"I know."

Dubray left. There was nothing left to say. Both men knew the reality. If Mitch didn't come up with a solid lead in the next twenty-four hours, he'd be taken off the case. Demoted, certainly. Maybe even fired. Mitch tried not to think about Celeste, and the expensive private school Helen wanted him to pay for. In that moment he hated Grace Brookstein.

He stared at the whiteboard on the wall of his office. Grace's picture was in the middle. Radiating outward from it, like the points of a star, were various groups of other photos: Bedford Hills inmates and staff; Grace's family and friends; Quorum connections; members of the public who'd called in with the most promising leads. How could so many sources lead to nothing? How could so many sources lead to nothing?

The phone rang.

"Call for you on line one, Detective Connors."

"Who is it?"

"Grace Brookstein."

Mitch gave a mirthless laugh. "Yeah, thanks, Stella. I'm not in the mood for crank callers."

He hung up. Thirty seconds later, the phone rang again.

"Stella, I told you, I got enough problems without-"

"Good morning, Detective Connors. This is Grace Brookstein speaking."

Mitch froze. After listening to hours of recordings of Grace's court testimony, he'd have recognized her voice anywhere. He waved frantically to his colleagues in the outer office. "It's her," he mouthed. "Trace the call."

He made a conscious effort to speak slowly. He couldn't show his excitement. More important, he had to keep her talking long enough to make the trace. "h.e.l.lo, Ms. Brookstein. What can I do for you?"

"You can listen to me."

The voice was the same as the one in the court recordings, but the tone was different. Harder, more determined.

"I'm listening."

"My husband and I were framed. I never stole any money and neither did Lenny."

Mitch paused, trying to keep her on the line.

"Why are you telling me this, Ms. Brookstein? I'm not a jury. Your conviction has nothing to do with me."

"It's Mrs. Mrs. Brookstein. I'm a widow, Detective, not a divorcee." Brookstein. I'm a widow, Detective, not a divorcee."

You're a fool. You should never have made this call. Just keep talking.

"I'm telling you because I saw you on TV, and you look like a good man. An honest man."

The compliment surprised Mitch. "Thank you."

"You look like a man who would want to know the truth. Are you?"

Actually I'm a man who wants to keep you on the line for the next ten seconds. Nine...eight...

"You know, Mrs. Brookstein, the best thing you could do right now would be to turn yourself in." Six...five... Six...five...

Grace laughed. "Please, Detective. Don't insult my intelligence. I have to go now."

"No. Wait! I can help you. If you are innocent, as you say you are, there are legal channels-"

Click.

The line went dead. Mitch looked hopefully at the guys on the other side of the gla.s.s, but the shake of their heads told him what he already knew.

"Two more seconds and we'd've had her."

Mitch sank into his chair and put his head in his hands. Immediately, the phone rang again. Mitch leaped on it like a jilted lover, willing it to be her. "Grace?"

A man's voice answered. "Detective Connors?"

Mitch felt the hope drain out of him like blood from a severed vein. "Speaking."

"Detective, my name is John Rodville. I'm the head of admissions at the Putnam Medical Center."

"Uh-huh," Mitch said wearily. The name meant nothing to him.

"We have a patient here, brought in last week with a knife wound to the back. He was in a coma till this morning. We didn't think he'd make it. But he pulled through."

"That's terrific, Mr. Rodville. I'm happy for him."

Mitch was at the point of hanging up when the man said cheerily, "Yeah, I thought you might be. Especially since he just identified his attacker as Grace Brookstein."

NINETEEN.

MITCH BURST INTO THE INTENSIVE-CARE UNIT.

"Detective Connors. I'm here to see Tommy Burns." He flashed his badge at the staff nurse.

"Right this way, Detective."

The head of admissions had filled Mitch in on the van driver's story. According to Tommy Burns, he was a freelance gardener who'd happened to pick up a hitchhiker a couple miles outside of Bedford last Tuesday night. The woman went by the name of Lizzie. Tommy drove her about forty miles north before she suddenly pulled a knife on him, forced him into the woods, stabbed and robbed him, leaving him for dead.

"Some local kids found him. They were out hunting. A few more hours and he'd have bled to death for sure."

"And he believes this Lizzie who attacked him was actually Grace Brookstein?"

"He seems certain of it. A few hours after he came to, he asked to have the TV turned on. Brookstein's face came on the news and he went crazy. We had to sedate him. He wants to talk to you but he's still very weak, so go easy. His wife and kids haven't even seen him yet."

Mitch thought, Wife and kids. The poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d's a family man. But of course Grace Brookstein didn't care about that. She picked him up, used him to get what she wanted, then left him to die in the woods, alone. Wife and kids. The poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d's a family man. But of course Grace Brookstein didn't care about that. She picked him up, used him to get what she wanted, then left him to die in the woods, alone. Painful memories of his dad's murder came flooding back to him. Pete Connors's killer would never be caught. But Grace Brookstein sure as h.e.l.l would be. Men like Tommy Burns deserved justice. They deserved to be protected. Painful memories of his dad's murder came flooding back to him. Pete Connors's killer would never be caught. But Grace Brookstein sure as h.e.l.l would be. Men like Tommy Burns deserved justice. They deserved to be protected.

Mitch approached Tommy Burns's bed full of compa.s.sion.

When he left the hospital fifteen minutes later, he found himself wishing Grace Brookstein had finished the job. Tommy Burns was about as likable as a bad case of hemorrhoids. He was also a rotten liar.

"Jesus, Detective, I already told told you. I was the Good Samaritan, okay? I saw a chick in trouble and I did the right thing. One minute we was driving along, listening to the radio, nice as pie. The next minute, you. I was the Good Samaritan, okay? I saw a chick in trouble and I did the right thing. One minute we was driving along, listening to the radio, nice as pie. The next minute, bam bam! The b.i.t.c.h has a knife to my throat. I never stood a chance."

Mitch wanted to believe him. Badly. Right now Tommy Burns was the only witness he had. But he didn't believe him. Something about the guy wasn't right.

"Let's go back to when you first picked her up, shall we, Mr. Burns? You said she looked like she was in trouble?"

"She was half dressed. It was freezing out there, snowing. She had this thin blouse on. You could see right through it." A half smile flickered across his face at the memory. Just then a pretty young nurse came in to refill the water pitcher. Mitch Connors watched Tommy Burns follow her l.u.s.tfully with his eyes as she turned and left the room. A light went on in Mitch's brain.

"You didn't think to ask her why she was dressed like that on a freezing winter's night?"

"Nope. Why should I? None o' my business."

"I suppose not. Still, out of curiosity..."

"I'm not a curious person."

"Yes. I can see that."

Tommy Burns's eyes narrowed. Something about Mitch's tone gave him the feeling he was being mocked. "What d'you mean by that?"

"I don't mean anything by it. I'm simply agreeing with you that you lack curiosity. For example, you don't seem to have asked yourself why, after going to all the trouble of trying to murder you, this woman didn't finish the job."

Tommy Burns became agitated. "Hey now. Don't you go givin' me no 'this woman' bulls.h.i.t. It was Grace Brookstein. I saw her on the TV, plain as day. You catch her, I'll be wanting that two-hundred-thousand-dollar reward."

"Fine," said Mitch. "Let's say it was was Grace Brookstein who attacked you." Grace Brookstein who attacked you."

"It was."

"If it were me, I'd still be asking myself that question: 'Why did she let me live? Why didn't she finish the job?' But then again, you see, I am am a curious person. We detectives usually are." a curious person. We detectives usually are."

Tommy considered this. "I guess she thought she had. Finished the job, I mean. We were out in the middle of nowhere. Probably figured I'd die slow."

Mitch pounced. "Really? Why do you think she would want you to die slowly?"

"'Scuse me?"

"According to you, her motive was theft. She needed a ride and she needed money. That being the case, I could understand her wanting you dead. She wouldn't want witnesses, right?"

"Right."

"But what reason would she have to make you suffer? To prolong your agony?"

"What reason? h.e.l.l, I I don't know. She's a woman, ain't she? They're all f.u.c.ked-up b.i.t.c.hes." don't know. She's a woman, ain't she? They're all f.u.c.ked-up b.i.t.c.hes."

Mitch nodded slowly. "You're right. I mean, if a man man had done this, he'd have taken the van, right?" had done this, he'd have taken the van, right?"

"Huh?" Tommy Burns looked well and truly confused.

"Once he'd gotten rid of you, you, he could have used the vehicle to get another forty, fifty, a hundred miles away from the crime scene before he dumped it somewhere. That'd be the smart thing to do, wouldn't it?" he could have used the vehicle to get another forty, fifty, a hundred miles away from the crime scene before he dumped it somewhere. That'd be the smart thing to do, wouldn't it?"

"I guess it would."

"But women aren't as smart as us, are they?"

"d.a.m.n right they ain't."

Mitch leaned forward conspiratorially. "We both know what women are good for, don't we, Tommy? And it isn't their powers of reasoning!"

Tommy smiled stupidly. Now Now the cop was talking his language... the cop was talking his language...

"Tell me, Tommy, do you regularly pick up hitchhikers?"

"Sometimes."

"Are many of them as attractive as Grace Brookstein?"

"No, sir. Not many."

"Or as good in the sack?"

"No, sir!" Tommy Burns grinned. "She was something else."

It was a full five seconds before he realized his mistake. The smile wilted. "Hey now, don't you go putting words in my mouth! I didn't...I mean...I'm the victim here," he stammered. "I'm the G.o.dd.a.m.n victim!"

IT WAS LATE BY THE TIME Mitch got home that night. If you could call the s.h.i.tty two-bedroom rental that was all he could afford since Helen left him "home." Helen got everything when they split: Celeste, the house, even the dog, Snoopy. Mitch got home that night. If you could call the s.h.i.tty two-bedroom rental that was all he could afford since Helen left him "home." Helen got everything when they split: Celeste, the house, even the dog, Snoopy. My dog. My dog. Mitch could understand the things that drove men to hate women. Men like Tommy Burns. It would be easy to slip down that path. He had to guard against it himself sometimes. Mitch could understand the things that drove men to hate women. Men like Tommy Burns. It would be easy to slip down that path. He had to guard against it himself sometimes.

It had been quite a day. The press conference, a phone call from Grace Brookstein herself, and finally Tommy Burns. Burns was Mitch's first, real, concrete lead. Mitch knew he ought to feel elated. Instead he felt uneasy.

After Tommy Burns's slip of the tongue this afternoon, they'd come to an understanding: Mitch would look no further into a possible s.e.xual a.s.sault of Grace Brookstein. In return, Tommy would forget about the $200,000 reward and would tell Mitch everything he could remember from that night: Grace's clothing, her demeanor, anything at all she might have said or done that could shed light on her plans. Tommy's van had been sent to forensics. When Mitch spoke to them a few hours ago, they'd been hopeful. It should provide a treasure trove of new evidence.

So why do I feel like c.r.a.p?

Mitch had walked into that hospital this afternoon full of righteous rage and loathing. Grace Brookstein was a criminal, a heartless thief and would-be killer who had violently attacked an innocent family man. Except that if Tommy Burns was an innocent family man, Mitch Connors was Big Bird. The e-mail finally came through after midnight. Mitch had run a check on Tommy Burns's record. Sure enough, he had a string of s.e.xual-a.s.sault convictions stretching back almost twenty years. Two rape charges had been thrown out for lack of evidence. So much for the Good Samaritan. So much for the Good Samaritan.

Something had happened in that van. Burns was a s.e.xual predator and Grace had defended herself. In this case, at least, that made her the victim. Mitch suddenly realized, I don't want her to be the victim. I want her to be the bad guy. I don't want her to be the victim. I want her to be the bad guy. Usually he was unequivocal about his cases and the people he brought to justice. To Mitch, they were all paler versions of whoever had killed his father: bad men, men who deserved to be brought down. But already, this case felt different. Part of him hated Grace for her crimes. Her greed and lack of remorse were well doc.u.mented. But another part of him pitied her. Pitied her for having to deal with the likes of Tommy Burns. Pitied her for having that pair of heartless vultures for sisters. Usually he was unequivocal about his cases and the people he brought to justice. To Mitch, they were all paler versions of whoever had killed his father: bad men, men who deserved to be brought down. But already, this case felt different. Part of him hated Grace for her crimes. Her greed and lack of remorse were well doc.u.mented. But another part of him pitied her. Pitied her for having to deal with the likes of Tommy Burns. Pitied her for having that pair of heartless vultures for sisters.

Mitch closed his eyes and tried to imagine how Grace Brookstein must have felt in Burns's van. Alone, on the run, already desperate, and the first man she trusted turned out to be a psychotic pervert. Burns wasn't a big guy but he was strong, and presumably determined. Grace must have shown great courage to fight him off like that.

What would her next move have been?