As he propelled her forward, she pulled her purse open. Its clasp was magnetic and made no noise. At the same time, she veered slightly, toward where she knew the hassock sat near the corner of the sofa. It was low, and almost the color of the carpet, difficult to see in the dimness.

“I hope you’re not dumb enough to—” the killer began, then tripped over the hassock that she’d barely brushed against.

Weaver spun while pushing free of the arm and hand wielding the knife, throwing herself forward. As she fell, she dumped the contents of her purse out in front of her on the floor. This had to be fast. She wouldn’t have time to root through the purse.

The killer was still frozen with surprise, but that would last only another few seconds.

She fell with an “Oomph!” onto the array of items that had spilled out of her purse onto the carpet. One of the largest objects was pressing against her rib cage, just beneath her right breast. It was either her wallet or her small .22-caliber Smith & Wesson handgun.

She rolled to the side, fumbling for whatever it was, and was dismayed to see that it was her wallet.

But lying right next to it was the small nickel-plated semiautomatic. Her hand darted toward the gun.

The killer tried to stamp on her hand, but just missed and merely thumped his foot on the carpet.

He’d figured the odds even before Weaver had considered them. He made the errant stamp serve as his first step toward the door.

He was opening the door as she was snatching up the gun.

He was through it as she aimed.

She knew the door was closing behind him but fired anyway. The shot was like a loud slap with an immediate double echo as the bullet penetrated the slammed door.

Weaver, trembling, was sitting up now, gripping the small gun with both hands, still aimed at the door. But she knew she couldn’t fire a second shot. Not blind, through a closed door. The area outside the door had been momentarily blocked when the killer had closed it behind him. Now that space might be filled by a curious neighbor.

Or by Weaver’s assailant, crumpled on the hall floor, dead or wounded.

She got shakily to her feet and plodded toward the door, keeping the gun raised and ready. When she got close she saw the neat round bullet hole in the door, about four feet above the floor. With the gun in her right hand, she used her left to rotate the knob and pull the door open slowly.

The bullet had chipped out a long vertical splinter as it passed through the door on the other side. Weaver opened the door another six inches and peered out into the hall.

Nothing. No one was lying on the floor. There was no sign of blood. Not enough noise had been made by her small-caliber gun to rouse any of the neighbors. They might have heard a door slamming, making a funny kind of sound, but so what? Maybe a family argument or lovers’ quarrel. Maybe something even more serious. Nothing they’d want to be involved in.

Weaver walked to the stairwell and back, and saw no blood on the hall’s tiled floor. Apparently her shot had missed the killer entirely.

She had little doubt that her assailant had been D.O.A. For the past several days she’d been well aware that she was being watched, followed. Not all the time, but sometimes almost every day.

Helen the profiler had warned them that D.O.A. might try to get to Quinn through Pearl or Weaver—maybe even Pearl’s daughter Jody. All three women were supposed to be taking special care.

But was special care enough to stop a special killer?

Her heart still hammering, Weaver trudged back to her apartment to phone Quinn. She wished she’d gotten a better look at the killer’s face, but in the dim light all she’d seen was a shadowed figure. Dark hair, but she didn’t know how dark. Average height, maybe slightly on the tall side. Strong. She remembered the strength almost humming like electricity through his body as he’d held her fast to him and near death at the point of a knife.

He was strong beneath his damp raincoat, and he knew what he was doing.

As she got closer to her apartment door she looked again at the vertical splintered exit hole made by the bullet she’d fired. The building’s doors were staggered. When she looked to the opposite side of the hall, she couldn’t see anyplace where the bullet might have entered and embedded itself in the wall. Which suggested that the shot she’d gotten off might be lodged in her assailant.

Weaver turned again toward her apartment. She would need a new door, but not immediately. This one would still prove a barrier when locked.

She wouldn’t have to change her locks. Obviously, the killer hadn’t had a key, or he wouldn’t have had to force his way in behind her. He would have been waiting for her inside her apartment.

But Weaver was curious. She went to one of the dimly glowing ornate sconces on the hall wall and reached for where she kept a spare door key on top of the ancient brass. The key she would use if she lost her purse, along with her entire set of keys. Or if, for some inexplicable reason, the key she usually used simply didn’t work.

The key wasn’t there.

She stood on tiptoe and felt around again for it, this time more carefully.

Plenty of dust. No key.

So he might well have had her spare key but still chose to wait for her outside her apartment and force his way inside with her. Frighten her all the more.

And leave me with the impression that he doesn’t have a key. No need to change the locks.

This was part of his game! He was going to torture me but not kill me. He isn’t finished with me!

But she knew that was probably wild imagination. It was unlikely the killer planned so intricately and trusted so much to what might occur.

She locked the door, using the same key on knob lock and dead bolt, even though the killer might well possess her spare door key, then shoved the heavy sofa in front of it. She placed some dishes on the sofa arm so they’d fall and break, and awaken her if someone tried to visit her during the night.

Someone with a key.

Weaver would wait until tomorrow morning, when the shops were open, to call a locksmith.

She wouldn’t wait to call Quinn.

After talking to Quinn, she would call Renz.

It struck her as odd that she wanted to tell Quinn first. She was NYPD and first of all worked for Renz.

Didn’t she?

She decided she’d better call Renz first.

36

They were in the living room of the West Side brownstone. The sun was about to set. It sent slanted lances of golden light through the tall windows, illuminating lazily swirling dust motes. Quinn had just finished telling Pearl about his conversation with Ida Tucker, when his cell phone buzzed. He dug the phone out of his pocket and saw the call was from Nancy Weaver.

Quinn walked into the dining room so neither Pearl nor Jody, who was directly upstairs in her bedroom above the living room, would overhear.

When he returned, the expression on his face made Pearl worry. It was probably a case call on his cell, and judging by his expression, it didn’t figure to be good news.

“The bastard tried to get Weaver,” Quinn said. His jaw was set, his eyes were narrowed, and a vein in his temple pulsated. Just then, he looked more like a determined thug than a former NYPD captain. He scared Pearl when he looked that way. Lots of things might happen.

Pearl was sitting half sideways on the sofa, so her legs were resting on the cushions, as she listened to Quinn. She looked concerned but not surprised.

“I hope Nancy fed him pieces of himself,” she said.

“No,” Quinn said. “But almost.” He related what Weaver had told him about D.O.A.’s attempt on her life. The near miss with the purse gun she carried when she was out of uniform and went without her Glock.