‘He’s made a gas chamber. He’s Jewish? I can’t understand it.’

‘He was adopted. His mother was Jewish, I think, and he was adopted by a Christian family. I think his mother was a prostitute, but I don’t know. I don’t know if he knows. He wanted to find her as a kid, as he was growing up, as he was feeling different, but he couldn’t trace her. He was adopted when he was five. He loved her, you know. Guess she didn’t love him back.’

‘Did they mistreat him?’

‘I guess they did. Not like you’d call social services,’ said Lucy. ‘They just weren’t kind to him.’

‘That’s it?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘What about his father and the shoes in the cellar?’

‘He didn’t have a cellar. I don’t think it’s his story.’

‘Then what’s his problem?’

‘He’s sensitive, I don’t think he was ever loved. I don’t think he could belong. Other kids knew he was Jewish — he was bullied and all that — but he wouldn’t talk about it. He won’t talk about anything that makes him feel weak.’

‘He hurt you?’ said Abby.

‘To some men, Abby, a woman constantly makes them feel weak. He needed me and hated it. He hated my existence. Look — I’m not a psychiatrist.’

‘He joined the cops because he wanted to exert power,’ said Abby.

‘Probably,’ said Lucy.

‘Is there anything that you can remember? Anything that might help us?’

Lucy stared blankly ahead.

Abby waited but nothing came. She walked around the walls, pushing at every brick, looking for a weak point. ‘I’m not going to die like this, Lucy. You got to fucking think.’ She looked at Lucy, who was crying. Abby stood over her. ‘Quit it!’ she rasped. ‘Just fucking quit it.’

Lucy looked up, surprised and upset.

‘I want you to think, Lucy. We need something to get this bastard to think twice, or to pull back. What does he want, Lucy? What does he really want?’

Lucy closed her eyes. ‘He always said he wanted to find his mom. He imagined that she’d be proud of him. A cop. A detective. Big and strong.’

‘Well, she’s not going to be proud of this fucking get-up, is she? Nazi crap. He’s like a child, playing games. I don’t know if it’s real. You look at his eyes and they’re empty.’

‘I’ll try to think of something,’ said Lucy.

Abby paused. She stared out at the Nazi flag. He had become the worst thing he could become. ‘You don’t need to think of something,’ she said. ‘I think you already did.’

Chapter One Hundred and Seven

Brooklyn

March 15, 9.05 a.m.

Harper stood outside the home of Martin Heming and stared at the street. What had they missed? He had nothing from the research on the memorabilia. He walked down the rundown street, looking for a clue as to why these people formed their sick little hate groups. As he reached the subway, he got a call from the Hate Crime Unit.

‘It’s Jack here. How are you, Harper?’

‘I’m out on a limb, Jack. I guess you heard about the operation.’

‘I’m down with Heming’s body now. I heard all right. We’re hoping there’s something on him.’

‘Been there already, I got nothing. Shit, Jack, I went out without authorization last night.’

‘You got to do what you got to do.’

‘That’s okay if it works,’ said Harper. ‘But if it doesn’t?’

‘You got Heming, that’s got to weaken the killer’s position.’

‘That’s true.’

‘No right-hand man to help him out.’

‘No.’

‘Did you see the other guy? See anything at all?’

‘No,’ said Harper. ‘I got nothing.’

Carney’s voice lowered slightly. ‘Listen, Harper, don’t get all fucked up. You tried to find something on Heming. After you left, they did get something. He had a cell phone without a SIM card, right?’

‘That’s right.’

‘We found the SIM card.’

‘Where was it?’

‘In his right sock.’

‘Shit, does it tell you anything?’

‘I think we might have something here, yes.’

‘What have you got?’

‘Heming is the key to finding the killer,’ said Carney.

‘And Lucy and Abby,’ said Harper.

‘Well, Heming must’ve been with the killer, with him in his lair, right?’

‘Right.’

‘With the SIM we can see who he called. We can even get a location on the phone’s position. We can locate where he was when he made the calls.’

‘That’s fucking great, Jack. What have you got?’

‘We’ve got several locations, but the most promising is a set of garages. I’m heading over now to do a drive-by and a little surveillance. You in?’

‘We should get Blue Team and SWAT.’

‘You are Blue Team, Harper. We’ve got the Hate Crime Unit, so we’re not alone. But we can’t be sure he was with the killer, so let’s take a look at this before we call in the cavalry. You don’t want another botch-up, do you? And I certainly don’t.’

‘What’s the address?’

Carney gave him the street name. ‘There is no number for the garages. It’s just a row of dilapidated real estate. There’s a garage on the corner, we’re going to meet up there and see how the land lies.’

‘I’ll be there,’ said Harper.

Chapter One Hundred and Eight

The Brooklyn Library

March 15, 9.09 a.m.

Denise and Aaron Goldenberg sat side by side at two large oak tables. Each of them had the handwritten ledgers for a five-year period. They were flicking through at a pace, their fingers sliding down the pages. All they needed to find was the name of someone who had borrowed the book on Josef Sturbe and this could lead them to Abby, to saving Abby. It wouldn’t be conclusive, but it might give the investigation something.

Denise saw the name Josef Sturbe on the page. She felt herself tingle. ‘I’ve got one here,’ she called out.

‘Who is it?’ said Aaron Goldenberg.

‘Her name’s Hannah Sternberg.’

‘Age?’

‘I need to check her reading card.’ Denise crossed to the large files and searched for Hannah Sternberg. She took it out. ‘She’s about fifty-two now.’

‘Not our killer.’

‘Maybe not, but she’s interested in the Nazis — look at this record.’

Aaron pulled Hannah Sternberg’s reading record. There were several books on Nazis and the ghettos and the Holocaust.

‘She might have been trying to find something,’ said Aaron. His face contorted in pain. ‘But it’s not her, is it? We’re not going to find my Abby. Never, never, never.’

‘Don’t give up now,’ said Denise.

‘I can’t stand it. I miss her like… You could never understand.’

‘No, I couldn’t,’ said Denise. ‘But this is all we’ve got, so let’s keep searching.’

Aaron calmed himself. ‘Yes, for Abby. Because we must always have hope.’ He clenched each fist slowly and continued to search.

Denise’s phone rang a few minutes later. It was Tom Harper. ‘How are things in the archives?’

‘It’s okay, we’re getting through quite fast. Not many people read this book. One so far, a fifty-two-year-old woman.’

‘Keep going,’ said Harper. ‘I’ve got a lead. Set of garages on 118th in Bed-Stuy that we think Heming used when he was in hiding. It just might be the place.’

‘Be safe,’ said Denise. ‘You want help?’

‘I don’t want Aaron around if his daughter’s there. Keep in touch.’

‘Okay,’ said Denise.

‘Call me if you need me.’

‘I will,’ said Denise.

They continued to search. Aaron raised his hand in the air fifteen minutes later. ‘I found another name. A man called Albert Moile.’

‘Go check his file,’ said Denise.

Aaron looked through and found the library record card for Albert Moile. He looked across. ‘If he’s still alive, he’s ninety-five,’ said Aaron.

A moment later Denise’s finger ran down the page and stopped. She saw the name Josef Sturbe again and moved her finger across the ledger to the borrower’s name. She looked down at it and felt her body chill. ‘I’ve got a name,’ she said, with a tremble in her voice. ‘It’s the killer. I know who it is.’