I gave her my card. “If it happens again, call me. Chances are you’re just being paranoid, which is perfectly understandable. But call me anyway. Just get yourself somewhere very public and call.”

Michelle shuddered. Tears had come again to her eyes, but they didn’t fall. “I just can’t believe what happened to Robin. I mean, one day she’s alive and then…I can’t even begin to think how scary that must have been for her. Jesus. What kind of monster would do something like that?”

I tapped the card. “You’ll call me.”

“Oh yeah.” Her moist eyes blinked at the card. “You’d better believe it. I’ll cry bloody murder. Top of my lungs.”

I prayed it wouldn’t come to that.

12

TWO BLOCKS WEST of the Quaker meetinghouse, I ran into Megan Lamb. She was behind the wheel of a departmental Crown Vic, which was angled against the curb. A man was behind the car, leaning his full weight against it, while Megan called out to him through the open driver’s-side door.

“Get to the middle! The grid’s going to take out your leg!” She glanced up as I approached, showing no sign of surprise. “Malone. Do you want to make yourself useful?”

I continued past her and positioned myself next to the guy who was leaning against the trunk. Young guy. Fresh-faced. “Watch out for the grid,” he muttered. “It’ll take out your leg.”

The Vic had fudged the turn onto Fifteenth Street, and the left rear tire had found an icy groove of snow. No traction. A thin rectangular metal mesh grid had been wedged under the tire. The two of us leaned against the trunk.

The guy grimaced. “She’s going to race it.”

He was right. Megan laid on the accelerator as if kicking out of the gate at Daytona. The tire let out a giddy squeal as it spun in place. The rear of the car trembled but otherwise didn’t budge. Megan’s voice sounded above the squeal.

“Push!”

The guy and I shared a look. “You tell her,” he said. “I’m less than zero.”

I stepped over to the open door as Megan let off the gas. “All you’re doing is polishing the ice,” I told her. “We’ve got to get you rocking forward and back. On the forward, just tap it.”

She gave a noise that seemed to be an assent, and I returned to the rear of the car. We managed to get it rocking slightly, and after a few back-and-forths, Megan began tapping the gas. Third time was a charm. The fresh-faced guy and I leaned hard in to the car. The acid burn went through my arms, and the car swerved slightly to the right then stuttered back onto the street. A blur sailed past my knee. The metal grid. It impaled itself in a snowdrift.

As Megan eased the car over and double-parked, the fresh-faced guy turned to me. “Ryan Pope. You’re Fritz Malone.”

Nice of him to handle both sides of the introduction. I asked, “You’re Megan’s partner?”

“That’s right.”

“Maybe she should be letting you drive.”

“Do you know what the sane man said to the control freak?”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Megan got out of the car. Her hands were bright pink and she cupped them, blowing into them. “He telling you about the flat?”

“You had a flat, too?”

“Uptown. On Lexington,” Pope said. He indicated the knees of his pants, which I now saw were soaked and soiled.

“And then you got down here and skidded into the curb.”

“I guess there’s no point in my buying a lotto ticket today,” Megan said.

“I don’t know. I came along. Maybe your luck has changed.”

“Are you coming from the Quaker place?”

“I am.”

“I guess it’s all over?”

“Yes.”

Megan frowned. “Then my luck hasn’t changed.” She looked up into the blank sky for a few seconds, then back at me. Her cheeks were two fierce pink spots. “Joe warned me you’d probably be poking around on the Burrell murder.”

“Keen instincts your boss has got.”

“I don’t suppose there’s any point in my even going over there.”

“To the meetinghouse? There are probably still some people hanging around. They do the coffee-and-pastries thing afterward.”

Megan addressed her partner. “Ryan, why don’t you get over there and see who’s left to talk to. If you find any live ones, hold on to them. I’ll be right there. I want to debrief Mr. Malone here first. I have the sense that he got all the goodies.”

Pope nodded wordlessly and started off down the street.

I turned to Megan. “Newbie?”

“Pope? Not any longer. He’s growing up fast. Joe paired me with him when I came back in April. The kid didn’t exactly have the clout to say no.”

“Why would he want to say no? Not because you’re a woman?”

“Please. The woman thing was the least of it. You know perfectly well why.”

“Madden.”

She nodded. “Cops get spooked about cops who lose their partners. It was easier for Joe to assign me a greenie.”

She was referring to Detective Christopher Madden, Megan’s partner the night she unloaded her entire service weapon into Albert Stenborg, the Swede. Having just nailed the identity of the monster who had been brutalizing young women in the city for over two months, Megan had radioed Madden from Chinatown that she was headed to Stenborg’s houseboat in Sheepshead Bay and to meet her there. She’d arrived to find her closest friend mutilated and dead at Stenborg’s feet, and after taking the monster out, she’d also discovered Chris Madden’s body on the galley floor, surrounded by a pool of blood. His heart had been carved out of his chest and stuffed into his mouth.

“Let’s go someplace,” Megan said. “I’m not built for this cold.”

We found a Joe Jr. on Third Avenue and took a booth by the window. Megan pulled out her cell phone and punched in a number. “Who am I looking for? At this Quaker place.”

I was shrugging out of my coat. “You’re not going to believe me.”

“Try me.”

“Edward Anger.”

She cocked an eyebrow at me then spoke into the phone. “Ry? Megan. See if someone named Edward Anger is still there. If you find him, call me.” She disconnected the call.

The waitress came by, and we ordered a pair of coffees. Megan asked, “What gives? Did you speak with this Anger guy?”

“No, but you’ll want to. He’s big cheese at the meetinghouse. They call them elders. It seems he was checking on Robin’s mental health from time to time.”

“Interesting. In person?”

“I believe so. I got this from a friend of Robin’s. Michelle Poole.” Megan was jotting the names down in her notebook. “Edward Anger gave a nice speech about how Robin’s spirit was still with us.”

“Lovely. It’s what happened to her body that’s my concern.”

“I assume you saw it,” I said. “I mean the body.”

“Oh, I saw it all right. What kind of sick bastard does that thing with the mirror glass? Do you know about that? He shoved a piece of her bathroom mirror right here.” She placed her fingers on the upper part of her throat. “Like he wanted her to watch herself die. Real cute.”

“I saw the photos.”

“Try it in living color.”

“No, thanks.”

She flipped her notebook closed. “All I keep thinking about is her up on the stand testifying. You could see she knew she’d made a mistake, ever mixing herself up with Fox. She regretted the whole thing. Do you remember what she said? When she broke down on the stand?”

“I missed that part.”

“‘I just want my life back.’ That’s what she said. ‘I just want my life back.’ I don’t know where you happen to stand on the great hereafter, but if there is one out there, what do you think that poor girl is cooing now? Same thing. ‘I just want my fucking life back.’”

Our coffees arrived. Megan ignored hers. Her gaze went out the window to where a snowball battle was taking place on the sidewalk. One of the snowballs hit the glass just below Megan’s face. She showed no reaction.

She turned from the window. “Joe says you knew her? Robin Burrell.”