“He’s obviously a big admirer of Kendra’s, which would fit the profile of our copycat. He commented on many of her cases in the online forums. But he also visited Colby for some reason.”

“You’re right,” Lynch said. “We should talk to him.” He turned to Kendra. “Shall we take this one?”

Kendra nodded emphatically. The disappointment she had suffered about the identity of Kagan was still with her. She did not want this morning’s work to be a complete waste.

“Let’s do it.”

*   *   *

“WARREN’S BUILDINGISBEING marketed as a collection of artist lofts,” Kendra said as she walked with Lynch toward the Ash Street address. The building was nestled in the heart of Little Italy, which had recently emerged as a trendy neighborhood of restaurants, coffee shops, and art galleries.

Kendra glanced down the street. “I like this neighborhood. I come here most Saturday mornings for the farmer’s market.”

“That’s interesting. I stay away from here most Saturday mornings for the exact same reason. Street closures aren’t my thing.”

“Huh. You might think it was worth it if you used veggies for something other than a garnish for those strong alcoholic drinks you pound back.”

“You may have a point there.” Lynch found David Warren’s name on the building directory and pressed the buzzer.

After a moment, a young man’s voice came from the intercom. “Yeah?”

“David Warren?”

Long pause.

“Yeah?”

“My name is Adam Lynch. I’m here with Kendra Michaels. We wondered if we might—”

The buzzer sounded, and the front door unlocked.

Lynch grabbed the door and swung it open. “Looks like I found the magic words: ‘Kendra Michaels.’”

“Somehow, that isn’t very comforting.”

They entered the lobby and climbed the open stairway to the third floor. Except for the light hardwood floors, the building interior was entirely white, with a minimalist aesthetic that bordered on antiseptic.

Hard-driving metal music pounded their ears as they approached Warren’s door, which was open a few inches.

Lynch grimaced. “Can’t stand that stuff.”

“It’s Queensryche. You should try opening your mind a little.”

“I know who it is. It’s just that as far as their lead singers go, Todd La Torre doesn’t hold a candle to Jeff Tate.”

Kendra’s eyes widened. “Wow.”

“Impressed?”

“In shock. This conversation isn’t over.”

Lynch leaned into the open doorway. “Hello?”

No answer.

Lynch and Kendra exchanged a glance.

“It could be Myatt in there.” Kendra tensed. “I hope to hell I recognize him in some way. That damn disguise he used at the Harvey house…”

Lynch nodded and moved his jacket just enough to put his holstered automatic within easy reach. He pressed on the door with his fingertips.

“Hello?”

They walked into the apartment, which, like most so-called artist lofts, featured high ceilings, exposed ductwork, and ample natural light. In keeping with the minimalist design, there was almost no furniture. In-progress artwork leaned against almost every available inch of wall space and several of the large windows.

“Just one minute!” At the far end of the room, a thin young man in an untucked pink flannel shirt held a paint-spray gun in each hand. He moved back and forth in front of a tall canvas, firing off bursts of red and pink paint. His face was covered by a twin-filtered mask that reminded Kendra of a robotic sci-fi villain.

She didn’t have to see his features. “It’s not Myatt,” she murmured to Lynch. “Warren is almost a foot shorter than the man I saw at Corrine Harvey’s.”

“I’m at a crucial point,” Warren shouted over the music. His voice was muffled by the mask in a way that only bolstered the sci-fi-villain vibe.

Kendra stared at the canvas as he paced back and forth and sprayed more paint from every conceivable angle. It was chaotic and abstract in a way that gave modern art a bad name, with no form or meaning.

But then, with a few deft bursts from the spray gun, that all changed. What had appeared to be random suddenly became nuanced and complex; what had appeared unsightly was now beautiful.

Kendra gasped.

The painting was of her.

The artist yanked off his mask to reveal a pair of dark eyes, a beaklike nose, and a reddish brown goatee. “You weren’t sure about it at first, were you?”

Kendra studied the painting, which was a larger-than-life representation of her profile. Her head was tilted down slightly, and her eyes were closed. “It’s beautiful.”

“It’s shit. But I’ll keep working at it.” He looked between her and Lynch. “I’m David Warren. What do you want?”

“We’re investigating a series of murders, and we’d like to ask you some questions,” Lynch said.

“Why me?”

Lynch shrugged. “We’re looking for a twisted son of a bitch with a fascination for serial killers and Kendra Michaels. Sound like anybody you know?”

“I’m fascinated with purity.” Warren walked over to the portable stereo, where his iPhone was docked. He punched a button and turned off the music. “There’s nothing more to it than that.”

Kendra shook her head. “Pure? No one could describe me as pure.”

“Not you. I’m talking about Eric Colby.”

Lynch raised his eyebrows. “You think Colby is pure?”

“Of course. Evil is often pure. There’s no good, no light, to be found in someone like him. Just darkness. But in the so-called good people, there’s always a bit of darkness mixed in with the light.”

“You sound like Colby talking,” Kendra said.

Warren flashed them a thin-lipped smile. “You say that like it’s not a compliment.”

“Is this something you and he have discussed?” Lynch asked.

“I don’t remember. Our time together was very limited. I only visited him once, but, of course, you know that. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

Kendra noticed that Warren wasn’t looking at them when he spoke. His eyes were focused on the painting, and she and Lynch appeared to be just minor distractions, like flies buzzing around while he tried to work.

“What possessed you to visit Colby?” Lynch asked.

“I have a show coming up at a gallery down the street. One of the main theses is the nature of evil. I corresponded with him a bit, then I asked if I could see him. He agreed.”

“What did you talk about?”

“His murders. What he was thinking and feeling during each one.”

“Pleasant.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be pleasant. I was trying to understand him and others like him. I’m not interested in just painting what people look like. I need to work from the inside out, what they think and feel. Otherwise, I might as well be a portrait photographer at Sears.”

“Did Colby ask you to do any favors for him?” Lynch asked.

“Like what? Commit murder? Uh, no.” Warren glanced over at Kendra. “But I did send him a few pictures I found of you online. It’s all he ever asked of me.”

“How many pictures?” Lynch asked.

“Thirty or forty. I got the impression he had already gathered quite a collection from his other pen pals.”

Lynch took a step closer to Warren and his voice lowered to soft menace. “Dr. Michaels here has been the focus of a lot of your online time, hasn’t she? You’ve written about her at great length in a few different true-crime forums.”

“You have done your homework, haven’t you?” For the first time, Warren was studying Lynch with something approaching respect. “Just more information-gathering. She’s squared off against some of the darkest souls imaginable. What does it take to defeat and outsmart people like this again and again? How do they affect you? Do you become more like them, or does it make you run even further from that side of yourself?”

“We’re here to ask questions, not answer them,” Lynch said. “Where were you between midnight and 3 A.M. this morning?”