“These three,” Beam said. “Bradley Aimes, Sal Palmetto, and Irwin Breach. They seem to have had the most publicity, and all three defendants sure as hell looked guilty but were allowed to walk.”

“At least that’s what the public thought,” Nell said.

“Still thinks,” Beam added. “Which means murdering someone who had any part in their trials will only make the Justice Killer more…famous.”

He’d almost said popular.

“Breach is dead,” Looper said. “Hanged himself in a holding cell when he was arrested on a later burglary charge.”

“And Palmetto’s left the country,” Nell said. “He lives someplace now in Spain or Italy.”

“A perpetual vacation,” Looper said in disgust.

“It’s the jurors we’re most interested in,” Beam said. “And we can’t rule out Aimes as a potential victim. Not with this killer.” He laid the three files out side by side on the desk. “You take the Palmetto jury,” he said to Looper. “Make sure they know the danger to them, and at the same time try to find out anything they might know that might help us.” To Nell, “You get the folks who gave Breach a free pass.” He tapped the remaining file with his forefinger. “I’ll do the Bradley Aimes jury.”

“Loop and I already talked to the Dixon family as potential suspects,” Nell said.

“You wanna do that jury?” Beam asked.

“I don’t see where it makes any difference. Not unless we seriously consider any of the Dixon family members suspects.”

Looper gave her a look over the Palmetto file. “Do we?”

Nell shook her head. “Not a chance. All they are in my view are Bradley Aimes’s secondary victims. Somebody kills Aimes, I guess we’d need to consider the Dixons, but it’d only be routine as far as I’m concerned. No more likely than Genelle Dixon returning from the dead to kill Aimes.”

“I’ve never known that kind of thing to happen,” Looper said. He sniffed the air. Beam wondered if he could smell the cigars sealed in their desktop humidor. Beam could.

“Okay, then,” Beam said, standing up behind his desk. “I’ll do Carl Dudman. He was foreman of the Aimes jury.”

“I’ve seen his real estate agency ads in the papers,” Looper said. “He sells high end property. Guy like that, he’s probably too rich to be in much danger.”

Nell and Beam looked at each other. Maybe Looper was right; neither could, offhand, think of a serial killer case where the victims were wealthy, their murders spread over a period of time and following a psychotic theme.

But then, the killer they were chasing had a nasty unpredictable streak in him.

Beam picked up the phone to dial information for a number for Dudman Properties.

He watched Nell and Looper leave the den, and as he was jotting down the phone number, heard them find their own way out.

It was surprisingly easy to see Carl Dudman. His offices were in Tribeca, in a tall, prewar building that covered half a block and contained three banks at street level. It was being remodeled, and while no one was visibly working at the moment, the main entrance was flanked by iron scaffolding painted a dull, flaking red. Pedestrians streamed over plywood that covered mud where the sidewalk had been torn up. The city was an organic being that changed constantly, and its citizens understood and accepted it.

The building’s lobby was a symphony of oak paneling, polished brass, and dark-veined marble. Temporary but neatly painted signs directed visitors to the street-level bank entrances. A uniformed attendant behind a marble desk gave directions to Beam and had him sign in.

Dudman Properties occupied the building’s entire ninth floor. Beam elevatored up in about a second and a half. A trim, efficient gray-haired woman, wearing a severe dark skirt and blazer with a white blouse and man’s maroon tie, had him wait only a few minutes before ushering him into Dudman’s office.

Dudman was standing behind his desk, smiling slightly and looking curious. He was about five-foot nine and broad shouldered, his chalk-stripe, double-breasted suit buttoned across a flat stomach. He had a broad, handsome face with a shiny, protruding forehead, and the over-groomed, rested look of a man who ate well, slept in pajamas, wore a robe to breakfast, and had just stepped from a shower into clothes that had been laid out by a valet. Beam thought all of that might be true.

He shook Beam’s hand with a firm grip but didn’t make it a contest. “Effie said you were police.”

Beam smiled. “Effie was right. Detective Beam, Homicide, NYPD.” He reached for his shield, but Dudman waved a hand to stay the effort. He trusted Beam. Or knew about him.

“Captain Artemis Beam. Retired. Sort of.”

Beam almost winced. He didn’t like people using his given name. Few knew it. He was sure Dudman was letting him know he was one of the few. “You’re ahead of the game, Mr. Dudman.”

“Only way to play,” Dudman said. “It isn’t difficult to learn about you, Detective Beam. You’re getting a great deal of publicity right now because of the Justice Killer investigation.”

“Unfortunately,” Beam said. He was sure the name Artemis hadn’t been printed or mentioned on TV news. Well, not sure. How could he be?

“Why unfortunate? I would think you’d enjoy being a celebrity.”

“It can be inconvenient. I’d rather only the killer was a celebrity.”

“Why so?”

“It can be convenient.”

Dudman grinned. The guy was a game player who obviously relished verbal fencing.

“The investigation is what brings me here, Mr. Dudman.”

“Carl, please. I hope I’m not a suspect.”

“You know better, Carl.”

Dudman’s grin became a thin smile, letting Beam know their little joust was ended and it was time to get to the point, he was a busy man. “Yes. To the Justice Killer, I’m a prospective victim.” He motioned for Beam to sit down in an overstuffed black leather chair facing the desk. “Maybe even a tempting one, as I’ve done quite well with my business since the Bradley Aimes trial. It’s always more fun to kill somebody rich.”

Beam sat. The chair hissed and enveloped him like a creature that might devour his body slowly and at will. But the damned thing was sure comfortable. “So far,” he said, “the killer seems to be fairly democratic when it comes to victims. I wouldn’t let your wealth bother you, sir. But that doesn’t alter why I came here, which is to make certain you understand that you need to be cautious about your vulnerabilities.”

“I’ve considered that, Detective Beam, and I have few vulnerabilities. I’m one of the lucky potential victims who can afford tight security.”

“I got in easily to see you,” Beam said.

Dudman gave him a smug look, then pressed a button behind his desk.

A door opened on Beam’s left. A large man in a dark suit stepped into the office. He had a buzz cut but with a thatch of longer, gray-shot black hair in front, no nonsense brown eyes, a nose that had been broken a few times, and a balanced way of standing suggesting that despite his bulk he could be lightning in any direction.

“This is Chris Talbotson of Talbotson Security,” Dudman said. “He’s modest, so I’ll tell you he’s a former martial arts champion and Navy Seal, a decorated veteran. His two brothers are almost as qualified, as are all Talbotson employees.”

Beam nodded at Talbotson. “I’ve heard of your firm. It’s a good one.”

Talbotson didn’t smile, but said, “Thank you. Fifteen minutes after your phone call, we had you researched and entered in our data banks, sir. We have tape of you entering the building. Your identification was verified before you left the elevator. And I’ve been observing and listening to the conversation since you arrived.”

“Impressive,” Beam admitted. He looked at Dudman. “What about your family?”

“If I had one,” Dudman said, “I’d be terrified for them. It didn’t escape me that the late Tina Flitt was the wife of a jury foreman.”