"I'm working on a version without the mustache," Oscar said. "She seemeduncertain about the mustache."

"How can she be uncertain about a mustache! He either had one or he didn't! f.u.c.k! f.u.c.k, f.u.c.k, f.u.c.k!

"I won't release it today, that's all," he said mostly to himself.

"We'll hold off, get the girl back in here tomorrow, and try to get somebetter detail."

From the corner of his eye, he could see Oscar drop his head a little.

He looked to be retreating into his beard. Kovac stopped his pacing andlooked at him square.

"We can do that, can't we, Oscar?"

"I'll be pleased to work with Angie again tomorrow. I'd like nothingbetter than to help her unblock her memory flow. Confronting memory isthe first step to neutralizing its negative power. As for the other,you'll have to take it up with Chief Greer. He was in here an hour agoto get a_copy."

"SHE SAW HIS face for two minutes in the light of a burning corpse,Sam," Kate said, leading him into her office, not sure the small s.p.a.cewould hold him. When he was wound, Kovac was a barely contained columnof energy that required perpetual motion.

"She looked directly at the face of a murderer in bright light. Come on,Red. Wouldn't you think the details would be branded, so to speak, inher memory?"

Kate sat back against her desk, crossing her ankles, careful to keep hertoes out of Kovac's way. "I think her memory might improve dramaticallywith the application of a little cash," she said dryly.

"What!"

"She got wind of Bondurant's reward and wants a chunk. Can you blameher, Sam? The kid's got nothing. She's got no one. She's been living onthe street, doing G.o.d knows what to survive."

"Did you explain to her that rewards go out on conviction? We can'tconvict somebody we can't catch. We can't catch somebody we don't have aclue what the h.e.l.l he looks like."

"I know. Hey, you don't have to preach to me. And-word of warning-don't preach to Angie either," Kate said. "She's on the fence, Sam. We couldlose her. Figuratively and literally. You think life's a b.i.t.c.h now,imagine what'll happen if your only witness skips."

"What are you saying? Are you saying we should stick someone on her?"

"Unmarked, low-key, and well back. You set a uniform on the curb infront of the Phoenix, it's only going to make matters worse. She alreadythinks we're treating her like a criminal."

"Lovely," Kovac drawled. "And what else would her highness require?"

"Don't bust my chops," Kate ordered. "I'm on your side. And stop pacing,you'll make yourself dizzy. You're making me dizzy."

Kovac pulled in a deep breath and leaned back against the wall, directlyacross from Kate.

"You knew what to expect from this girl, Sam. Why are you surprised bythis? Or did you just want that composite to be a dead ringer for one ofyour exes?"

His mouth twisted with chagrin. He rubbed a hand across his face andwished for a cigarette. "I got a bad feeling about this deal, Kate," headmitted, "I guess I was hoping for the witness fairy to touch ourlittle Miss Daisy with her wand. Or poke her with it. Or hold it to herhead like a gun. I hoped that maybe the kid would be scared enough totell the truth. Oscar tells me fear precipitates prevarication."

"He's been reading those pop psychology books again, hasn't he?"

"Or something." He heaved a sigh. "Bottom line- I need something tokick-start this investigation or I'll have to go digging in some nastys.h.i.tholes. I guess I was hoping this was it."

"Hold the sketch back a day. I'll bring her in again tomorrow. See ifOscar can apply his mystic powers and draw something out of her-no punintended."

"I don't think I'll be able to hold it back. Big Chief Little d.i.c.k gothis hands on the sketch before me. He'll want to run with it. He'll want to present it at the press conference himself.

"G.o.dd.a.m.n bra.s.s," he grumbled. "They're worse than kids with a case likethis. Everybody wants the credit. Everybody wants their face on the news.

They all have to look important- like they've got s.h.i.t to do with theinvestigation besides get in the way of the real cops."

"That's what's really grating on you, Sam," Kate pointed out. "It's notthe sketch, it's your natural resistance to working under supervision."

He scowled at her. "You been reading Oscar's books too?"

"I have a college degree in brain picking," she reminded him.

"What's the worst that happens if the sketch goes out and it isn'ttotally accurate?"

"I don't know, Kate. This mope barbecues women and cuts their heads off.

What's the worst that could happen?"

"He won't be offended by the sketch," Kate said. "He's more likely to beamused, to think he's outsmarted you again."

"Ahh, so then he'll feet more invincible and be empowered to go out andwhack another one! Swell!"

"Don't be such a fatalist. You can use this to your advantage. AskQuinn. Besides, if the sketch is even partially accurate, you might getsomething off it. Maybe someone out there will remember seeing a similarindividual near a truck. Maybe they'll remember a partial license plate,a dent in a fender, a guy with a limp. You know as well as I do, luckplays into an investigation like this in a big way."

"Yeah, well," Kovac said, reluctantly pushing himself away from thewall.

"We could use a truckload. Soon. So where's the sunshine girl now?"

"I had someone take her back to the Phoenix. She's not happy aboutthat."

"Tough."

"Ditto," Kate said. "She wants a hotel room or an apartment orsomething. I want her with people. Isolation isn't going to open her up.

Plus, I'd like someone keeping an eye on her. Did you go through thatbackpack she carries around?"

"Liska checked it out. Angie was steamed, but, hey, she came runningaway from a headless corpse. We couldn't risk her going psycho andpulling a knife on us. The uniform picked her up should have done it atthe scene, but he was all shook up thinking about Smokey Joe. Stupidrookie. He screws up that way with the wrong mutt, he'll get himselfwhacked."

"Did Nikki find anything?"

He pursed his lips and shook his head. "What are you thinking?

Drugs?"

"I don't know. Maybe, Her behavior is all over the map. She's up, she'sdown, she's tough, she's on the verge of tears. I start to thinksomething's off about her, then I stop and think: My G.o.d, look whatshe's been through. Maybe she's remarkably stable and sane, all thingsconsidered."

"Or maybe she needs a score," Kovac speculated, moving toward the door.

"Maybe that's what she was doing in that park at midnight. I know someguys in narcotics. I'll reach out, see if maybe they know ,this kid. Wegot nothing else on her yet. Wisconsin had nothing,"

"I talked to a Susan Frye in our juvenile division," Kate said. "She'sbeen at this forever.

She's got a great network. Rob is checking his contacts in Wisconsin.

In the meantime, I need to get Angie some kind of perk, Sam. A show ofappreciation. Can you kick her something out of petty cash as aninformant?"

"I'll see what I can do."

Another duty to add to his long list. Poor guy, Kate thought. The .finesin his face seemed deeper today. He had the weight of the city on thosest.u.r.dy shoulders. His suit jacket hung limp on him, as if he had Somehowdrawn the starch out of it to supplement his draining energy.

"Listen, don't worry about it," she said as she pulled the door open, "Ican weasel it out of your lieutenant myself. You've got better things todo."

Halfway out the door, he turned and gave her a lopsided smile.

"What gave you that idea?"

"Just a hunch."

"Thanks. You're sure you're not too busy tackling armed gunmen?"

"Heard about that, did you?" Kate made a face, not comfortable with theattention yesterday's incident had gotten her. She'd turned down half adozen requests for interviews and made too many trips to the ladies'room to dab makeup over the bruises.

"Wrong place, wrong time, that's all. The story of my life," she saiddryly, Kovac looked thoughtful, as if he were considering sayingsomething profound, then shook his head a little. "You're a wonder,Red."

"Hardly. I've just got a guardian angel with a sick sense of humor.

Go fight the fight, Sergeant. I'll take care of the witness."

CHAPTER 11.

THE TRAFFIC annoys him. He takes 35W south out of downtown to avoidtraffic lights and the tedious twists and turns of the alternate route.Stop-and-go traffic until he wants to abandon the car and walk down theshoulder, randomly pulling people out of their vehicles and beatingtheir heads in with a tire iron. It amuses him that other motorists are likely entertaining the same fantasy. They have no idea that the mansitting in the dark sedan behind them, beside them, in front of them,could act on that fantasy without turning a hair.

He looks at the woman in the red Saturn beside him. She is pretty, withNordic features and white-blond hair done in a voluminous, airy, tousledstyle that has been sprayed into place. She catches him looking, and hesmiles and waves. She smiles back, then makes a gesture and a funny faceat the traffic snarled ahead of them. He shrugs and grins, mouths "whatcan you do?"

He imagines that face drawn tight and pale with terror as he leans downover her with a knife. He can see her bare chest rise and fall in time with her shallow breathing. He can hear the tremor in her voice as shebegs him for her life. He can hear her screams as he cuts her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

Desire stirs deep in his groin.

"Probably the most crucial factor in the development of a serial rapistor killer is the role of fantasy.'@--John Douglas, Mindhunter.

His fantasies have never shocked him. Not in childhood, when he wouldthink of what it might be like to watch a living thing die, what itwould be like to close his hands around the throat of a cat or the kid down the block and hold the power of life and death literally within hisgrasp. Not in adolescence, when he would think of cutting the nipplesfrom his mother's b.r.e.a.s.t.s, or cutting out her larynx and smashing itwith a hammer, or cutting out her uterus and throwing it into thefurnace.

He knows that for killers such as himself, these thoughts are asustained part of the internal processing and cognitive operations.

They are, in effect, natural for him. Natural, and, therefore, notdeviant.

He exits on 36th and drives west on tree-lined side streets toward Lake Calhoun. The blonde is gone and the fantasy with her. He thinks again ofthe afternoon press briefing, both amused and frustrated. The police hada sketch-this amused him. He stood there in the crowd as Chief Greer held up the drawing that was supposed to be a rendition of him soaccurate that people would recognize him at a glance on the street. Andwhen the briefing had ended, all those reporters had walked right pasthim.

The frustration has its source in John Quinn. Quinn made no appearanceat the briefing, and has made no official statement, which seems adeliberate slight. Quinn is too wrapped up in his deduction andspeculation. He is probably focusing all his attention on the victims.

Who they were and what they were, wondering why they were chosen.

"In a sense the victim shapes and molds the criminal .. . To know one wemust be acquainted with the complementary partner.'@--Hans von Hentig.

Quinn believes this too. Quinn's textbook on s.e.xual homicide is amongmany on his shelf. Seductions of Crime by Katz, Inside the Criminal Mindby Samenow, Without Conscience by Hare, s.e.xual Homicide: Patterns andMotives by Ressler, Burgess, and Douglas. He has studied all of them andmore. A voyage of self-exploration.

He turns onto his block. Because of the way the lakes lie in this partof town, the streets immediately around them are often irregular. Thisone has a bend in it that gives the houses larger lots than usual. Moreprivacy. He parks the car on the concrete ap.r.o.n outside the garage andgets out.

Night has inked out what meager daylight there had been earlier.

The wind is blowing out of the west and bringing with it the scent offresh dog s.h.i.t. The smell hits his nostrils a split second before thesound of rapid-fire toy-dog barking.

Out of the darkness of the neighbor's yard darts Mrs. Vetter's bichonfrise, a creature that looks like a collection of white pompoms sewnloosely together. The dog runs to within five feet of him, then stopsand stands its ground, barking, snarling like a rabid squirrel.

The noise instantly sets off his temper. He hates the dog. He especiallyhates the dog now because it has triggered the return of his foul moodfrom the traffic jam. He wants to kick the dog as hard as he can.

He can imagine the high-pitched yip, the animal's limp body as he picksit up by the throat and crushes its windpipe.

"Bitsy!" Mrs. Vetter shrieks from her front step. "Bitsy, come here!"

Yvonne Vetter is in her sixties, a widow, an unpleasant woman with around, sour face and a shrill voice. He hates her in a deeply visceralway, and thinks of killing her every time he sees her, but somethingequally deep and fundamental holds him back. He refuses to examine whatthat feeling is, and becomes angrier imagining what John Quinn wouldmake of it.

"Bitsy! Come here!"

The dog snarls at him, then turns and runs up and down the length of thegarage, stopping to pee on the corners of the building.

"Bitsy," A pulse begins to throb in his head and warmth floods his brainand washes down through his body. If Yvonne Vetter were to cross thelawn now, he will kill her. He will grab her and smother her screamswith the newspapers he holds. He will quickly pull her into the garage,smash her head against the wall to knock her out, then kill the dogfirst to stop its infernal barking. Then he will let loose his temperand kill Yvonne Vetter in a way that will satiate a vicious hungerburied deep within him.

She begins to descend the front steps of her house.

The muscles across his back and shoulders tighten. His pulse quickens.

"Bitsy Come now."

His lungs fill. His fingers flex on the edge of the newspapers.

The dog barks at him one last time, then darts back to its mistress.

Fifteen feet away, Vetter bends down and scoops the dog into her arms asif he were a child.

Opportunity dies like an unsung song.