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won't."

    "You think he'd do it again?"

    "Probably. It depends on the nature of his delusion."

    "You just got done telling me he's not delusional."

    "That's not what I meant. He's delusional. But the crime scene shows someone who's not psychopathic; he's what a crime shrink would probably call ‘tripolar.' He executes his crimes according to his delusion but without losing sight of reality. He's afraid of getting caught." Jack paused to light a Camel. "I want to fork my strategies, let Eliot and his guys follow the normal SOPs while I "

    "Go off on the other fork in the road?" Olsher said.

    "Right. It works. Remember the Jamake hitter we had a couple years ago? Or the guy at the CES
    convention who ripped those three hookers? And there's always the Longford case..."

    "I remember. You don't have to blow your horn for me."

    "Good. I'll need slush money for consulting fees "

    Olsher winced like gas pains.

    "I'll need a researcher and a forensic shrink, maybe that woman from Perkins. But what I need more than any of that is for you to trust me."

    Olsher rose. No DPC enjoyed the headache of cash authorization; getting it was like standing before a Senate subcommittee. Nevertheless, Olsher said, "You've been thinking about this all day, haven't you? Maybe you do give a shit. So get on it."

    "You're giving me the case?"

    "What do you think, Jack? You're a ragass. You're a longhair. You're probably a drunk. You can't handle the psychological pressure of the job anymore, and you're letting a busted romance pull you to pieces. The Yankees are only good because they buy players, and I've seen you drink house booze many times. But you probably are the best homicide investigator on my fucking department."

    Jack smiled.

    "But don't make a dick of me on this, or you'll be the best unemployed homicide investigator..."

    "Loud and clear, boss." Jack crushed out his Camel and lit another. "If I'm lucky and sometimes I am I can get a line on this fucker. To catch a killer, you have to know him before you can find him. He can be the smartest killer in the world, but no matter how well he covers his tracks, there's always one little thing he always leaves behind."

    "What's that?" Olsher asked.

    "His soul." Jack drew smoke deep into his chest. Red, he thought. In his mind he saw red. "This guy left his soul all over the walls of that girl's bedroom."

    Â«Â« »»

    It stuck in his mind a memory more persistent than the others. He didn't know why then, but he thought he did now. Perhaps it had been the present telling him something about the future, an eager specter whispering in his ear, saying, Listen, Jack. It's really you they're talking about.
    Listen. Listen...

    A month ago? Two? He wasn't sure. They'd gone out to eat somewhere McGarvey's, he thought and then had stopped for a drink at the Undercroft. Veronica seemed particularly content; she was used to their relationship now, comfortable with it. She accepted it as part of her.

    Jack, too, was very happy that night. It was a combination of complacencies. He'd just gotten a raise and a letter of commendation. Veronica had just sold two more paintings and had been interviewed by Vanity Fair. Their lives, together, were stable. They were happy, and they were in love.

    That was the sum of the combination: love. It was his love that made him happy.

    Romantic affection sometimes seemed silly, but that made him happy too. Just holding her hand, or the easy way their knees touched when they sat. How she unconsciously touched him when she talked. These were subtleties, yet they were also anchors, weren't they? Verifiers. More little pieces of their love.

    There'd been many nights like this, but this one stuck out because of something that happened later. As the evening wound down, some guy from the state film institute came in and introduced himself to Veronica. His name if Jack remembered right was Ian. He was young and had just graduated from film school; he was