"Never could take care of your things, could you? Perhaps Jimbo needs a visit?"

"No, no, no."

"I think you do," and then laughter.

Jimmy's knees buckled, and he dropped the ruined key. He jammed his hands over his ears, knowing it wouldn't help. "Go away," he tried to shut out the laughter. "You're dead, you're dead."

"Do I sound dead?"

"Leave me alone."

"I don't think so. You have to pay, Jimbo."

"What do you want?"

"You know ..."

Jimmy shuddered. He smelled whiskey on the back of his neck, and his chest squeezed as though he were being pressed down hard against his mattress. "No," he sobbed, feeling father's clammy fingers pull down the back of his pajamas.

"Yes, yes, yes" the voice whispered, the words slurry and moist.

"No!" Jimmy shouted, clawing his way back toward reality. "You're not here, you're dead, you're dead!" He focused on the piano, and his cello, he looked across at the mahogany ladder that could be wheeled across the two-story-high bookshelves. "Go away!"

Father's laughter echoed in his ears, as he stood on shaky legs and backed away from the fireplace. "Go away!"

The laughter faded, but wouldn't stop. Jimmy tried to slow his breathing; his heart pounded. Desperate for comfort, he picked up a dog-eared program from a long-ago recital. It was from the Manhattan Prodigy series. With trembling fingers he opened it, stopping briefly on the glossy black-and-white headshots of himself and Ellen, two gifted teenagers who for their last three years in the program had monopolized the coveted last spot. He flipped back through the pages, pa.s.sing through ever-smaller photos until he came to the one that he needed. It was that of a nine-year-old girl, with gleaming dark-brown hair and almond-shaped eyes, who had stolen the show when she had erupted with a brilliant execution of Chopin's jaw-dropping "Revolutionary" etude; a piece that not even Ellen could handle. He stared at the picture, remembering the gawky girl who had played with fierce intensity. She'd worn an ill-fitting velvet dress and her face-her beautiful face-seemed lit by some internal light. It's a face he'd seen one other time, only then the gawky girl had blossomed into the most magnificent creature, like a fairy tale princess. She'd come to him in the hospital; she'd had such compa.s.sion, as though she could see his pain, could know it, could make it go away. And then the miracle happened; in that h.e.l.l hole, on that day; he'd felt love spark to life. And with that came a certainty that what he felt, she did as well. He saw it in her eyes, a desire and a longing for him. And through the long years that followed he knew that she'd be there. And now ...

"Barrett Conyors," he whispered, reading the name beneath the photograph. The laughter subsided; it was going to be okay.

He put the program down and walked to the fireplace. Dropping to the hearth, he gathered the pieces of his shattered key. Satisfied that he had them all, he straightened and headed toward the kitchen with Fred mewing at his heels. He unlatched the back door and took a deep breath of evening air. Careful not to let the cat out, he stepped into the walled courtyard. In front of him was a weathered marble fountain, no longer functional, but filled with rainwater and muck; a swarm of newly hatched mosquitoes swirled over its surface. Above him soared a dense canopy of hundred-year-old evergreens, a j.a.panese maple, and exotic specimen trees that had started to unfurl their spring foliage. To his right lay the ruined remains of Mother's garden. She had loved her roses, spending hours pruning and spraying them, picking off j.a.panese beetles and crushing them in her fingers.

"And now she's buried under them," Father whispered.

"So are you." Jimmy spat back.

"Details, details."

He stood still and looked around. Supposedly, they'd both perished in a car accident three years ago, along with a twenty-something Latino chauffeur. When he was first told, it didn't take him long to figure it out. Starting with the fact that Mother and Father rarely went anywhere together.

"Accident my a.s.s," Father hissed.

Jimmy stared at the sprouting weeds, and tangled remnants of once-carefully tended arbors. When they were little, he and Ellen had a game of make-believe; they called it Hansel and Gretel. Only, in their game it wasn't just the witch that went into the oven. Depending on the day, and who they were mad at, it could be just about anyone, Jimmy's cello teacher, a piano-playing rival of Ellen's-but mostly they'd fantasized about pushing Father and then Mother into the oven, and having their beloved Southern nanny, Maylene, take care of them.

When the social worker at Croton had broken the news, Jimmy had asked for the details, to see the newspaper clippings, to go to the funeral. They'd all a.s.sumed it was a healthy grief reaction, and he was granted permission to attend, albeit accompanied by two guards. But Jimmy had read between the headlines, and had observed how easily Ellen took over as CEO for Martin Industries. No bodies were found in the submerged BMW sedan, just a scarf, a shoe, and a chauffeur's cap, everything else presumably washed away in the swift currents of the Hudson.

Perhaps one day he'd do a bit of digging, but now, other desires took precedence. He walked past the fountain and entered the dense thicket of ivy, weeds, and bramble that created a dark tunnel. Moving by feel, his hand found the cool surface of the brownstone carriage house, constructed of the same material as the mansion. Opening a small wooden door he entered a world that the review board knew nothing about. Still well within the range of his bracelet, this was his special retreat.

He stepped into the darkened hall that ran the length of the building. To his right was the garage, which housed a 1952 Rolls Royce Silver Shadow, a maroon Jaguar XKE, a Ford panel van to which Ellen had made a variety of modifications, including the installation of a 340 horsepower V-8 engine, and a yellow cab-the most anonymous vehicle one could have in Manhattan.

He looked through the garage to the front door, and wistfully noted the dark outline of his black leather car coat hanging from its hook. There'd be no going out tonight, at least not to where he wanted. If he strayed beyond his range-about a block in any direction-they'd come after him, and ... "No," he shut his eyes, and tried to block out the smell of pine disinfectant, and Croton's ever-present stench of body fluids.

He climbed the twisting stairs to the second-floor quarters, which Ellen had converted into a large loft s.p.a.ce. It was first accessed through a narrow antechamber that contained his computer and a row of security monitors that would warn him if anyone approached the house, or rang the bell, a necessary precaution as it would not go well if Hector-or anyone else from the board-came calling and he wasn't in. The ceiling of both the security booth and the large room were covered with dark acoustic tiles, the walls-also black-she'd paneled with a sound-absorbent polymer; once the door of the security booth was closed, both rooms became entirely soundproof. He'd told her that he wanted to use the carriage house as a recording studio. But that was not entirely correct. And in the weeks since his release, he'd arranged for contractors to begin the next phase of construction. Several unopened boxes with additional monitors and sound equipment were stacked above and beneath the counter of the security room, and a ma.s.sive deadbolt had been recently affixed to the steel-reinforced door that separated the two rooms.

As he'd done, almost every day since leaving Croton, he typed in Barrett Conyors' name, and stayed until dawn, rereading her articles, learning what he could about her sister's surgical program, seeing what workmen had filed permits for repairs to her mother's building, even getting the orchestra-seating chart to know exactly where her husband, Ralph Best, sat. He found it interesting that she'd never taken his name; obviously, she was waiting for someone else. At times, it amazed him how much he could discover about her through the Internet. Most of the web had been blocked to him while at Croton, as he'd spend hours in the library earning 33 cents an hour, supposedly doing clerical work, but actually learning what he could about his Barrett, and trying to maintain finger dexterity by typing. Those snippets of information were powerful messages; she was leaving a trail for him to follow, just like the bread crumbs that had led Hansel and Gretel back to safety.

SIX.

Armed with her Kenneth Cole briefcase and dressed in a lightweight black wool suit, Barrett strode quickly from the Forensic Evaluation Center on East 34th to Gramercy Park. Her emotions were all over the place, and had little to do with this first meeting with Jimmy Martin. Ralph had stayed the night, and waking next to him had felt so right. He had pulled out all the stops, and had even said the one thing she'd desperately wanted to hear, "Barrett, I think it's time we had a kid." Still, she'd told him that she wanted more time to think things over; she couldn't trust him, and if one night of fabulous and reckless s.e.x was going to undo the damage, she'd have to give that some careful thought.

She took a couple deep breaths and turned onto Gramercy Park North. She stopped; it was beautiful. In front of her was the iron-gated park, its symmetrically laid-out perennial beds were thick with mottled patches of yellow and white crocus and narcissus. The hundred-year-old fruit trees and specimen trees were ablaze with pink and white blossoms that perfumed the air. Behind her, the noise of Manhattan dropped away, as though this were a different city, one that had become fixed in the late 1800s. The Victorian hotels and Italian style townhouses with wrought-iron galleries spoke of an elegance and gentility removed from the bustling fervor of the outside streets.

She pulled out a sc.r.a.p of paper with Jimmy Martin's address and headed toward the south side of the park. Midway down the block she saw two men standing by a dark blue sedan parked in the shade of a budding Gingko tree. Her pulse quickened.

"Ed," she called out. "Detective Hobbs?"

The taller of the two, with closely cropped salt-and-pepper hair, turned. "Barrett, it's good to see you."

"You too," she offered her hand, but found herself swept up into a more gratifying bear hug with Ed's bushy moustache tickling the side of her neck.

The other man, who was leaning against their car, drolly noted, "I take it you two know each other."

Barrett stepped back; something didn't make sense. "What are you doing here?" she asked. And then followed up with a whispered, "Are you undercover?"

"No," he shook his head, "what you see is what you get. You asked for an escort and here we are."

"But detectives? You? They send deputy chiefs for ..."

His hazel eyes met hers briefly, and then looked away, "Not anymore."

"What happened?" she asked, sensing sadness in the man with whom she'd spent many fine hours in the past. The last case he'd called her in on was Charlie Rohr. But that was two years ago. There'd been numerous times when she'd thought about calling him, maybe going out to lunch. But when she had those thoughts they were usually followed by the realization that she and this tall, married detective had a chemistry that felt as if it could go far beyond tracking serial killers.

"It's a long dull story," he said.

"Maybe you'll tell me."

"Maybe. So this is the perp's house?"

Barrett checked the numbers, and gazed up at the looming mansion. She stepped back to get the entire effect; it was a lovely building from its ivy-covered wrought-iron porches, to the carved cherub heads that stared out from above the imposing front door and from beneath each of the shuttered French windows.

"Nice crib," Ed commented.

"He has the whole building to himself," she stated.

"I have two rooms and a bathtub in my kitchen," Ed replied, "and I can barely afford that."

"Don't you still live in Queens?"

"I did; now I don't."

"But ..."

He shook his head. "Enough about me."

His partner joined them, "Ed is a fine example of why you shouldn't p.i.s.s off your boss. So, do I get an introduction to the beautiful lady?"

Barrett rolled her eyes, as she mentally noted that Ed's partner would probably hit three hundred pounds and lose the rest of his thinning red hair before the age of thirty.

"Dr. Barrett Conyors, Officer Bryan Ca.s.sidy."

They shook. "So how do you guys know each other?" Ca.s.sidy asked.

"We worked a couple cases. Barrett is the best profiler I've ever met," Ed stated. "By the way, I heard about Charlie Rohr...I heard you were there. I'm sorry."

"It was pretty awful," the b.l.o.o.d.y scene played in her head. "The idiots let someone in with a firearm."

"You're lucky to be alive."

"I hadn't even thought about that," she said, looking up at a cherub and feeling an unpleasant sensation as its eyes appeared to be watching her. "I don't know if cops get it the same way, but all of my bad cases kind of follow me around. I know I'm going to be seeing Charlie Rohr for a very long time."

"You think his family will sue?" Ed asked.

"No idea. They didn't want anything to do with Charlie while he was alive, but there's a d.a.m.n good case to be made against the state, so you never know. It wouldn't surprise me."

"Why is that name familiar?" Bryan asked.

"The Caravaggio killer," Hobbs replied.

Ca.s.sidy smiled, "The guy with the knitting needles who liked girls with something extra."

"That's right. Barrett did the profile. If it hadn't been for her he'd still be out there."

"I thought you didn't believe in profiling," Bryan commented.

"I don't," Ed said, but then added, "I believe in her."

"Oh, please," Barrett brushed away the compliment, yet clearly enjoyed Ed's admiration. As she recalled, that had been mutual. But what the h.e.l.l was the deputy chief of detectives doing here? If he wasn't putting Jimmy under surveillance, it made no sense. And why was he living in Manhattan, what had happened to his wife and kids? "I wondered why you hadn't called me," she said.

His head c.o.c.ked slightly.

"For a case," she added.

"Can we talk about that later?"

"Sure ..."she looked at her watch, and felt a growing apprehension, standing in front of the Martin townhouse, feeling it tower over them. "I guess it's time to head in."

"You wearing a wire?" he asked.

"No."

"Don't you think you should?"

"I don't usually tape my patients without their knowledge."

"This is different and you know it."

"True, but still." She smiled, glad that he was taller than she was, and why no wedding band? While Ralph had no difficulty carrying through on his l.u.s.tful thoughts, Barrett's would-be infidelities had always stayed between her ears. Although, back when she and Hobbs had spent long hours unraveling the inner world of Charlie Rohr, she'd wondered what it would be like to be wrapped in the powerful arms of the no-nonsense detective.

"Think about that wire," Hobbs said.

"You'll be there," she reminded him.

"I'd rather be listening in."

"I'm not hearing this," Ca.s.sidy remarked.

"Enough," Barrett hefted her briefcase, let a car pa.s.s, and then crossed the street and walked up the broad granite steps. As she approached, she caught the mournful sound of a cello spilling from the house. With her hand on the antique fox-head doorknocker she paused. She a.s.sumed it was a recording, probably Brahms. A clock chimed the hour from inside the house; she knocked and the cello playing stopped.

The towering mahogany door swung in and a tall blond man with pale-blue eyes greeted her. At first she thought he was the butler, but realized a servant wouldn't be dressed in belted chinos and a white oxford b.u.t.ton-down shirt. A Siamese kitten batted at his ankles, drawing her attention to the unmistakable red-blink of a security bracelet.

"Dr. Conyors?" the man said, his voice pleasant and deep.

"Yes," Barrett answered, feeling a blast of cool air spill over her as gooseflesh popped on her arms.

He stepped back into the dark, marble-floored foyer. "I don't know if you remember me, but we met once when I was in the hospital." He extended his hand.

"I remember, but you look different," she said, shaking his hand, noting the strength of his grasp and that he was wearing musky cologne. Had she been mistaken? This couldn't be the same guy. At the same time her eyes were pulled in a dozen directions as she started to grasp the grandeur of the house. Even in the dimly lit foyer, it was hard not to gawk at the majestic sweep of the spiral staircase, or the beautiful inlaid marble on the floor, or the carved wood paneling and columns, and the artwork ... like being in a museum.

The plainclothes cops trailed in after her.

"That's right," Jimmy said, watching as they entered, "you requested an escort. At least they're not in uniform."

To Barrett's ear, it was a reproach. "As you said, it's what I requested."

"Never mind," his tone conciliatory. "The kitchen is to the right, past the parlor and through the dining hall," he directed them, as though they were a pair of in-the-way servants who needed to be gotten from underfoot. "There are some deli sandwiches on the table. I'd offer you something other than soda, but I can't have anything stronger in the house."

"We could stay here," Hobbs offered, looking Jimmy straight in the eye.

Jimmy held the detective's stare and then turned to Barrett. "Is that necessary?"

"No," she said, "it'll be fine. Where would you like to meet?"