“Hey, Joe, I don’t kiss boys, remember? That’s the basic problem here in the first place.”

RYAN POPE HAD NOT been exaggerating when he termed the contents of Nikki Rossman’s computer a gold mine. The printouts of material pulled from the dead woman’s hard drive were beginning to resemble skyscrapers. Sifting through the voluminous correspondences that Nikki had conducted with untold numbers of strangers (the tally was still not complete), Pope had commented, “This kind of throws into question the whole matter of just what is a healthy sex life.”

Pope and Megan talked to the people Nikki had worked with at Bloomingdale’s. They went through her address book. From a friend named Tina, they heard that Nikki had been hitting pretty hard on a bartender who worked at a bar fairly near Nikki’s apartment. They checked it out. The bartender’s girlfriend was present when Megan and Pope came into the bar to talk with him. The detectives picked up on some tension between the couple concerning the topic of Nikki Rossman, but nothing that suggested either of the two had staved in her skull, strangled her, slit her throat and dumped her body in Central Park. Not to mention that they both presented solid alibis.

At least one question got answered: the connection between Cynthia Blair and Nikki Rossman. Nikki’s computer overflowed with correspondence between her and dozens of faux Foxes, or Fox-Trotters. Megan and Pope showed photographs of Cynthia Blair to everyone they interviewed about Nikki, trying to deepen the connection. They also had a team retrace their steps and re-interview everyone who had been contacted previously concerning Cynthia Blair’s murder, showing them photographs of Nikki Rossman. Nothing surfaced. Two women from two different worlds.

“Crazed fan,” Joe Gallo said to the two detectives as they sat in his office going over what were being dubbed the “prime printouts.” “I know you don’t like it coming back down to that. I don’t, either. That gives us something like six million potential suspects. But that’s still the link between these two women. One worked for Marshall Fox, and the other one cyber-flirted with a bunch of his clones. Somebody out there has a screw loose for this guy. Scour the fan sites. Check with the people at the studio. See if anyone can be identified who keeps popping up in the studio audience.”

Working with the different Internet providers, Rodrigo and his team had been able to identify the majority of the people Nikki Rossman had corresponded with. Of the Marshall Fox wannabes who had been identified so far, Megan and Pope were finding most of them fairly easy to eliminate. Gallo had given Brian McKinney to the detectives to assist in running down alibis. Megan appreciated the gesture.

There were eighteen Fox-Trotters who had yet to be identified. Gallo was skimming through some of the printouts. “Did this woman ever sleep?”

Pope answered, “Lieutenant, I think we’re talking about a woman who had a permanent on switch.”

Gallo looked up from one of the printouts. “If that were the case, we wouldn’t be sitting here reading her private mail. Someone found the off switch.” He leaned forward at the desk and handed one of the printouts to Pope. “This one.”

“Some of these people dig themselves in pretty deep,” Megan said. “In cyberspace, if you don’t want to be found, you won’t be.”

“‘Won’t’ don’t cut it,” Gallo said. “You know that.” He indicated the paper as Pope passed it to Megan. “Unhide this one. This guy had Ms. Rossman spinning on her thumb, if you’ll excuse the bluntness. I want him in my office. I want to see if we can make him spin a little.”

Megan looked down at the printout. “Lucky Dog.”

“That one,” Gallo said. “Lucky Dog. Fetch.”

25

WATERCOOLERS.

Chat rooms.

Talk radio.

Joe Gallo was aware of the talk. How couldn’t he be? Hell, his own wife was practically addicted to the topic. Gallo hoped that if he ever had as much free time on his hands as Sylvie, he would find something more productive to do with it than sit around and gossip about people he had never met. For her part, Sylvie Gallo thought her husband was missing the boat.

“My girlfriends think you’re a dupe, Joey. Look at him, all smooth and contrite. I’m telling you, he’s throwing this thing in your face. My girlfriends can’t believe you haven’t locked him up yet. You’re too cautious, Joey. I’m sorry, sweetheart, but you are.”

Marshall Fox.

Even though prevailing sentiment was that an unbalanced fan of the late-night entertainer would eventually be found to be responsible for the twin killings in Central Park, the drumbeat of speculation that Fox was actually the killer was building a steady rhythm across the airwaves, phone lines, cyberspace, backyard fences, all of it. The notion was too delicious not to bandy about. The name of O. J. Simpson was being invoked. “O.J. East,” people were saying.

“I don’t know,” Gallo said to Megan two days after Nicole Rossman’s burial. The homicide chief was sitting at his desk, fiddling with a $1.50 wicker tube from Chinatown. Chinese handcuffs. “Are we being stupid? Should we be taking a closer look?”

Megan shook her head. “Based on what? Equal treatment under the law, Joe. Fox doesn’t get cut any breaks for being famous, and we also don’t send out a premature lynch squad because he’s famous. I’m not about to be railroaded by the rumor mill. He’ll earn his way onto the suspect list just like everyone else. Reasonable cause. Nothing less.”

Gallo eased the tips of his index fingers into the Chinese handcuffs, then gave them the slightest tug. The wicker tightened instantly. “I got a call from Cynthia Blair’s mother this morning. She wanted to know what I thought about Fox as a suspect.”

“And you told her what?”

Gallo grinned. “I told her he’ll have to earn his way onto the suspect list like everyone else.”

“And here I thought I was being original.”

Gallo slithered one finger farther into the Chinese handcuffs, making a futile attempt to wiggle the other finger free. The toy did not cooperate. “This thing’s probably a metaphor,” the lieutenant said. “I just haven’t sorted it out yet.”

“The Chinese handcuffs?”

“Yes.”

“The harder you try, the worse it gets.”

“Right. But the more you just relax and try to give in, the worse it gets, too.”

“There’s your metaphor.”

“It’s a depressing one.”

“Welcome to the world.”

Gallo’s phone rang. He indicated his shanghaied hands. “Do you want to get that for me?”

“What? You get caught in a metaphor and suddenly I’m your secretary?” Megan leaned forward and answered the phone. It was the attorney Zachary Riddick.

“I’m looking for Gallo,” he said.

Megan winked at her boss. “I’m sorry, Mr. Riddick, the lieutenant is tied up for the moment. This is Detective Lamb. Can I help you with something?”

“I’m calling on behalf of Marshall Fox.”

“What about Mr. Fox?”

“I want it on record that we contacted you first.”

Megan’s eyebrows rose. She glanced over at Gallo. “Noted. You contacted us first.”

“I need to have a meeting with Gallo right away. Could you please get him on the line?”

“May I ask what specifically is the purpose of this meeting?”

“You may not.” If the lawyer was attempting to conceal his impatience, he was failing handily. “I need to speak with Gallo. Where the hell is he?”

“If you would like-”

“Would it help my cause, Ms. Lamb, if I tell you that this is an urgent matter?”

“That’s coming through.”

Behind his desk, Gallo was managing at last to wiggle a knuckle free of the wicker toy. On the phone, Riddick muttered something under his breath; Megan was unable to catch it.

“I’m writing down the time,” the lawyer said. “According to my watch, it is one-thirty-two.”