Half an hour later, Fedderman called.

"When Erin left the office she got into a cab," he told Quinn. "She went to Fifth Avenue and did some window-shopping, and then hailed another cab. She just went into her hotel."

"Window shopping," Quinn said. "That's interesting."

"Maybe it helps her think."

"Hang around a while longer," Quinn told Fedderman. "Make sure she doesn't come back out, but if she does, tail her."

"Done," Fedderman said, and broke the connection.

Quinn slowly hung up the phone. "She's going to make us wait for her answer," he said. "In her own way, our Erin's something of a control freak."

"You think?" Helen said. She was smiling.

"Those twins," Quinn said, shaking his head. "They must have gone through h.e.l.l when they were kids."

"One of them's still in h.e.l.l," Helen said.

"How long do you figure it'll be before Erin makes up her mind?"

Helen shrugged. "You might think in terms of hours or days. It depends on what Erin wants and how much she wants it."

Twenty minutes later Erin called Quinn and gave him Edward Archer's cell phone number.

"See how he reacts to your proposition," she said. "Then I'll talk to him."

Quinn told her he thought that was reasonable.

68.

Twenty minutes past noon in Manhattan. It was the second day in a row the killer had returned to the same park bench at the same time. He'd brought a small white paper sleeve of popcorn both times, purchased, he guessed, from the same street vendor Elana Dare had frequented.

It was another warm day, and the scent of blooms on nearby bushes carried on the gentle breeze. People bustled past, and traffic roared like distant lions and was visible beyond the low stone wall that marked the park's boundary. The sidewalks were crowded with worker drones striding to and from lunch. The walkway in front of the bench wasn't as busy as the sidewalk, but plenty of people were in the park.

The bench rocked as a ragged homeless man plopped himself down on the opposite end. He smelled of urine and booze and needed a shave almost to the point where you'd have to say he had a beard. His untucked shirt was bunched where the neck of a bottle in his pants pocket protruded. His eyes were fogged but alert.

"Don't sit there," the killer said.

The man looked at him in surprise from beneath a ledge of bushy gray eyebrows; he was used to being ignored.

"Not your bench," he said, his voice gruff from infrequent use.

The killer remained firm. "I've got it leased for the day."

"I'm subleasing it."

The killer reached into his pocket, and the man looked alarmed. Seeing this, the killer smiled. This kind of person lived outside the system and in almost constant fear. Dealing with him should be easy for someone who knew how to use that fear.

"Let's say I've got an NYPD badge in my pocket and I'm going to show it to you," the killer said. "At that point, things will start to happen. Is that really what you want?"

The man stared at him for a long time; then he stood up unsteadily and walked away, He walked slowly and without glancing back, preserving what was left of his shredded dignity and saving the killer the two dollars he was going to pay him to leave.

Seizing opportunity was an art. So was recognizing it.

The killer absently reached into his narrow paper sack and pulled out a few puffs of popcorn and poked them into his mouth. The burned salt aroma rising from the bag triggered his hunger, and he was glad he'd brought the popcorn even though it was a prop.

Propcorn, he thought, smiling. Maybe he should patent it.

Propportunity?

A hundred feet down the path, two skateboarders rushed and rattled along, flanking three walkers who had to bunch tightly together to avoid being b.u.mped. One of the skateboarders veered away and stepped off his board in a manner that caused it to nose up at a sharp angle. He s.n.a.t.c.hed it out of the air and began an easy, youthful jog.

Behind him, walking, she appeared.

She hadn't seen him yet and was watching the other skateboarder, who'd shot far ahead. The killer noticed with satisfaction that she was holding a bag of popcorn identical to his.

Her clothes were more casual today-jeans, sandals, a red T-shirt with FDNY FDNY printed on it. She was small, narrow-waisted, and busty. Her long dark hair had a slight wave in it. Like Pearl's. printed on it. She was small, narrow-waisted, and busty. Her long dark hair had a slight wave in it. Like Pearl's.

She saw him and paused, pretending, he was sure, that she was surprised. He knew then that she'd thought he might be here. That she'd come hoping he was here. There was a tingling satisfaction and antic.i.p.ation in his mind and body, as if he were a fisherman whose hook had just set. The fun part was ahead.

She continued to the bench and sat down, not on the opposite end but about two feet away from him. She hadn't completely lost her expression of surprise. "Small park," she said.

He smiled. "Wouldn't want to mow it."

Her laugh was music. "That joke has a familiar ring to it."

"Happens every spring," he said.

She opened the paper sack she was carrying and began tossing popcorn out onto the bare earth and littered pavement in front of the bench. As before, pigeons magically appeared.

When a squirrel came close, she stopped throwing popcorn. She bent low, picked up a small pebble, and threw it in the direction of the squirrel, deliberately missing it but scaring it away.

"Not a fan of squirrels?" he asked.

"No. They scare away the pigeons."

"Some people think they're cute."

"I'm not one of them. Squirrels are rats with decorative tails."

"I agree."

"Really?"

"Yes. I agree with everything you say. That's so you might have lunch with me, Elana."

With the squirrel observing from about fifty feet away, she began tossing popcorn again. "You remembered my name."

"It's the most beautiful name I ever heard."

"That's Maria."

"No, no. It's Elana. I once met a girl named Elana." He put on a horror-stricken expression. "You forgot my my name!" name!"

"Gerald Lone," she said.

"Wow! After two days. That must mean you'll have lunch with me."

"After the pigeons are finished eating."

"Fair enough, especially for the pigeons." He reached into his paper sack and, like Elana, began feeding the insatiable birds. "Are you on your lunch hour?" he asked.

She shook her head no. "Like a lot of other people in this city, I'm between jobs."

"Firefighter?" He pointed at the T-shirt lettering distorted by her oversized b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

"No," she said. "Just a fan."

"So am I."

"What about you?" she asked. "Are you gainfully employed?"

"I'm in software. That means I have to travel a lot. What was-or I guess I mean what is is-your field?"

"Accounting. I was junior accountant for a chain of shoe stores. When they cut expenses, I was one of them."

"Heels. They should have kept you around just to look at."

She gave him a phony demure look and giggled.

"Women aren't supposed to be good at math," he said.

Now her look was anything but demure. "I'm good at lots of things women aren't supposed to be good at." Playing him while he was playing her. Not knowing he was way, way out of her league. He was going to enjoy this.

He smiled at her. "Isn't that bag about empty?"

She grinned and dumped the remaining popcorn onto the ground. He did the same with his popcorn.

He knew this was going to work. This was going to work just fine.

As they strolled from the park, they crumpled the popcorn bags and dropped them into a trash receptacle. They walked closer together. Both of them knocked salt from their fingers by brushing their hands together, as if in strange, hushed applause to celebrate the end of loneliness.

Behind them the pigeons went into a feeding frenzy, and the squirrel returned.

69.

"Let me get this straight," Ed Archer/Keller said, when Quinn had contacted him via Archer's cell phone. "You want me to come to New York and register at a hotel under the name Edward Keller? And then you want to let it be known that I'm there?"

"It's a simple request," Quinn said. "Since Keller is your real name."

Silence for a few seconds. Then: "That's not exactly a state secret."

"It is in your state. And in your city. Where you're in business and have political ambitions."

"This is beginning to sound a lot like blackmail, Detective...Quinn, is it?"

"It is. And I wasn't thinking so much in terms of blackmail as in asking a father to help his daughter find safety in a dangerous situation."

"Daughter?"

"Chrissie Keller. We've been unable to locate her."

"You've been speaking to Erin, my ex-wife. That's where you got my number."

"I'd a.s.sumed she told you I was going to call."

"No, I haven't heard from her. She's in Ohio."

"Erin's in New York," Quinn said. "Doing what a good mother should do. And a good father. Trying to protect her daughter."

"Chrissie's really missing?"

"Yes. She came to New York to find help in bringing the killer of your other daughter to justice."

"Jesus!" Keller said. "You do know a lot about me."

"Enough for my purposes," Quinn said.

Let the b.a.s.t.a.r.d know he's between a rock and a rock.

"This is a rotten thing you're doing," Keller said. "You're mucking around in a world I left behind. I even legally changed my name, built another life. Now you're threatening to rip it all apart if I don't cooperate in some kind of impersonation of my old self."