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  Chapter 18

  GRIMES WAS the newsman, but Elizabeth knew enough not to bury the lede. “We have a real live serial killer,” she said.

  “I thought we already knew that,” Grimes shot back, unimpressed. “Isn’t that what you told me?”

  “No, I told you that’s what it could be,” said Elizabeth. “Now I’m convinced. Do you know who Aaron VonMiller is?”

  Duh, said Grimes’s face. Do I live in this city? “You can’t throw a rock without hitting one of his restaurants.”

  “So I’ve been told,” said Elizabeth. “Clearly I don’t eat out enough. In any event, his son was murdered a couple of hours ago at White Lines.”

  Immediately Grimes reached for his cell.

  “Don’t bother,” said Elizabeth. “There’s no missed text from anyone on your payroll.”

  Still, Grimes checked anyway. Sure enough, there was no text. “How did you know that?” he asked.

  “Because right now the three of us are the only ones who know that the VonMiller kid was murdered,” she said. “Everyone else will be reading later today that it’s a suspected drug overdose.”

  Watching Grimes creep forward in his seat while hanging on Elizabeth’s every word was…well, a bit creepy. The guy undoubtedly lived for this sort of stuff.

  “So it wasn’t an overdose?” he asked.

  “Actually, that’s exactly what it could’ve been. We’ll wait on toxicology for that,” said Elizabeth. She reached for a few of the single-serve grape jellies from the jelly caddy hugging the wall. She neatly lined them up next to one another, as if she were missing her color-coordinated folders.

  “Stop yanking my chain!” Grimes practically yelled.

  Everyone within earshot—which was pretty much everyone in the diner—turned to look, but he couldn’t care less. He wanted answers, and Elizabeth was making him wait. On purpose. A little revenge, perhaps, for the fifty-under-the-saltshaker stunt.

  “You remember the bookmark, right?” asked Elizabeth.

  “Of course,” said Grimes. “The playing card.”

  “Yeah, but which playing card?” asked Elizabeth.

  Grimes gave her his duh face again. “The king of clubs,” he said. “So what?”

  “So VonMiller’s son was known for his partying, always on the scene,” said Elizabeth. “In fact you might say he was the king of…”

  “Motherfucker,” said Grimes. “The killer was announcing his next victim.”

  Elizabeth nodded. “Tipping his hand, you might say.”

  “Damn, I like that,” said Grimes, jabbing his index finger at her. He quickly pulled out a tiny digital voice recorder from his jacket, hitting Record. “The killer is tipping his hand, playfully declaring his next victim with…”

  Grimes stopped and stared at Elizabeth. She nodded a second time, as if she’d been waiting for him to catch up.

  “Motherfucker,” he said again. “That’s how you know it was murder. Our guy left a card behind on the kid, didn’t he?”

  “The two of hearts,” said Elizabeth. “Stuffed in VonMiller’s pocket.”

  Grimes turned to me. He could barely contain himself. “Tell me you’ve already figured it out,” he said. “Who’s the next victim? Or is it two victims? A couple, maybe? No, wait. It’s much better if you don’t know. No one should know. That’s a much better story. The whole city should be wondering.” He raised his recorder again, speaking in a hushed tone. “The two of hearts…who will it be? Who will the killer…no, no, no…who will the dealer kill next? Yes, that’s who he is…the Dealer!”

  It was as if someone had pulled a string on his back; Grimes was rambling on, an endless stream of consciousness, totally absorbed in the moment.

  So much so that he never saw it coming.

  The real reason Elizabeth had called him.

  Chapter 19

  FASTER THAN Sugar Ray Leonard in his prime came her right hand, swiping Grimes’s recorder. “Hey!” he barked. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “It’s what you’re not doing,” she said. “You’re not writing about this yet.”

  “The hell I’m not.” He tried to swipe back the recorder, but he looked more like George Foreman against Muhammad Ali. Too slow.

  “I need you to wait,” said Elizabeth.

  “For what?” asked Grimes.

  Elizabeth pointed at me. That was my cue.

  “There are two types of serial killers,” I said. “Those who want to get caught and those who really want to get caught. On the surface it seems like our guy is just seeking publicity, that he wants to be famous. You’re a reporter, and he sends you that package. He’s chosen you as his messenger. But what’s the message?”

  Grimes shot me a look, basically the opposite of his duh face. He didn’t quite follow.

  “It’s a game,” chimed in Elizabeth. “Catch me if you can. If he only wanted publicity he would’ve flat-out told you about his first victim. Instead he sent you two clues. He knew, though, that there was only one thing you would do with them. Go to the police.”

  “So how do you factor in?” Grimes asked me. “If my role is so clear, that is.”

  “I’m not sure yet,” I said. “Presumably he’s out to prove me and my book either right or wrong. We’re still trying to figure that out.”

  “And that’s the problem,” said Elizabeth. “We need more from this guy than he’s giving us—clues, hints, anything—and the best way to get that is to make him think we’re not as smart as he thought, that we haven’t caught on.”

  “In other words, that the game hasn’t started yet,” said Grimes.

  By George…

  “You got it,” I said. “With any luck, he’ll give us a little more than he intended.”

  “And game over,” said Elizabeth.

  “But according to Dr. Professor here, this guy wants to be caught,” said Grimes. “Won’t he eventually just, you know, play to lose?”

  “It doesn’t work like that,” I said.

  “Then enlighten me,” said Grimes.

  “Do you really want a lecture on the subconscious?” I asked.

  “No. What I really want is to break this goddamn story in Monday’s paper.”

  “Okay, let’s assume you’re right for a second,” I began. “Our guy allows himself to get a little careless down the line. Like Son of Sam, he gets a parking ticket. Or he steals a car and gets nailed for it, like Ted Bundy. Or hell, let’s say he does the ridiculous and turns himself in. Maybe it’s even as early as next week. But what if it’s not? What if it’s next year? Because here’s all I know at this point. The king of clubs? The two of hearts? He’s still got fifty cards left in his deck.”

  With a glance, I handed the discussion back to Elizabeth. It was sort of like good cop, bad cop, except I was actually no cop.

  “Allen, you can break the story Monday and never get anything more from me on this or anything else ever again,” she said, folding her arms on the table. “Or you can give us a couple more days, still break the story, and then be the guy who knows everything first.”

  I eyed Grimes carefully. He could’ve chosen to go apeshit over Elizabeth’s threat, but she’d managed to say the one word that was like all the whiskey in the world to a guy like him.

  “First,” he said.

  “First,” she repeated.

  “I’m going to hold you to that, Detective,” he said.

  “You won’t have to,” she assured him, sliding his recorder across the table. She swung her legs out of the booth and stood. “Enjoy your omelet.”

  Chapter 20

  I WASN’T sure if Elizabeth was aiming for a dramatic exit, but she didn’t look back as she walked out of the diner. Presumably I was supposed to follow her. Grimes, however, had me pinned into my seat in the booth. He wasn’t moving.

  Instead, “Be careful, Dr. Professor,” he said.

  “Careful about what?” I asked.

  “She hasn’t told you, has she?”
/>   “Okay, I’ll bite,” I said. “What hasn’t she told me?”

  “Well, you’re the expert on human behavior, so you might want to ask yourself this,” he said. “Of all the detectives I could’ve called after getting that package, why did I call her?”

  “Because she’s good at her job?” I said. It wasn’t a question.

  “You’re right: she is good at her job. Good enough, though, to be the youngest detective second grade in the city, not to mention the prettiest?”

  “What exactly are you suggesting?” I asked. “That she slept her way to a promotion?”

  “No. Elizabeth’s too smart for that. But she is in bed with someone,” he said, taking another sip of his whiskey. “Do you follow politics by any chance? There’s a big election coming up here in the city, and it’s going to be a tight race. A very tight race.”

  “So I’ve been hearing,” I said.

  “Even if you don’t follow politics, how could you miss all those damn TV and radio ads, right? I’m already sick of them.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  “Do you, though?” he asked. “Do you really?”

  “Okay, so I don’t know what you mean,” I said. “Apparently you’ve taken a course in cryptic bullshit that I somehow missed.”

  Grimes smiled, tilted his coffee cup of whiskey at me, and promptly polished off the rest of it in a single swig. “I like you, Reinhart,” he said.

  I couldn’t say the feeling was mutual. At least not yet. The guy did have a certain charm about him, though.

  “Thanks,” I told him. It was the best I could offer.

  “Just remember what I told you, okay?”

  “What did you tell me?” I asked.

  “To be careful,” he said. “Sometimes you think you want to know things only to find out you really don’t.”

  I wasn’t about to ask what the hell that meant, because I knew he had no intention of explaining. Instead he slid out of the booth and made a beeline for the waitress, who was standing by the register.

  “Ix-nay on that omelet, sweetheart,” he said, handing her a twenty. “I’ve lost my appetite.”

  Chapter 21

  THE TWO cops camped out in the otherwise empty lobby of the Excelsior Hotel on the Upper West Side barely looked up from their newspapers as Elizabeth walked by them. They knew who she was. It wasn’t her first time there. It wouldn’t be her last.

  Although had they thought about it, they might have at least asked if she was expected. It was very early in the morning, after all.

  But they hadn’t thought about it, and they didn’t ask. Further proof, perhaps, that their guard duty assignment wasn’t exactly a reward for being the best and brightest on the force.

  Ding.

  The elevator opened in front of Elizabeth, revealing the man she’d woken up only minutes before with her call from outside the hotel.

  “This better be good,” he said, walking toward her. He was wearing a hastily assembled outfit of jeans and a Harvard sweatshirt. “What is it that you couldn’t tell me over the phone?”

  Elizabeth glanced over her shoulder, making sure they were truly alone. They were. “I need to see him,” she said.

  “Do you know what time it is?” asked Harvard.

  “Yeah, it’s roughly a few minutes past I don’t give a shit,” she said. “Wake him up.”

  He hesitated. She knew what that meant. Men and their vices…

  “He’s not alone, is he?” she asked.

  Harvard hesitated again, weighing his options. There weren’t any. He was one of the most gifted liars in the city, the Botticelli of bullshitters, but never to Elizabeth. It’s how she found out about the charade in the first place.

  “No, he’s not alone,” he said.

  Elizabeth smiled all too knowingly. “I’m curious,” she said. “Is there anything you wouldn’t do for him?”

  “It’s called loyalty, Detective,” he said. “It wouldn’t hurt you to show a little more of it.”

  “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  Harvard frowned. That was one of the things that really pissed him off about Elizabeth. She had an answer for everything. Of course that was also why his boss liked her so much. She was always thinking ahead.

  “Why don’t you tell me whatever it is you were going to tell him, and I’ll relay the message later?” he said.

  “Or,” said Elizabeth, “you could do what I asked you to do in the first place and wake him up.”

  “What if I don’t?” he asked.

  “Then I’ll go wake him up myself,” she said. “If I can’t win Powerball or marry Jake Gyllenhaal, my next wish in this world is having you and your skinny Ivy League ass try to stop me.”

  Ding.

  The elevator doors opened immediately after Harvard hit the Up button. It was his turn for the all-too-knowing smile. “Just making sure,” he said.

  “Of what?” asked Elizabeth.

  “That you’re the right man for the job.” He stepped back, allowing Elizabeth to step on the elevator. Ladies first.

  “You already woke him, didn’t you?” she asked.

  Harvard loved to play games.

  “Right after you called me,” he said, following her onto the elevator. He punched the button for the penthouse. “You wouldn’t be here unless it was important, right?”

  Chapter 22

  HARVARD DIDN’T say another word during the entire ride up to the top floor. Nor did he say anything when he led Elizabeth down the hallway to the largest suite in the hotel, the door of which was slightly ajar.

  “Good morning, Detective Needham,” said the man wearing the lush waffle-knit white robe. He was sitting on the couch, drinking coffee from the kind of bone china they don’t exactly sell at Pottery Barn. Behind him was one of the best views of Central Park that money can buy—exactly what the man had thought back when he ruled commercial real estate. In fact he liked the view so much he bought the entire hotel.

  “Good morning, Mr. Mayor,” said Elizabeth. “Sorry to wake you.”

  “No, you’re not,” he said, motioning for her to sit down. “What do you have for me? The sun’s not even up, and already you’re here to ruin my day.”

  It was more like save his ass, and they both knew it. The mayor simply liked to razz her a bit. It was how he flirted at arm’s length.

  Elizabeth waited until he set down his coffee before she launched right into it, a recap of the evening in bullet-point fashion.

  The murder of a club kid most likely disguised as an overdose.

  Bryce VonMiller as the king of clubs.

  And proof that the killer, who had now killed twice, intended to kill again.

  “The two of hearts, huh?” asked the mayor. “Who else saw it?”

  “I think the important question, sir, is who else knows what it means,” said Elizabeth. “Besides the people in this room, that’s Reinhart and Grimes.”

  “Grimes?” said Harvard. “You freakin’ told Grimes?”

  “Of course she did,” said the mayor. “Feed the lion and he forgets he’s in the cage.” He turned back to Elizabeth. “Isn’t that right, Detective?”

  She loved it when the mayor put Harvard in his place. His Honor didn’t do it very often, but when he did it was a thing of beauty. Not that she ever let on.

  Still, if you’re going to wear that crimson sweatshirt in public, you pretentious prick, you gotta know you’re asking for it.

  “Nothing’s going in his column for now,” said Elizabeth, assuring the mayor. “But Grimes is definitely rattling that cage.”

  “What about the professor?” he asked.

  “What about him?” she asked back.

  The mayor shrugged slightly under his white robe. “Has he been helpful?”

  “Sure,” she said. “Right now, though, we’re all just trying to figure out the rules of the game.”

  “In other words, it’s too early to tell,” said the mayor. “Is that what you’re saying?”


  Whatever sixth sense Elizabeth possessed kicked in like a mule with that last question. Too early to tell was not what the mayor wanted to hear, for reasons as obvious as the huge stack of polling data on the coffee table in front of him. The first Tuesday in November was less than two months away, and his support for reelection was slipping, not gaining traction.

  For the man wealthy enough to buy almost anything, this was the one thing he couldn’t afford. A serial killer terrorizing the city. Not now.

  “What I’m saying is that the original plan is still the best plan,” said Elizabeth. “We buy enough time to end this story before it ever becomes a story.”

  For once, the mayor seemed more concerned about someone other than himself. At least it appeared that way.

  “I’m not complaining,” he said. “Not yet. I was only asking about the professor. Tell me more about him.”

  “What would you like to know?” asked Elizabeth.

  “His private life,” said the mayor. “What has he told you about himself? Anything?”

  “Do you mean the fact that he’s gay?” she asked.

  The mayor reached for his coffee. “Did he tell you that?”

  “No. It’s never come up,” she said. “But it’s hardly a secret.”

  “What about something that is?” asked the mayor. “Has he told you anything in confidence?”

  That sixth sense of a mule kicked hard again in Elizabeth’s gut. Is he testing me? Trapping me?

  All she knew was that he was obviously leading to something.

  “No,” said Elizabeth. “Suffice it to say there’s been no pillow talk. Nor have we braided each other’s hair yet.”

  The mayor smiled, reminded again why he liked this detective so much. Then he reached for an envelope sticking out of a folder next to the stack of polling data. He handed it to Elizabeth.

  “For all the things we know about Dylan Reinhart, it turns out there’s one thing we didn’t know,” he said. “Until now.”

  Book Two

  Everything’s Wild