“Well, it’s obvious there’s something about it you love.

But if you’re not serving dessert tonight, I’m outta here.“

I carried the dishes to the sink and walked Mike to the door. He’d be back at six-thirty to pick me up so we could make an early shuttle to Boston in the morning.

“Lock up after I go, kid. The Nineteenth Precinct has a uniformed cop in the lobby all night he was supposed to arrive at eight tonight and be on till I get here in the morning. I’ll check on the way out.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I murmured, although I was actually glad to think someone would be backing Victor up at the door.

“Don’t invite him up and distract him, blondie. If you get lonely, call for the doc next door. The cop they send for a job like this is likely to be too young for you, don’t you think?”

“Too tired to think, Mike. Good night.”

I took the copy of W that arrived in today’s mail into the bathroom, ran the water as hot as I could stand it, poured a few more drops of Chanel into the tub, and climbed in to decompress.

As hard as I tried to lose myself in the smashing outfits for spring and the gaunt models who obviously didn’t indulge in a lot of Steve’s pizza, my mind kept making its own connections. I thought back to what I had told the serial rape victim Katherine Fryer in my office earlier this morning: like it or not, try or not, you will have flashbacks; things you see and hear will trigger memories of events or conversations, and some of them will be significant to the investigation.

Now things were forcing themselves through my own head. Mike’s parting joke about calling the doc next door and the earlier coincidence of running into David Mitchell and the fact that David is a shrink and my skepticism about my own need for a shrink. It all connected back to where I did not want to go at that precise point in time:

Isabella.

Why had I blown her off so abruptly when she talked about a second stalker? I knew I was feeling guilty for having done it, since he might have been her killer. Now my mind was racing as the chain of thoughts kept triggering portions of her phone calls to me. What had she said about a shrink? I know she had used that expression in one of our talks, but I couldn’t remember whether she said she was seeing one because of the stalker or that she was imagining that the stalker was a psychiatrist.

There would be more flashbacks to conversation, I knew, especially if I tried to ignore them. Tomorrow I could call Nina in L.A. and she would undoubtedly know more about it. She probably listened to Isabella more seriously than I did and would know the significance of the reference to the shrink. I took my own advice and got out of the bathtub, wrapped myself in a towel, and walked to the desk to write down my chain of thoughts, just as I told my victims to do.

Then I started to dry myself off and set the alarm for 6 A.M.

Before I could settle comfortably onto the bed, the telephone rang. I picked it up and said, “Hello,” only to be met by dead silence. I repeated my greeting and again got no response. I reached over to replace the receiver in its cradle, shivering from head to toe as I did so, and convincing myself that the chills were caused by my emergence from the late-night bath, and not by the eerie stillness on the phone line. I pulled up the covers and concentrated on the hopeless task of falling asleep for a few hours, before setting off to see how my beloved Vineyard road had been turned into the scene of a murder.

CHAPTER 4

Mike was in front of the building exactly on time, with a cup of black coffee for each of us. Neither he nor I functions well in the early morning, so we were quiet on the short ride to La Guardia. He parked his car at the Port Authority Police Building and the cops dropped us off at the old deco Marine Air Terminal that services the Delta Shuttle.

My bodyguard happened to be terrified of flying so he was also a bit subdued for that reason. It always amazed me that a guy who was so fearless in the face of homicidal maniacs and bloodthirsty drug lords was frightened of airplane travel, but we had been to Chicago and Miami together for extradition hearings so I knew that Mike would be saying novenas until we were up and down safely on each leg of the trip. The odds of an NYPD detective being killed by crossfire on a street in Washington Heights were far greater than his dying in a plane crash, but we each have our own demons and I wasn’t about to mess with his.

The jet lifted quickly off runway three-three on the cloudless morning, and as the copilot suggested that the passengers on the right-hand side of the plane enjoy the sweeping view of the Manhattan skyline on a clear day, Mike’s gaze was fixed out the window on the sight of something below us to the left.

“There’s only one thing that takes the edge off a flight out of La Guardia for me,” he remarked.

“If we go down around here, there’s a good shot that we wind up plastered all over Riker’s Island, and I get to take a few of those scumbags with me to their final resting place.”

“A generous thought.” Riker’s Island, four hundred acres of sanitary landfill sitting in the East River just opposite the extended airport runways, houses the main inmate population for the City of New York. It’s not quite Alcatraz, but the strong currents curtailed efforts at water escapes, and unlike the Tombs, it also holds sentenced prisoners.

As we headed out over Long Island Sound, I tried to distract Mike by telling him more about Martha’s Vineyard.

“It’s not just the beauty of its beaches and the fact that it’s such a popular summer resort, but it’s a truly unusual place with a fascinating history.”

I had been going to the island for so many years that I had to think back about things that it had surprised me to learn on those first trips.

“The Vineyard’s a bit longer than twenty-two miles and about ten miles wide at the deepest point – the largest island in New England but the topography is incredibly varied, quite unlike Long Island or Nantucket. There are six separate towns, and each one is entirely different in character and appearance.”

“People live there all year?”

“Yeah, probably not more than fifteen thousand permanent residents. Then the population swells to close to eighty thousand when the ” summer people“ and vacationers swarm on.”

I explained to Mike that it was settled by the English in 1642 and governed by the Duke of York, hence the fact that it is located in Dukes County. It was actually a part of the state of New York for its first half-century like Kings, Queens, and Dutchess counties then annexed to Massachusetts, which is only seven miles across the Vineyard Sound.

“How can each of the towns be so different, all on the same island?”

“Two ways, actually,” I answered.

“One is simply the variety of the land. There are great harbors that launched the whaling industry in America centuries ago, thousands of acres of protected forest in the middle of the island, rolling hills that supported sheep farming and an agricultural base further west, and miles of the most glorious beaches you’d ever want to see that stretch from one tip of the island to the other.

“And the other is the way each of the towns has grown up around one way of life or another, as a result of the varied geography. Start with Edgartown at the eastern end of the Vineyard. It’s a classic New England village with rows of elegant white houses and churches and shops, quite formal in the Federal style, trimmed with fences and fabulous gardens which spill onto the brick sidewalks in summer.

The large old homes are the legacy of the whaling captains who built them in the early nineteenth century, when the island was the center of that industry.“