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arms crossed and rippling with muscle and sinew. There was a clammy feel to the air, and the scent of fresh-brewed coffee.
    Quinn leaned back in his swivel chair and listened to the brainstorming. He liked this kind of group approach, though it could drip with sarcasm and erupt in violent shows of temper. Every once in a while, something valuable could come of these impromptu confabs.
    “What’s with the two pawns?” Sal asked. “Is the killer telling us he’s gonna start murdering victims in pairs?”
    “Not likely,” Helen said.
    “He didn’t kill Pearl along with the maid,” Sal pointed out.
    “Exactly. It would have been too impromptu. He’s in charge. He wants to decide when, where, and how Pearl dies.”
    “What is likely?” Fedderman asked.
    “Occam’s razor,” Harold said.
    Sal said, “What the hell does that mean?”
    “Whatever is simplest is most likely the truth.”
    “Who’s Occam?” Fedderman asked.
    Quinn really felt like lighting a cigar.
    “It doesn’t matter,” Helen said. “What Harold said is usually true. It’s commonsense reasoning.”
    Harold looked triumphant, but only for a few seconds. “On the other hand, Sherlock Holmes said—”
    “Forget about Sherlock Holmes,” Helen said. “It’s the two pawns that interest me.”
    “The incident of the two pawns,” Harold said, and was ignored.
    “There are six murders that we know about, in this latest string of killings.” Lido said. He was farthest away from the nucleus of the group, at his computer. Usually above the fray.
    “Meaning what?” Fedderman asked.
    “Each player has eight pawns at the beginning of a chess game,” Helen said. “The killer might be telling us we’re out of pawns, and the game is going to get more serious. Bishops, rooks, knights . . . We’re going to be playing with the royalty of chess.”
    “I say the two pawns means he’s going to kill two more women,” Sal said.
    “Occam again,” Helen said.
    “Sherlock Holmes—” Harold began.
    “That’s most likely,” Helen said. “Two more victims. He’s getting anxious, more and more in the grip of his compulsion.”
    “Sherlock—”
    “He’ll want to kill more often,” Fedderman said.
    “He isn’t wrapped up in all that mapping and distance for nothing,” Helen said. “I’d say he’s eager to get to his final destination.”
    “New York,” Sal and Fedderman said simultaneously.
    “Most likely,” Harold said. “He wants to make it here.”
    Sal gave him a look.
    “Where Quinn lives,” Harold added.
    When they were gone, Quinn fired up a cigar, sat at his desk, and tried to figure out what to make of it all.

12
    He was sitting on a wooden folding chair, alone at a small round table covered with a white cloth. It was one of many in the beige-toned conference room. On each table were a small writing tablet, a cheap ballpoint pen, and a slender glass vase containing a single red rose. The killer’s rose looked as if it needed water.
    Speed dating, the killer thought. What a useful idea.
    Everyone had ten minutes to convince the prospective date at a table to take a chance. Just meet somewhere for a cup of coffee, maybe. Or a drink. An exploratory date. If the suitor (so called) was interested, he or she could arrange a date, or at least exchange phone numbers. If, as happened most of the time, the spark wasn’t struck, tables were changed when a chime sounded, indicating ten minutes had elapsed.
    The starting chime set in motion the dozen or so men clustered at one end of the room. The women sat at the tables.
    Here they come, Alma Fenster thought, wondering if you could actually smell testosterone. They were an unlikely looking bunch, dressed every way from motorcycle gang member to Sunday school teacher. There was one guy wearing a conservative blue blazer and khakis, deck shoes with no socks—like Mr. Suburban who’d lost his way and found himself in the big city.
    Yet there was something about him. A kind of