"Sorry," he said, sounding more irritated than apologetic. "Damn fire on the A train." He loosened his tie and took a drink of water from the cooler in the corner.

Walker smiled and leaned back in his chair as though he was enjoying himself. He was a cocky, macho type Lee was familiar with. He always wondered if these guys were for real-their behavior was full of cliches layered on top of cliches.

But Jerry Walker did not include self-awareness in his arsenal of personality quirks. He sat across from them at the interrogation table, legs spread wide, the insolent set of his shoulders expressing his disdain for the whole process. A pack of Camels was tucked into the sleeve of his T-shirt-another cliche, Lee thought. He was dressed like a biker from the fifties: white T-shirt, blue jeans, heavy black boots, slicked-back hair.

His pumped-up arms were crossed, the tattoos on his biceps bulging-a curvy mermaid on the left arm, "I Love Jenny" in Gothic lettering on the right. Lee wondered who Jenny was, and if she knew that she had been memorialized in ink on the muscular flesh of Jerry Walker's right arm.

Detective Butts finished his water and paced behind Walker, rubbing his stubby hands together, while Chuck sat on the corner of the table across from him. Lee recognized the technique. Invade his territory, crowd him, make him feel cornered, creating feelings of insecurity Invade his territory, crowd him, make him feel cornered, creating feelings of insecurity. But judging by the smirk on Walker's face, it wasn't working.

"So you guys actually think I might be the killer?" Walker said, his mouth curled into a contemptuous smile.

"You tell us," Chuck answered, his voice failing to conceal his dislike of Walker. "We've been asked by the mayor to interview a few sex offenders living in the area. And that would include you."

"Hey, that stuff's all behind me," Walker protested. "I got a new life now, a steady job, a girlfriend-the works. I'm even seeing a therapist," he added, "not that it's any of your business."

"You're right," Chuck replied, "it's not my business. What I'm interested in is where you were on February eleventh."

Walked smiled broadly, revealing a gold tooth. "No sweat. On the eleventh I was out of town. Went to see my dear old mom-I'm a very devoted son. I can show you the plane tickets to prove it."

Chuck held his gaze. "Plane tickets can be forged."

"Call my mother and ask her."

Butts left his pacing and came around behind Walker. "Oh, that's a good idea," he said. "I'm sure she wouldn't be interested in covering for her only son-I know she wouldn't think of lying to the police."

Lee touched Chuck's elbow.

"What?" Chuck said.

Lee leaned in to whisper into his ear. "It's not him. This isn't our guy."

"Okay," Chuck whispered back, "but I still have to go through with this."

"Your friend is right, you know," Walker said. "I'm not your guy."

Chuck's fair face reddened. "You know what? I'll decide that for myself."

Walked shrugged and leaned back in his chair. "Suit yourself," he said, cleaning his fingernails with a book of matches. The picture on the matchbook cover was of a tall, curvaceous feline wearing black lingerie. The logo read PUSSYCAT LOUNGE.

"You know," he said, "I don't go for Catholic girls. Too uptight."

Chuck leaned into Walker's face. "This may be just a game to you, you son of a bitch, but it's not to us, and if you make one more crack like that, I swear-"

"Hey, easy, there," Walker said, holding up his callused hands. "I didn't mean anything by it, man. Just trying to let you know I'm not your guy."

"Jesus," Chuck muttered. "What is it with you guys that you can laugh about something like this? What was left out when they put you together, huh?"

"I'm not any happier than you are about this guy," Walker snarled. "Hell, I'm no killer. It would never occur to me to hurt a woman-ask my girlfriend. I'm a pussycat."

"Like the dancers at the Pussycat Lounge?" Butts said, indicating the matches on the table.

"Hey, hey-my girlfriend works there, okay?"

"Figures," Butts muttered.

"She's a waitress waitress, okay?" Walker said, going for a cigarette.

"No smoking in here," Chuck snapped. He tried to snatch the cigarette from Walker's mouth, but Walker was faster, and put it back in the pack.

"Hands off, man-these things are expensive expensive! Jeez, what do you guys do around here for fun?"

"Beat the crap out of guys like you," Butts shot back.

"No shit. And you don't get busted for police brutality?" Walker asked with mock innocence.

"Why don't we find out?" Butts replied.

"That's enough!" Chuck snapped at the detective.

Walker smiled, and Lee was taken aback by the cruelty in that smile. "You know, every minute you spend with me is time you're not spending catching this guy. Why, he could be out there right now, selecting his next victim, some good little Catholic girl. Nice piece of virgin ass. He could be putting his hands-"

Lee's vision seemed to contract, and he felt as if the air in the room was pressing in on him. "That's enough enough!" he bellowed, springing to his feet. He lunged at Walker and managed to wrap his hands around Walker's throat.

But Walker was bigger than he was, and very quick. He broke Lee's grip and landed a series of punches with such speed that no one in the room could move fast enough to stop him. The first blow connected with Lee's stomach, knocking the air out of him, and then Walker aimed for his face, an uppercut to the chin followed by a roundhouse that caught Lee in the upper cheekbone, right at the bridge of his nose.

He staggered backward, feeling the blood rushing from his nose, blinded by the force of the blow. He hit the floor hard, dazed and shaken.

Chuck seized Walker by the shoulders, at the same moment calling for backup. Butts was right behind him, pinning Walker's hands down as two uniformed officers rushed into the room, guns drawn.

"Handcuff this guy," Chuck said, and one of the officers quickly slipped a pair of cuffs around Walker's wrists. "Now get him out of here!"

As the officers escorted Walker out of the room, he called out over his shoulder to Chuck.

"Hey, why don't you get your friend some lithium to calm him down?"

"Shut up!" Butts shot back.

"You'll be hearing from my lawyer!" Walker said as they dragged him away.

"Whatever," Chuck muttered. He looked at Lee, who stood leaning against the wall, breathing heavily, blood trickling from his nose.

"You're hurt."

"I'm fine."

Chuck had heard that answer before.

"I'll call a doctor."

"No!" Lee tried to calm his breathing and realized he was trembling-not with fear, but with rage.

"I think we've had enough today."

"I'm sorry."

"Okay, but you can't let that happen again."

"Right. I won't."

Chuck sighed. "So what about Walker? Could he-"

"No. The Slasher isn't a child molester. His rage is directed against women-and God. And I think he could be a virgin."

"How do you figure that?"

"I know it's a stretch, but I think the knife is a phallic substitute. There's been no sign of actual penetration. Which means he would probably come across as emotionally immature."

Chuck snorted. "When's the last time you met an emotionally mature criminal?"

"No, I mean seriously emotionally challenged. Like if you met him, you'd really notice it. Shy, withdrawn, odd-not your cocky sleazeball type like Walker. Sort of childlike."

"The priest is pretty childlike."

"Yeah, I guess he is," Lee admitted.

"And he would be totally unthreatening to women."

Even Lee had to admit that Father Michael Flaherty was beginning to look better as a suspect. But there was one thing they could all agree on: time was running out, and if they didn't close in soon, another woman would die.

Chapter Fourteen

It was dark when Lee walked up the steps to his apartment on the third floor. As soon as he put his keys down on the table next to the front door, the phone rang. He reached it in two steps and picked it up.

"Hello?"

"Heya, Boss Man, it's me."

There was no mistaking that voice, high and squeaky, with a pronounced Bronx accent. It was Eddie Pepitone-hustler, Vietnam vet, professional gambler, sometime con man-and quite possibly the one person to whom Lee owed his life.

"Hi, Eddie. What's up?"

"What's up? What's up up?" Eddie's tone was mock irritation. "You tell me, Boss Man-you're the one with the dead girl on your hands."

"How did you-?"

"News travels fast in my circle, my friend. I keep my ear close to the ground, know what I mean?"

"I mean, how did you know I was-?"

"On the case? Oh, I just figured-kinda put two and two together, you know? Seemed like it was up your alley and all."

"Okay, but-"

Eddie cut him off. "Look, I got a little time right now. What do you say we meet at McHale's in about half an hour?"

"Well, I-"

"Come on, you got nothin' better to do right now. Am I right?"

Lee had to admit Eddie was right. Seeing Eddie would distract him from his disappointment at not having the Jane Doe file to work with.

"Okay, half an hour."

"Right, see you then-and I'm buying."

There was a click, and the phone went dead. It sounded as though Eddie was calling from a pay phone. Lee hoped he wasn't out on the street again. Since he gave up gambling, it had become difficult for Eddie to make a living. Eddie was the most unlikely friend he could imagine, but not a day went by that he didn't thank his lucky stars that during his stay in the psych ward of St. Vincent's Hospital, Eddie Pepitone had been his roommate.

It was a short subway ride to McHale's, one of the throwbacks to the old days of Hell's Kitchen before it was renamed Clinton, and expensive sushi restaurants began to replace the old Irish bars, with their steam tables, cheap beer, and all the free pickles you could eat. McHale's wasn't as grungy as the late, lamented Shandon Star, but it wasn't a tourist trap either. You could get a pork chop with all the side dishes you could want for about twelve dollars. The bathrooms smelled of mildew, and some of the red leatherette booths were torn and clumsily mended with duct tape, but Lee loved the place. Unpretentious and welcoming, it was comfortable as an old shoe. Snuggled on the northeast corner of Eighth Avenue and Forty-sixth Street, at the edge of the theatre district, McHale's brought in a steady crowd of locals that included actors both famous and unknown, playwrights, directors, and other assorted theater types.

McHale's was also Eddie Pepitone's favorite watering hole.

Lee arrived first and chose a booth in the bar, near the front door. He knew Eddie sometimes liked to smoke, and while he didn't like the smell, he wanted to accommodate his friend. McHale's was dark and quiet, and the lamps were already lit. The lights of the cars on Eighth Avenue shone diffusely through the grime on the windows, casting a sullen shadow across the back wall of the bar.

Lee had hardly been there a minute when the front door swung open and Eddie entered.

He looked like a bad hangover. His dirty blond hair-or what was left of it-was rumpled, there was a two-day growth on his chin, and his fingernails looked like they needed sandblasting. Yet somehow he exuded optimism. He had the bright, restless eyes of a con man, and his slovenly appearance was deceiving-Eddie was one of the most perceptive people Lee had ever met. He didn't know what Eddie did for money now that he had given up gambling, and he wasn't sure he wanted to know. But he would always remember what Eddie's presence had meant in that hospital room a few months ago. They would sit up all night and talk and talk, as they poured cup after cup of black coffee down their throats, until the graveyard shift at the nurses' station gave way to the morning shift and the gray dawn crept across the faded yellow hospital walls.

Eddie Pepitone settled himself into the booth and put his elbows on the table. "So, how ya been, Boss Man?"

For some reason, during those dark days last fall, Eddie had taken to calling Lee "Boss Man." Lee had never asked him the reason for this-during that time, just getting through a day was an accomplishment. Eddie seemed to like the nickname, and Lee didn't mind.

Eddie leaned forward. His breath reeked of cheap cigarettes and gingivitis.

"What's on your mind? Is this case getting to you?

"How did you know I was on a case?"

"Come on, now, Boss-I read the papers," Eddie said, flipping a grin at the waitress as she went by. She was neither young nor pretty, but that didn't matter to Eddie-he was an equal opportunity lech. He once said about himself, "Hell, I'd flirt with anyone with a uterus, and if I'm drunk enough, I don't even draw the line there."

To Lee's surprise, the waitress returned the smile. Eddie was neither young nor handsome, but women responded to him. He was like a big, happy leprechaun, or the dopey, eternally cheerful uncle who turns up at family occasions with a whoopee cushion. He might not exemplify class, but Lee thought you had to be a pretty sour person not to like him.