Steve had introduced him to Dana shortly before their separation. They took Neil out to eat when he was partnered with Steve. "Yup."

"When I first met you guys I was envious. You had yourself a nice beautiful woman," Neil said. "I thought you guys had the jackpot marriage."

"So did I."

27.

"You're not going to believe this," said Sergeant Vaughn, "but he wiped clean the hard drive of his home PC. No files, no links, no surfing history, no cookies, no e-mails-nothing. He downloaded some software and did a clean sweep."

"What's his explanation?" Steve asked.

"Said that he was donating it to a local school."

"Yeah, right," Hogan said.

"But," Neil said, "his office machine is loaded." Neil's face looked like a polished McIntosh.

It was around eight that night, and a unit meeting had been called because the warrant request for Pendergast's computers had come through. With the cooperation of campus security, the office machine had been confiscated and turned over to the lab. Dacey and two patrols had showed up at Pendergast's home to collect his only personal computer. He did not contest the seizure. Later that afternoon and evening, Neil and Sergeant Vaughn reviewed what the cyber lab discovered on the hard drives and were tag teaming on their report.

"He regularly trolled the Internet for porn sites, strip clubs, and escort services," Neil read from his notes. "Eye Candy Pleasures, Exotic Temptations, Love Express, and a lot of others specializing in finding sexual partners. He also visited sites that featured underage girls, which we can use to hold him."

On the projection screen Neil had set up a PowerPoint display of site names and blogs from Pendergast's home computer. The list sent a wave of relief through Steve. It didn't fill Steve's fifteen-hour blackout hole, but Pendergast was looking dirtier by the minute.

"Also interesting," Neil continued, "he visited sites specializing in naked women with red hair."

"Why's that interesting?" asked Dacey.

"Seems to be his fetish. He actively blogged strip clubs in southern New England and reported where you could find real redheads. His blog name was Pale Prince."

"Pale Prince?" Dacey said.

"It's from a poem by John Keats," Steve said. "He's published scholarly articles on him."

"You might be the only cop in existence who knows that," Reardon said.

"There's a claim to fame."

The blogs were arranged from oldest to most recent, which was dated a few weeks ago. It was the confessional of a man who loved redheads with "porcelain" skin: I'm searching for that perfect club where you can order a nice wine, kick back, and watch exotic dance artists get down to the buff to the accompaniment of a jazz ensemble.

The Happy Banana, in spite of its name, is kind of a classy club where the girls are fetching but not all Barbie clones. There's a fair range of body types and skin tones. Many of the dancers have breast augmentations.

My criteria are simple: long legs, tight buns, and medium size breasts-no implants please. I'm turned off by augmentations. I also hate tattoos and piercings. I love natural redheads, if you know what I mean. The flaming thatch drives me WILD.

Give me the scullery maid with hair ablaze.

Neil highlighted a block of sentences with the cursor. "This one here was posted about a month ago."

I FOUND HER: Xena Lee at the Mermaid Lounge. Long legs, bottom like peach halves, thin waist, gorgeous features, and flaming Julianne Moore hair. And if you can get your eyes off her body, she's got a face to kill for.

What she does with a pair of stockings will make your eyeballs smoke.

Neil left the blogs on the screen. "I think these speak for themselves."

The room was silent as the team stared at the screen. Yes, Steve thought as the words seeped into the core of his brain.

"And if you want a second smoking gun...," Neil continued. On the screen appeared a list of various Web sites Pendergast had visited. "Four of these are extreme sex sites that discuss autoerotic asphyxia."

"Nice going," Dacey said. "The dots are connecting."

"Yeah," Neil said, "and it spells premeditation."

Heads nodded. "Except why would he take the chance to download all this stuff on his office computer?" Dacey asked.

"Even though the school technically owns it, the contents are the intellectual property of the user. He's protected by privacy expectations."

"I can only imagine what was on his home PC," Dacey said.

"Any theory on his motive?" Steve asked.

"Yeah," Neil said. "He's fucking obsessed."

Steve nodded. "Except a prosecutor would say that obsession is not a motive nor a probable cause, especially without a history of violence."

Neil glared at him, his face swelling red. "Give me a break, man."

"I'm trying to." You have no idea how much, Steve thought. "A prosecutor looks at this and sees Pendergast profiling as a guy who likes sexy redheads, not one who wants to kill them."

"Maybe because he never got caught."

"So what do you think his motive was?" Reardon asked Neil.

"I don't know. Maybe he doesn't like how she turns him on."

"The guy's a strip-club junkie. Must be a hundred women who turn him on."

"But she's special, he confessed that on his blog. And they were friends. So he goes over with the intention of killing her because maybe she went too far with him, made him feel bad about himself. Maybe she rejected him another time. Maybe he's impotent and she knew and made fun of him. Whatever, he has a fit and kills her with the same stocking that makes his eyeballs smoke. And being a sex freak, he knows about autoerotica and puts together the scene, wipes the place clean, and heads home."

Reardon nodded and turned to Steve. "What do you think?"

I think it's him or me. "I think Neil's right about the guy's obsession. But as much as I like to believe he's it, I'm not sure we have enough to pull him in."

"Well, I am," Neil said.

Breaking the deadlock, Kevin Hogan said, "Speaking of redheads, we found an unopened bottle of L'Oreal Sunset Blaze number seventy-seven in her bathroom. Maybe she used it, or maybe she had it done professionally. But the M.E. says she's not a natural."

"So much for 'the flaming thatch,'" Dacey said.

That got a snicker. "According to Mickey DeLuca who manages the Mermaid, she began to color her hair red about a month ago."

"So what's your take on where we should aim?" Reardon asked Steve.

"The Mermaid clientele. Some strip-joint groupies don't have both oars in the water. Get a psycho who thinks the naked lady is dancing just for him, he becomes obsessed and begins stalking her. We look for guys with records of violence against women."

"We've got him," Neil said.

"Right," Steve said, "but we also look elsewhere."

"Then tell me what I'm missing here."

What you're missing, partner, is some hard evidence to flatten that friggin' pea I'm riding. "What we're missing is evidence that he's a killer. All we have so far is a guy looking for some fantasy woman, preferably with red hair. It's what he does instead of pursuing healthy relationships. The guy's a Mister Lonely Heart in search of a mate he'll never find, not a victim."

"You been watching Dr. Phil or something?" Reardon asked.

"Sounds more like Dr. Ruth," said Dacey. "I'm no expert profiler, but I have to agree with the lieutenant. He strikes me as a user who goes to women for sex."

Neil made a dismissive hissing sound but said no more.

Growing weary of the back-and-forth, Reardon said, "Okay, we dig deeper with Pendergast and continue going through the club list."

"I think we should bring him in is all," Neil said. "He's scheduled to fly to Europe next Wednesday. He goes and we may never find him."

Reardon's face looked like a clenched fist. He stood up. "Okay. You can question him again, but I want you to find some real evidence-a witness, solid forensics, a paper trail. Anything. Just come back with something to chew on, because the prosecutor eats nails for breakfast and won't take the case unless we do."

28.

WINTER 1973.

"Hey, Beauty Boy, I want you to come here a sec."

He was in his room doing his math when she called him from the hall bathroom. He didn't want to go in there because she was getting dressed. But he knew if he didn't obey she'd get mad. And when she got mad, she got mean and didn't speak to him, which he couldn't take. So he got off his bed and crossed the hall, but stopped outside the bathroom. The door was open as it always was when she was doing makeup or fixing her hair.

He made a quick glance inside and pulled back. She was at the mirror in her underwear.

"For heaven's sake, I'm not gonna bite you."

"Mom, you're not even dressed."

"You've seen more at the seashore."

Her bra and panties were made of some kind of black lacy see-through material-nothing he'd ever seen at Hampton Beach.

She ran a brush through her hair, a lustrous coppery mane. Without looking at him she said, "You know, there's gonna come a day when you'll pay money to see a woman in her underpants."

He couldn't imagine that, but said nothing and moved to the doorway.

Shalimar. It was the cologne she always wore, and the scent filled the room with a cloying sweetness. The bottle sat on the glass shelf with other bottles and jars: creams, foundations, lotions, makeup, lip gloss-all the stuff she put on her face when she was going out. Slops, his father called them.

She fluffed up her hair then put on lipstick. When she was satisfied she turned to him full-front and put her hands on her hips. Her lips were the color of bubble gum. "Well, what do you think?"

It was their ritual. Whenever she got dressed she would pose for him, waiting for him to say she looked pretty, that he liked her dress or blouse or her hairdo or new bathing suit. Nothing she'd ever do with his father, who was either in the air or too disinterested.

"You look pretty." Her black dress was on a hanger attached to the shower stall.

"You didn't even look, for pete's sake." When he didn't raise his eyes, she snapped, "Hey! I'm talking to you, Buster. What's the problem?"

"I have to do my homework." He was getting uncomfortable and could feel the scratch of her eyes on him. And something else-a slightly askew stare, one eye fixed on him, the other focusing someplace else, making her appear as if she were only half in the moment.

She adjusted her stance and moved her hip so that the dark mound of her sex thrust out at him and her breasts rose to full attention. "Well?"

"I said you're pretty."

"Pretty? Is that the best you can do?"

"What do you want me to say?"

"What about beautiful?"

"You're beautiful."

She gave him a hard look. "You didn't say it like you really mean it."

He said nothing, just wanted to go back to his room. He could smell the alcohol on her breath. When she drank she got mean.

"Well?" She glowered at him with those wild off-center eyes.

"Yeah, I guess."

"You guess? What kind of an answer it that?"

"Yeah, you're beautiful."

He didn't even know what "beautiful" was supposed to look like. At twelve years old he didn't think in those terms. But he guessed she was beautiful, otherwise she wouldn't have been an artist's model or in magazine ads or on TV. Over the last two years she had landed a few small roles on shows shot in Boston-like that episode of Banacek with George Peppard last year. She also performed in community theater and summer stock, all the time waiting for the big break.

Tonight she was getting dressed for a dinner party she and his father were attending. At the moment he was out buying wine. When she looked back at him again, her eyes were almost normal. "I just wish your father would tell me that." She pronounced father like a swear.

He started to go back to his room.