If Richard knew about Edward Hare from the papers he inherited, he could have developed a secret interest in Jack the Ripper. Could have participated in online discussions for years, at Ripperwalk and other sites.

His phone call had come only minutes after she ended her online talk with Abberline. had he phoned to keep the dialogue going?

That was all speculation. Richard might have nothing to do with it. Abberline could be anybody. All she knew about him was that he was on to Hare and was desperate for information.

Desperate...like Harrison Sirk. He’d pressed her for details just as Abberline had. He’d spoken of what “Americans” would say, as if he weren’t one of them; he might feel comfortable impersonating a Brit. He was a crime historian. Perhaps he’d come across Hare’s name in his research.

Or Abberline might be someone else entirely. He could be thousands of miles away—or right down the street. He was one of millions of electronic ciphers who could assume any identity with no fear of being caught.

Yet there was a way to catch them. She’d done it before, when analyzing threats received by e-mail or instant messaging.

She spent a few minutes laying the trap. Once it was set, all she could do was hope he took the bait.

There was no possibility of going back to sleep. The sun was just breaking the horizon. She went for a walk on the beach.

At the edge of the sand she kicked off her shoes, then made her way to the shoreline, where seagulls and sanderlings pecked at clumps of kelp. A homeless camp lay to the south. She avoided the campsite and the Venice Pier, where Marilyn was found. Instead she walked north toward the Santa Monica Pier, the spokes of the Ferris wheel standing out against the pale pink sky. On her way back, she collected a fragment of sea glass, cornflower blue. Blue pieces were rare. She wondered what shipwreck had released this treasure from its hold.

As the homeless camp again came into view, she slowed her steps, asking herself if Richard could be there.

She didn’t think he was living in his apartment these days. He had to be finding shelter someplace. And he was familiar with this stretch of beach.

Cautiously she approached the camp. It was a tent city, the tents made of plastic trash bags taped together. She tried counting the tents but gave up after two dozen.

Not everyone had a tent. Some lay in sleeping bags or under blankets. Others slept without any cover.

She circled the perimeter, looking at each sleeping figure. Nearly all were men, most sporting the matted beards of Biblical prophets. The rare women, leathery and sandblasted, probably weren’t any older than Jennifer herself. She saw no children.

It was hard to tell one person from another. Their bodies had a shapeless look, the result of wearing layers of clothing. The only way to hang on to their clothes was to wear all of them at all times. The prostitutes of Jack the Ripper’s day had done the same thing.

Suddenly Whitechapel didn’t seem so far away.

She completed her circuit of the camp’s boundary. Richard might be deeper inside. Nearly everyone inside the camp was asleep. She would risk a quick look.

She threaded her way among the tents and prostrate human forms. Someone stirred inside a tent; she caught suspicious eyes watching her. Not Richard’s eyes. A man with long stringy hair was coming awake beside a shopping cart. His head snapped up when he spotted her. He bared his canines, growling.

Imitation of animal behavior was a symptom of schizophrenia. She looked away, avoiding eye contact.

Someone else was staring at her. A young beardless man with a hungry look.

This wasn’t good. She’d been noticed. She headed toward an area where the tents were more sparsely distributed.

In her path a man stood up, blinking, not overtly hostile, but not stepping aside to let her pass.

She detoured around another row of tents. A man picking at his toes with a dirty thumbnail glared up at her with red-rimmed eyes.

She was nearly out of the camp when three men stepped forward, blocking her path. She glanced behind her and saw two more men at her back.

She was supposed to be an expert in communication. It was time to communicate.

“Sorry to disturb you.” She hoped she sounded calm. “I’m looking for my brother.”

None of the men spoke.

She took out her wallet and removed a photo of Richard, the last one taken before illness consumed his life. “This is him. Have any of you seen him?”

She held out the photo, waiting to see if anyone would come look.

One of the men in front of her shuffled his sneakers in the sand, then plodded forward. He studied the photo, shook his head, and stepped back, never saying a word.

“Anyone else? I really need to find him.”

“Let me see it.” The voice came from behind her.

She turned and gave the picture to one of the two men who’d approached her from the rear. He held the photo an inch from his face, blinking.

“Haven’t seen him,” he said.

His companion snorted. “You ain’t seen shit since you lost your glasses.”

He grabbed the photo and regarded it coolly. His expression was unreadable. A triangular port-wine stain discolored the left side of his face from his forehead to his chin.

“Yeah,” he said. “I know this guy.”

“Do you know where I can find him?”

“Why should I tell you?”

“I’m his sister. I’m trying to help him.”

The man gazed at her with empty eyes. “I had a sister. I fucking hated her.” He handed back the photo.

“You won’t help me?”

“I think you should get going, lady.”

“If you could just give me some idea —”

“Get lost.” His teeth flashed, yellow against his purple skin.

She wasn’t going to argue, not when she was surrounded by men with hate in their eyes.

“Thanks for your help,” she said bitterly. She turned away and walked directly toward the three men in front of her. This was the moment of maximum danger. If they refused to let her pass, she would be embroiled in a confrontation.

She was close enough to breathe the ripe tang of their body odor when they stepped aside. She kept walking, her heart pumping hard. She passed a few more tents and a shaky cardboard fort, and then she was in the clear. She kept going at a steady pace, afraid to run and perhaps draw pursuit. When she was a safe distance away, she glanced back and saw the same five men standing amid the tents, staring after her.

She’d taken a big chance. A stupid thing to do.

But she thought the man with the port-wine stain did know Richard, and maybe even knew where he was.

twenty-four

At home, she reviewed her notes from the interview with Sandra Price. She detached the pages from her notepad and spread them across the living room floor, organizing the cases by type: homicides, assaults, disappearances. The first homicide was eighteen months ago. That was around the time Richard stopped driving and sold his car. He had retreated into his apartment, or so she’d believed. But maybe not. Maybe even then he had started riding the bus or walking the streets.

But was it possible for someone without a car to carry out a series of attacks in different parts of town?

Of course it was. Edward Hare never had a car in London, and he’d done just fine. The Devil’s Henchman was believed to have traveled on foot, as well.

A man dripping with blood could hardly board an MTA bus. But these crimes weren’t bloody. Mary Ellison was dropped with a blow from a blunt instrument. Elizabeth Custer was strangled. Marilyn Diaz was asphyxiated by a plastic bag.

She still didn’t think the Diaz case was related. The other two were more worrisome, as were the assault on Ann Powell and the disappearance of Chatty Cathy.