‘Why should I? The detectives never asked me to.’ Parris turned to Geldorf. ‘You bastards liked her well enough, but you never believed her.’ He turned back to Mallory. ‘They only saw Natalie when she was really scared. I guess they figured that was just normal for her.’

‘But you knew better,’ said Riker. ‘You saw her every day. You knew what she was going through.’ She was always Natalie to Alan Parris, a first-name acquaintance and not a woman who had never given him the time of day.

Jack Coffey had left the door to the lock-up room wide. And now Lieutenant Loman watched the back of a prisoner being marched down the hall. Mallory was right. No one else could have been as convincing as this young cop in bloodstains, chains on his wrists, chains on his ankles, faltering steps and now a stumble. Janos’s massive arms reached out to catch Deluthe before he could fall.

‘The leg irons are overkill,’ said Harvey Loman.

Coffey stared at the sweat shining on the back of Deluthe’s neck. The mascara hair treatment was running in a brown streak that mingled with the T-shirt’s bloodstains. Then he realized that the game was not over when Loman went on to say, ‘I can’t see that pathetic bastard outrunning Janos.’

‘Yeah, well, the DA’s coming,’ said Coffey. ‘So we’re going by the book, leg irons and all. We’re cutting a deal with the perp.’

‘Yeah? What’s he offering?’

‘A photo ID on the man who killed Natalie Homer.’ Lieutenant Coffey rose from the table and slammed the door. ‘So you remember that crime scene pretty well.’

‘Like I could forget. That room was hell on earth. The stink and the bugs. But it was a different kind of freak show for the hooker.’

‘Sparrow.’

‘Yeah, all those candles, a different noose. And she wasn’t even dead. I still don’t see the connection, Jack.’

‘It’s the scarecrow – Natalie’s son. I think you met him once, Harvey.’

Charles Butler entered the office and stood behind Mallory’s chair. Since he had been given no further instructions, all he could do was loom over the proceedings, bringing his own discomfort to the party. And now they were five – too many people and just the right number, each one jumping up the energy level, the heat and the stress.

Mallory stared at the window on the squad room. ‘He’s coming.’

Five pairs of eyes watched Janos escort his prisoner to the desk beneath the only overhead light. From the distance of the lieutenant’s office, only the chains, the bandages and blood were visible. The battered face was shadowed by a baseball cap. Mallory glanced back at Charles, whose face could not hide a thought. He was merely curious. He had no idea that the injured man was Deluthe.

She leaned toward Alan Parris, talking cop to cop, ‘I’ve got one break on this case, a witness. You met him once.’

‘Yeah,’ said Riker. ‘You chased him away from Natalie’s door. Remember? He was only six years old.’

‘One of those little kids in the hall?’

Riker turned to the glass wall and pointed at the wounded man being guarded by Janos. ‘He was Natalie’s son.’

‘Oh, Christ!’ Parris turned around for a better look at the man in handcuffs. ‘That’s your perp?’ From this angle, he could only see the curve of Deluthe’s cheek. ‘So the kid went nuts.’

Mallory nodded to say, Yes, it’s all very sad. Yeah, right. ‘Natalie’s sister hid the boy out of state. You can guess why.’

Parris shook his head as he stared through the glass wall, eyes fixed on the young man in manacles. ‘Her son hanged those women. I can’t believe it. Bloody Christ.’

Detective Wang entered the office and tossed a manila envelope on the desk. Riker picked it up and inspected the contents, pictures of three detectives and two uniformed officers as they had appeared twenty years ago. He laid them out on the desk blotter.

Predictably, Parris focused on the portrait of his own young self fresh from the Police Academy. He was about to say something when Mallory cut him off, saying, ‘This won’t take long.’ She picked up the photographs and rose from her chair.

‘Oh, yeah,’ said Lieutenant Loman. ‘I remember the little kids in the hall – one of them anyway.’ He was staring at the evidence bags that contained a twenty-year-old film carton and a set of notes written to Natalie Homer. ‘You know why I remember him, Jack? This tiny little boy – he reached inside the door of Natalie’s apartment and picked up an empty film carton. He wanted a damn souvenir of that poor woman’s murder. Cold, huh? I wish I could forget that kid.’

Mallory stood before the injured detective, looking down on his swollen face. When she spoke to Deluthe, her voice was loud enough to carry across the squad room. ‘Take your time. This is what they looked like the year your mother died.’

Deluthe kept his head down and stared at the photographs as she held them up, one by one, angling them away from the glass wall of Jack Coffey’s office. And now she fed Deluthe his cue, the first question, ‘ This one?’

The young cop nodded.

‘Are you sure?’

Deluthe nodded again.

In a departure from the script, Mallory bent down to him and lowered her voice. ‘Don’t talk, don’t move. We’ve got some time to kill before I go back in there. I know you can’t get that dead man out of your mind. You never will. He’s part of you now – and what you did to him.’ She nodded toward the large man beside him. ‘Detective Janos volunteered to look after you for a while.’

Deluthe stared at her with fresh damage in his eyes. ‘You think I’m a nutcase?’

Mallory nodded. ‘We all go crazy.’

‘Crazy is a place,’ said Janos. ‘You go, you come back.’

‘Happens so often, we even have a protocol for it – the suicide watch.’ She held up the photograph again. ‘Now tap this picture and we’re done.’

He stretched out his handcuff chain to do it.

Mallory counted to ten slowly. ‘Nod one more time.’

He did as she asked, then lowered his head, eyes fixed on the floor, a genuine portrait of remorse.

‘Good job.’ She prized realism.

Deluthe slumped over, fists clenched, eyes shut tight. The anesthetic benefit of shock was wearing off. She turned to Janos. ‘Get him back to the hospital.’

Mallory made a show of looking at one photograph on the long walk back to Coffey’s office. Arthur Wang blocked her way, handing her the evidence bags with the notes and the original film carton with the Polaroid logo. ‘The boss is done with these.’

Detective Wang opened the door to the lock-up room and handed Lieutenant Coffey a duplicate set of photographs. Mallory had only given him one line to say: ‘It’s the one on top.’

Jack Coffey stared at the picture for a moment, then laid it down on the table in front of Loman. ‘The scarecrow picked you.’

‘He picked you.’ Mallory pushed Lars Geldorf s photograph across the desk, then turned to Alan Parris, saying, ‘You can go now.’

The ex-cop quickly left the office, and Geldorf sank down in the vacated chair. He clutched the portrait of himself at age fifty-five and shook his head. ‘This is crazy. Crazy.’ There was a flicker of panic in his face when he looked past Mallory, raising his eyes to stare at the tall man standing behind her chair. No need to turn around.

With only the eyes in the back of her head, she pictured Charles’s wonderful tell-all face stricken with surprise – the real thing. No actor could portray shock and betrayal so well as an honest man with her knife in his back.

Welcome to my job.

She watched Lars Geldorf s face and saw the reflected sorrow of Charles Butler, who had finally understood his role tonight. He had been gulled into preparing this old man, his friend, for the close, the kill. And now he joined the list of the wounded as he walked toward the office door, eager to put some distance between himself and his assailant – Mallory.