‘Five fucking hours in Harlem’s shit for forty-two-thousand dollars a year, Harper! No sleep, no nothing. It smells worse than a body in that dump,’ said Swanson.

Harper clapped. ‘But you found it! You’re a hero.’

‘Six fucking hours.’

‘You said five,’ said Eddie. ‘Either I’m not hearing things right or that’s one quick hour.’

‘Fuck you,’ said Swanson. ‘Six or seven hours, what’s the difference?’

‘How comes he’s all dirty and you’re clean, Greco?’

‘They offered us white suits, but Mr Macho found the onesies a little effeminate.’

‘I’m not wearing a fucking Babygro.’

‘No, you’re wearing cabbage and diapers by the smell of you.’

‘You got it, though, am I right?’ said Harper.

‘Yeah, we got it, all right,’ said Swanson.

‘What’s in there?’

Swanson took off his jacket and threw it straight into the bin. ‘I can’t wear this no more. It’s going to remind me of stamping through a container of putrid Harlem crap.’

‘What’s in the bags, Swanson? Focus.’

‘He’s not as smart as he thinks,’ said Swanson. ‘He’s bagged the lot together. We weren’t getting anywhere until the canine unit brought in the sniffer dogs.’

‘We would’ve been another twelve hours,’ said Mary. ‘And this macho pig moans like a girl with a broken nail. Every five seconds. I couldn’t stand it any more.’

‘We got a rag of Capske’s blood from Forensics and they found it. You know what? I hate being second to a dog.’

‘In every way, Swanson,’ said Mary Greco. ‘In every way.’

Rick Swanson muttered something. He pulled off his shoes and put them in the trash too. ‘The fucking canine unit… if they’d come first, I wouldn’t have ruined my suit and shoes.’

‘The department will clean your suit,’ said Harper. ‘For the last time, what’s in the bag?’

‘The whole shebang. Gloves, remnants of wire on a wooden spool, knife and overalls.’

‘Weapon?’

‘No gun.’

‘Let’s get it straight to the lab.’ Harper looked at his team. ‘That’s good work, guys. Real good work. Let’s hope they find something for us to go on.’

Chapter Twenty-One

North Manhattan Homicide

March 8, 11.30 a.m.

Denise Levene was wearing a smart black suit, a white blouse and glasses. She breathed slowly, trying to control the nerves that were making her hands tremble. It was impossible to know if what she was doing was right for her, but it no longer mattered. She needed progress.

She walked right back into the North Manhattan Homicide investigation room and stood there. She felt her world begin to click back into place. No one looked up. No one noticed her. She looked down at the old blue carpet, at the tar spots, at the discarded gum that had turned gray.

She held back tears, but they were not tears of fear, they were tears of pride. She had made it through the door. She had thought about it a hundred times, and every time she’d backed out, unable to even make it to the door. Now she was there.

Mark Garcia turned. He was wearing a pink shirt and even from a distance, Denise could smell his cologne. It took a moment for him to identify the woman in front of him, to place the pale face that he hadn’t seen for three months. Then recognition dawned on him. ‘Hey, fellas, look who’s come back home!’

The other detectives turned. Apart from Gerry Ratten, they’d all worked the American Devil case. Harper felt the hairs on his neck stiffen as he turned and saw Denise standing there in the doorway, in the same black suit that she’d worn the day he met her, when she was safely ensconced in One Police Plaza as a psychotherapist who looked at the aftermath of trauma and kept her distance from the streets.

Rick Swanson had pulled on his gym kit, a Yankees sweat top and a pair of black sweatpants. He was a mean and cynical son of a bitch, but even he felt the atmosphere and smiled.

Garcia took a glance around the room. The detectives of Blue Team were a tight group and Denise had worked with them and suffered for it. A team didn’t forget that. Garcia started to clap. The others joined in. And Denise Levene stood, her cheeks flushed red, not knowing where to look. Harper stared at her, brimming with pride and a strange fear. Whatever she’d been through, they had to make sure it wasn’t repeated.

The clapping died down. ‘How the hell are you?’ said Swanson. ‘Took your time. I thought as a psychologist you could’ve healed yourself.’

‘I’m wondering how you’ve all got time for applauding some amateur profiler when you’ve got a case to work. I hear it’s a bad one.’

She walked directly to the coffee pot and poured herself a cup. Harper sidled up. ‘Denise,’ he said. ‘I—’

‘Don’t say a goddamn thing or I’m going to break here.’

Harper closed his mouth, took a step back, let her regain composure. ‘Welcome home, Denise,’ he said.

Denise leaned her back against the wall and took a look around the room. ‘Feels odd to be back in here. Nice cubicles. You’ve been busy building.’

‘You haven’t seen the Captain since he spent some time in the Bronx.’

‘Always captures the big ideas, doesn’t he?’

Harper nodded. ‘You get anywhere with Abby?’

‘Yes, thanks to you. I met some real morons. The worst was Leo Lukanov. Leo gave a false alibi for the evening when Abby disappeared, and it transpires that Dr Goldenberg saw him the day before in a car outside the house. So we’ve got extra time on the case.’

‘That’s good. You were brave to go over there.’

‘Well, I’m feeling better. I’m here to return the favor.’

‘Profile?’

‘I can try.’ Denise spotted a wiry fair-haired man in one of the new cubicles, who had eyed her a few times. She nodded towards him. ‘Is he the competition?’

‘The kid in the corner with the snarl? He’s the FBI’s boy. New profiler from the New York Field Office. He’s squaring up for a battle. He’s heard about you. You’re all we talk about.’

‘Only to piss him off, I hope.’

‘Yeah, only to piss him off. Second-rate, unfortunately, even though he’s trying.’

‘Well, let’s hope that’s good enough.’

Harper laughed. ‘You’re going to kill him. It’s not a fair fight. Not fair at all.’

‘Where are you on the case?’ asked Denise. ‘We’re waiting for something to break,’ Harper told her. ‘We found the killer’s kill kit last night. We’re just checking out leads.’

‘Good, that’s progress.’

‘Well, I’ve got the case-files set up for you. Take your time, just as long as you’ve got something by this afternoon.’

Denise looked up. ‘No honeymoon period? This really is like old times. Where are you headed?’

Harper picked up his coat. ‘I’m going to check out some barbed-wire manufacturers.’

‘Lucky you,’ said Denise.

Chapter Twenty-Two

North Manhattan Homicide

March 8, 12.30 p.m.

Harper arrived back at the precinct. He had news about the barbed wire to give Lafayette. What he had was good but he needed something more. He approached Eddie. ‘I got your message. Where are they?’

‘In the interview room.’

‘How sure are you?’

‘It’s good, Harps.’

They headed straight for a small interview room that had been set up with three phones. Three Chinese cops were on the phones, speaking in Mandarin.

‘They traced the number, like I asked?’ said Harper.

‘Just like you asked.’

‘And they got something?’

‘They did. Harps, you were right.’

‘I don’t care about right, I care about catching this guy. Let’s see what they got.’

‘The purple serial number you found on the spool was our only lead,’ said Eddie. ‘We’ve been chasing that number all morning. We reckon the barbed wire is a Chinese import, and the serial number had an import number next to it. We traced the import number through shipping number via customs. We’re tracking down manufacturers.’