"I'd really like to know her," Monica said slowly. "I mean, talk to her. I'd like to know what's going through her mind."

"Her mind?" Delaney said. "I don't think you'd like it in there. Listen, when I was having that go-around with Ivar, he said something that bothers me. That's why I've been so grouchy all night. He said, 'It's an ego thing with you.'"

"What did he mean by that?"

"I think he was saying that this case has become a personal thing with me. That I'm out to prove that I'm smarter than the Hotel Ripper. That I can plan better, react faster, outthink her. That I'm superior to her."

"You mean you don't want a woman to get the better of you?"

"Come on! Don't get your feminist balls in an uproar. No, Ivar just meant that I see this thing as a personal challenge."

"And is he right?"

"Oh shit," he said roughly. "Who the hell has a coherent philosophy or a beautifully organized chart of beliefs that doesn't get daily scratching-outs and additions? Maybe the ego thing is part of it, but it's not all of it. There are other things."

"Like what?"

"Like the simple, basic belief that killing is wrong. Like the belief that the law, with all its stupidities and fuck-ups, is still the best we've been able to devise after all these thousands of years, and any assault on the law should be punished. And also, homicide isn't only an assault on the law, it's an attack against humanity."

"That I don't follow."

"All right, then murder is a crime against life. Does that make more sense?"

"You mean all life? Cows? And the birds and the bees and the flowers?"

"You should have been a Jesuit," he said, smiling. "But you know what I mean. I'm just saying that human life should not be taken lightly. Maybe there are more important things, but life itself is important enough so that anyone who destroys it for selfish motives should be punished."

"And you think this woman, this Hotel Ripper, has selfish motives?"

"All killers have selfish motives. Even those who say they were just obeying the command of God. When you get right down to it, they're just doing it because it makes them feel good."

She was incredulous. "You think this woman is killing because it makes her feel good?"

"Sure," he said cheerfully. "No doubt about it."

"That's awful."

"Is it? We all act from self-interest, don't we?"

"Edward, you don't really believe that, do you?"

"Of course I do. And what's so awful about it? The only problem is that most people spend their lives trying to figure out where their best interest lies, and nine times out of ten they're wrong."

"But I suppose you know where your best interest lies?"

"That's easy. In your bed."

"Pig."

About an hour later he turned off the air conditioner.

Delaney had no sooner settled down in the study to read his morning Times when the phone rang. The caller was Sergeant Abner Boone.

"Good morning, Chief."

"Morning, sergeant."

"Sorry to bother you so early, sir, but I was wondering if you were planning to drop by the precinct today."

"I wasn't, no. Should I?"

"Well, ah, I'm going to ask a favor."

"Sure. What gives?"

"I got a call from that Dr. Patrick Ho. He's got the hospital reports on the blood analysis and wants to come over to talk to me. He told me a little about it on the phone, and, Chief, I can't make any sense out of it at all. I'm up to my ass in paperwork and I was wondering if you'd be willing to talk to Dr. Ho at your place. Keep him out of my hair."

Delaney reflected that Boone was beginning to show the pressure. He was becoming increasingly dour and snappish. He should be pushing Dr. Ho for results, not trying to weasel out of talking to the man.

"You don't like him much, do you, sergeant?" he said. "No, sir, I don't," Boone said. "He smells like a fruitcake and he treats this whole thing like some kind of scientific riddle. I still think he's just trying to make points and wasting our time in the process."

"Could be," Delaney said, thinking that maybe Boone simply wanted to disassociate himself from a loser. "Will you deal with him, sir?"

"Sure," the Chief said genially. "Give him my address. I'll be in all morning."

Dr. Patrick Ho arrived about an hour later and made an immediate hit with Monica. She was in the kitchen, preparing a salad, and the doctor insisted on showing her how to make radish rosettes and how to slice a celery stalk so it resembled an exotic bloom.

Delaney finally got him into the study and provided him with a cup of tea. He then sat in his swivel chair, benignly watching Dr. Ho flip through a stack of papers he pulled from a battered briefcase.

"So?" the Chief said. "How did you make out with the hospitals?"

"Ah, splendid," the beaming little man said. "They were very cooperative when I explained why their aid was absolutely vital. And it was something to tell their families and friends-no? That they worked on the Hotel Ripper case."

"And were you able to identify the two unknown substances in the killer's blood?"

"Ah, yes. Where is it? Ah, here it is. Yes, yes. High potassium, low sodium, chloride, and bicarbonate, as we already knew. The two previously unidentified substances were high levels of ACTH and MSH."

He looked up at Delaney, delighted but modest, as if expecting a round of applause.

"ACTH and MSH?" the Chief asked.

"Exactly. Abnormally high levels."

"Doctor," Delaney said with great patience, "what are ACTH and MSH?"

"Pituitary hormones," Dr. Ho said happily. "They would not be present at such levels in normal blood. And something I find very, very interesting is that MSH is a melanocyte-stimulating hormone. I would be willing to venture the opinion that the woman whose blood this is has noticeable skin discolorations. A darkening, like a very heavy suntan, but perhaps grayish or dirty-looking."

"All over her body?"

"Oh no. I doubt that. But in exposed portions of the skin. Face, neck, hands, and so forth. Possibly on the elbows and nipples. Points of friction or pressure."

"Interesting," Delaney said, "what you can deduce from a blood analysis. Tell me, doctor, is it possible to identify an individual from an analysis of the blood? Like fingerprints?"

"Oh no," Dr. Ho said. "No, no, no. Perhaps, someday, genetic code, but not the blood. You see, this liquid is affected by what we eat, what we drink, drugs that may be ingested, and so forth. The chemical composition of the blood is constantly changing, weekly, daily, almost minute to minute. So as a means of positive identification, I fear it would be without value. However, a complete blood profile can be a marvelous clue to the physical condition of the donor. And that is what we now have: a complete blood profile."

"Those hormones you mentioned-what were they?"

"ACTH and MSH."

"Yes. You said they were present in abnormally high levels in the killer's blood?"

"That is correct."

"Well, why is that? I mean, what would cause those high levels?"

"Illness," the doctor said with delight. "I would say that almost certainly the woman who owned this blood is suffering from some disease. Or at least some serious physiological malfunction. Chief Delaney, this is very odd blood. Very peculiar indeed."

"Would you care to make a guess as to what the illness might be?"

"Ah, no," Dr. Patrick Ho confessed, frowning sorrowfully. "That is beyond my experience and training. Also, the hematologists I consulted were unable to hazard a guess as to the illness, disease, or perhaps genetic fault that might be producing this curious blood."

"Well…" Delaney said, rocking back in his chair, lacing fingers across his stomach, "then I guess we're stymied, aren't we? End of the road."

Dr. Ho was horrified. His dark eyes widened, rosy lips pouted, plump hands fluttered in the air.