‘Don’t tell me what I’ve got. They’ve taken the lot. My wife, my money, my freedom. Don’t tell me what to think, Karl, they took it all and they’ll take it from you too, if you sit back and let them. This government is destroying us. Our own government is infected with their thinking. We need to do something.’

Martin wandered back to his seat with another cool one. He twisted open the bottle and put it to his lips. The cold beer passed across his tongue and down his throat. He wiped his mouth. ‘I should do something positive, you’re right. You’re right, Karl, I got to do something real positive. Not wait around for the fucking world to change. Do something. You hear that? We got to do something. You got that fucking right.’

Chapter Fifty-Four

North Manhattan Homicide

March 10, 6.23 p.m.

Harper walked out of the investigation room, leaving Denise to work on the profile. He took two more codeine pills, knowing that in fifteen minutes he’d feel the subtle change of mood, a feeling of peace — happiness even. It was low enough, background enough to carry on working.

He felt in his pocket for the small piece of card. What did he do now? He pulled out the card. Erin Nash’s name in red lettering. She knew something and was interested in what was happening out there. She would sense what was going on. Erin Nash would maybe write an article that could help them to steer things.

There was plenty to write about, Carney had been clear about it. There was hate crime all over. Maybe Erin could upset the ship a little, warn the public about this freak. Maybe get Heming’s picture out there.

He dialed her number. Erin answered immediately. ‘Who’s calling?’

‘Detective Harper, NYPD.’

‘So formal. Tom, good to hear from you. I’ll book us a nice cosy table in Greenwich Village.’

‘What?’

‘You want to talk to me about this serial killer, I’m guessing, so why not talk somewhere comfortable?’

‘How did you know what I want?’

‘I’ve got many friends. They all like to talk to me. Some like more than that.’

‘What are they telling you?’

‘That Harper thinks there’s a hate killer out there. A pattern killer. Maybe a killer with a racial motivation.’

‘You work this out?’

‘I heard about the new body on Lower East Side. I also heard you were looking into the Esther Haeber murder. That’s three dead Jews, Harper. I can count, you know. That makes a series.’

‘How do you get all this information?’

‘I don’t know — I think it’s something to do with my nature. People just like to open up to me.’

‘I know your nature and you’ll do whatever you have to in order to get information, including debasing yourself.’

‘Nothing debased in sleeping with a cop, Detective. You should have more self-esteem.’

‘Well, I don’t.’

‘Come on, Harper, lighten up. I like you, let’s get together. See what happens.’

‘To talk about the case.’

‘And that too,’ said Erin.

‘Two Jewish women and one Jewish man got shot. But there’s no real connection. I might be way off-track.’

‘That’s not your style, you’re usually spot on. Of course, you might not have been calling about the case at all. Let’s consider that for a moment. I look forward to seeing you, Tom. Be nice working together — unless, of course, it’s something else you’re after.’

‘What’s the restaurant?’

‘Little deli. Nice place. Mosha’s.’ She gave him the address. ‘See you in one hour.’

Harper ended the call. Erin Nash was used to using people, but in this case, Harper had an idea, a way of getting a great big spotlight turned on these murders. He needed Nash, because he needed the public to start giving him information.

Chapter Fifty-Five

Mosha’s Diner, The Village

March 10, 7.28 p.m.

Mosha’s was a simple table-screwed-to-the-floor Jewish deli that had once had a reputation for the best something or other, but had long since stopped giving a damn for quality just so long as things were served quickly and people were happy.

Jake Mosh, the owner, still worked the front desk. Harper arrived before Erin Nash and waved towards a seat. ‘I’m waiting for someone,’ he called across to Jake.

‘No way you wait for someone. You order something. This is not a bus stop.’

‘Get me a coffee.’

‘Coffee is not good for you, a man needs to eat. I get you a waiting plate.’

‘Okay.’

‘One waiting plate for the cop.’

Harper looked around.

‘What? You think you look like you write novels in Greenwich Village? You got that cop look, always checking out all the things. Cops have the wandering eye.’

‘You always like this?’

‘Like what? Like noticing things?’

Harper sidled into a tight space in a corner. A cop seat. No one behind him, a good view of the whole deli. He was only just in his seat when a teenager with dark hair put a coffee cup in front of him.

‘Taste it. Best coffee in the world.’

Harper nodded. She was obviously trained by Mosha himself. He took out his cell and checked the bird news. There were reports of Snow Geese upstate, flying high and honking through the night. It was enough to take him away for a moment.

The door opened and in walked a small woman dressed up with several bangles on each arm. She jangled to the counter.

‘Erin, my beautiful bride. We get married soon — you promise?’ said Jake.

‘Oh, yeah, Mosh, very soon. Just after I’ve tried every other man in New York.’

‘I will wait. My wife understands. She was only ever a stand-in.’

Erin was wearing a party dress. Black and silver. Hair done up high on her head. Not the weasel in jeans that Harper had got to know standing outside the precinct. She was looking pretty and elegant.

Erin turned and looked. ‘See my friend took the seat.’

‘I knew he would.’

‘The test always works.’

‘I didn’t know he was yours.’

‘He’s not mine yet. He’s a cop.’

‘I know he’s a cop. Who else wears cologne like that these days?’

Erin Nash walked across and sat opposite Harper. ‘Mosh tells me you’re wearing cologne.’

‘I shaved.’

‘For me?’

‘To avoid being picked up for vagrancy.’

‘Nice and smooth.’

‘This guy, Mosh, he’s a talker.’

‘Yeah, he talks. He’ll shoot you too if you don’t buy something.’

‘I got a waiting plate.’

‘Then you’re in trouble.’

‘You eating?’

‘Mosh will bring me something I like.’

Harper looked at her arms. Thin. Four small tattoos on the under-side of each arm. Possibly Celtic, possibly Chinese. He couldn’t quite see, but that was the gist — origins. Usually someone else’s.

‘You look different.’

‘Are you flattered that I put on a dress?’

‘It doesn’t take much.’

‘Don’t be, I’ve got a launch party. Friend wrote a terrible book and we’ve all got to turn up and smile about it.’

‘What’s it about?’

‘I don’t know. I didn’t ask. You know why? He’s a liberal with too much free time.’

‘A friend.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Let’s cut to the chase, Erin. I don’t want to ruin your evening.’

‘You won’t. I might take you with me. You don’t look so bad.’

A moment later, two waitresses appeared from the side. One carried a small bowl of soup and placed it before Erin. The next moved beside Harper and placed an enormous platter in front of him. It contained everything. Herring, chopped liver, gherkins, a salt-beef sandwich.

‘Jesus.’

‘Not in here, Tom. It’s David and Abraham all the way.’

Harper smiled. He needed someone to bounce ideas off. Someone outside of the NYPD. Erin was not Denise Levene, but she was smart and cynical and she could get his story the angle he needed.

‘Tell me about your family,’ said Erin. ‘I guess you came from a stable little well-meaning unit out in Brooklyn.’