches on the outside of the lock. Even after dismantling the mechanism, she could find no sign of a metal pick.

Sparrow, why did you let the hangman in?

The prostitute had been good at reading men and sorting out the mental cases. It was unlikely that the collector of dead flies had been her customer; he would never have gotten past her radar – unless she had been dope-sick and desperate. Then she would have opened the door to any drug dealer, however squirrely. But Dr Slope had found no signs of recent addiction, and there were no syringes listed on the evidence log.

The junkie hooker had always been careful to keep a supply of clean ones. In what had passed for a childhood, Kathy Mallory had stolen boxes of needles from a local clinic – presents for Sparrow, a little girl’s idea of payments for shelter from the streets.

One hand drifted down to a tear in the couch cushion and touched a hard lump. Heller’s crew had missed something. Her fingers dug into the upholstery and pulled out an ivory comb with delicate prongs. Sparrow had always worn it in her hair. The oriental carving was elaborate, unforgettable. This was the only thing of value that the whore had not sold for drug money. The antique comb had been stolen long ago to buy the first story hour. The whore had laid her present down with a sigh, saying, ‘Baby, you don’t have to pay for stories. They’re free.’

No. Young Kathy had shaken her head to tell the woman that she was wrong. And the child’s logic had been indisputable: All hookers would be beggars if this were true; their lies would be worthless – if this were true. But then, Sparrow had never understood precisely what the little girl was buying.

How long had they kept company – and why?

Mallory’s early history on the streets was not linear, but called up in shattering events remembered out of order. And now her memories were so distant, they could be twisted any way she liked. She decided that, at best, Sparrow had been merely a bad copy of a dead mother.

A whore and nothing more.

She had not recognized the prostitute’s new face at the crime scene. On the way to the hospital, Riker had broken the news, and he had done it so gently, as if the victim were a family member -and not the dangerous debris of the past. But soon enough, Sparrow would be dead, and only Riker would know the story, but he could never tell it.

Mallory’s hand closed over the comb. It had not been dropped through the tear in the couch cushion, but buried there. So Sparrow had had some time to hide it, but when? While the hangman was knocking at the door? Perhaps he was already inside when she pushed her precious comb deep into the upholstery so it could not be stolen. Had there been time for conversation? Had Sparrow tried to talk him out of killing her?

She stared at the bedsheet covering the broken glass. Why had the man risked burning the window shade before he made his escape?