This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Text copyright © 2021 by Gunner Publications LLC

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

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eISBN: 9781542021739

Cover design by Adil Dara

1

8:00 p.m., Tuesday, November 11

Did he have everything he needed?

He had already checked the contents of his backpack.

But as he sat hunched over the bag, in the back seat of the car, he checked once more.

This was Michael’s way.

The vehicle in which he was riding was a Chevrolet, a sedan, and it was a real, old-fashioned taxi. Michael wouldn’t use Uber or Lyft for something like this. Ditto for his own car, a battered Honda, in faded red, approaching pink.

He noted the cabbie glancing at him for the third time, taking in what Michael believed to be, with all modesty, a handsome, wrinkle-free face, if a tad jowly. He stared back, and at the fourth glance, the driver’s eyes returned to the road, where they should have been all along. There his gaze remained.

Michael tugged the stocking cap snugger over his thick blond hair (mostly blond; he’d discovered a few gray strands recently—at thirty-seven, he thought this was unfair, but it could be attributed to recent stress, which he was working hard to eliminate). The month was November and at this latitude in this midwestern clime the evening was chill, so the cap was not suspicious, nor the gloves, though they were thin cloth; leather would have been warmer, but would interfere with his dexterity.

Absently, he reached down and scratched the itchy spot on his ankle. The cream he’d put on earlier had worn off.

“Here?” the cabbie asked, stopping at the curb in front of an empty lot. The brakes gave a high-pitched squeal.

Why was he asking? This was the address he’d been given.

And so Michael didn’t answer. He leaned forward and looked at the fare on the meter. He dug into the pocket of his black jeans, withdrew some money and counted out $22.75. He put the cash in the pass-through cup in the plexiglass divider. The driver fished it out. As Michael gathered up his backpack and got out, the middle-aged man, white and skinny, with dark circles beneath his eyes, barked an acerbic laugh. “Hey, buddy?”

“What?”

“That’s even.”

Michael tightened his face. Confusion.

“This’s even fare.” Lifted his fist, which gripped the cash. “You didn’t leave no tip.”

“‘No’ tip? You mean any tip. Or a tip.” He slammed the door and looked around the deserted spot. The sun was down and this neighborhood was streetlamp-free. Why he’d selected it.

“The hell?” The cabbie rolled down the window, as Michael pulled his backpack on. “Everybody leaves a tip.”

Michael replied, “The cab stinks.”

“What?” The man gaped.

“I know, that cliché about taxi drivers who don’t shower. I’m not saying you stink but, then again, I’m not sure you don’t.”

“Jesus. Listen, buddy, I’ve been working since six this morning.” He was speaking in a voice that was both angry and whining. He leaned forward threateningly—as intimidating as one can be, in the window of a dirty Malibu, looking up at the target of your scorn.

Michael was a big man. He’d been called imposing. Even in prison, people hadn’t bothered him. He stared, as he’d done in the rearview mirror. The driver eased back and began to roll up the window, muttering, “I don’t make that much. I need tips.”

“Whose fault is that? Get a better job.”

The driver burned rubber, speeding away, using up gas and losing tire surface. Stupid man.

Michael walked along the sidewalk in this threadbare part of town. It would be described as blue collar. Fifty feet along the deserted sidewalk he turned left, west, and then strode through the large parking lot, also empty, serving a forest preserve; the expansive place was fragrant with pine and he could hear the snap as leafless branches tapped against one another in the persistent breeze. He began walking quickly along a jogging path and in twenty minutes he broke from the woods.

Michael surveyed what lay before him: a pleasant residential development. The houses were small, with two or three bedrooms, all one story, in good repair. Michael was living in a dingy and barren temporary apartment across town, in one of those neighborhoods that was changing but not changed. If pine scent wafted through his bedroom window it was from floor cleaner the workers used in the deli across the alley. Mostly he smelled hot grease and garlic.

Yet ambience didn’t matter. The one-bedroom was a place to sleep, a place to work out of. He was presently unemployed but that didn’t mean he didn’t work.

Keeping to the forest preserve side of Juniper Lane, under cover of the trees, he began hiking along the road toward his destination.

Here, too, there were no streetlamps, nothing to dim the tiny, pulsing stars in the huge black expanse overhead.

A line came to him: it was as if God had fired a shotgun into the dome of night . . .

Michael had enjoyed only two courses in his time at college. One was creative writing, his preference poetry. The other was human anatomy.

Across the street were several houses with kids’ toys in the yard. He felt an urge to ring the doorbell and say to the parents, “So, let me get this straight: You advertise to anybody driving by that you’ve got youngsters here? How stupid are you? And across from a come-over-here-sonny forest preserve? You do know there’s a registered sex offender two blocks from here.”

The latter intelligence was fiction but it would surely have a terrorizing effect until they learned the truth.

Michael tended to act on such impulses frequently. But not tonight, for obvious reasons.

Headlights appeared behind him from the end of the street, a car approaching, then slowing as it passed him. The Toyota pulled up into the driveway of 12358 Juniper about fifty feet away. The house was dark green. The lights were presently out. There was an ADT sign in the front lawn but he knew that the account had been terminated by the landlord years ago; the house was presently being rented.

The woman, in her midthirties, stepped out. Wearing a leather jacket and tight jeans—he loved the leg wear—Sonja Parker gathered her shoulder bag and purse from the back seat. She was blonde and about five feet, six inches tall, with an athletic build. He knew this from earlier observation; you couldn’t see much here in the dimness, even if God had blasted the sky with a scattergun.

Sonja walked to the neighbor’s house and rang the bell. A figure Michael could not see came to the door. There was a brief conversation and he handed Sonja a package. She nodded her thanks and returned, crossing the driveway and fishing for her door keys.

By now Michael was directly across from 12358.

He stopped. He opened the backpack, and—because he couldn’t help himself—he checked everything once more, all the tidily sealed plastic bags. Michael loved Ziplocs.

Yes, the hammer.

Yes, the screwdriver.

Yes, the floral wire, thin, green, and far stronger than you’d expect.

Yes, the well-honed kitchen knife.

And, yes, the delicate and colorful Russian nesting doll, whose face was not unlike Michael’s at the moment: placid and content and more than a little mysterious.

2

10:00 a.m., Wednesday, November 12

At around nine p.m. last night the woman renting this house became the fourth victim of RDK, the Russian Doll Killer.”

Facing several dozen spectators and reporters, Detective Ernest Neville was outside the ring of yellow crime-scene tape cordoning off 12358 Juniper Lane. Still cameras buzzed and the video units sucked up pixels silently.

Neville was forty-one years old, six feet, one inch tall and had never been an ounce over 170 pounds since reaching that weight at the age of sixteen. Striking blue eyes jarred with brown hair, a combination that must have some explanation in quirky ancestry. He couldn’t begin to explain how his forebears had passed such traits down, though Betsy could. Neville’s opinion was that women were born to understand that “genetic stuff,” which was itself, he’d joked, a genetic trait.

“Her name, Detective?”

“We’re not releasing the name until we’ve had a chance to contact the next of kin.” With the words, his breath came out as steam. Neville wished he’d worn his gloves.

“Was there security-camera footage?”

“We’re not aware of any yet.” He continued with his prepared remarks. “The killer followed the same MO. The victim was bound with floral wire and stabbed to death. She was not sexually assaulted . . . while alive. Just like at the other scenes. Here, too, he left a Russian nesting doll as a calling card.”

He looked over the crowd. Neville knew it was possible that RDK himself would actually be present. But he didn’t see anyone who was acting particularly suspicious.

“Following the murder the killer exited the house and stole the victim’s car, which was later found abandoned. There was one witness. A neighbor who saw a man across the street just after the victim arrived home. He could give no description beyond what we already have: a white male, of medium build and height, wearing gloves and a black stocking cap. He carries a dark backpack.”

A reporter in his midthirties, in a three-quarters-length watch coat, was brandishing a digital recorder Neville’s way. There was no accompanying cameraman, which meant the man likely was from the evaporating world of print journalism. “Detective, the last murder was only two weeks ago. Isn’t it odd for serial killers to commit another crime so soon after the prior one?”

“It is, yes. But sometimes serial perpetrators accelerate their killing. Often it’s when they’re nearing the end of a cycle and are planning on going to ground.” Neville had learned this fact in consultation with the FBI. Though he was head of the RDK task force of the County Sheriff’s Office, he had no personal knowledge of this aspect—or any other—of serial killers. There’d never been one in Handleman County’s 170-year history—if you discounted Broom Scudder’s shooting spree in 1978, though in that incident the six victims were not of the human variety; Scudder had grown tired of his neighbor’s cows coming to dine and defecate in his cabbage patch.

A reporter—a man—asked, “Could you describe the postmortem sexual activities?”

“We’re not releasing that information,” Neville said brusquely. That question was often asked—and the inquirer was invariably male.

A woman wrapped in a bright-red parka, her hair in an anchorwoman flip, called, “Why the Russian dolls, Detective?”

A question that had been asked by the press, public, mayor, county supervisors and Neville and his fellow task force members about a thousand times in the past months. Neville had heard a talking head on one of the cable networks say, “Oh, I’m sure RDK felt abandoned and victimized from a young age. Subconsciously, with each murder he opens up yet another doll in an effort to get to the innermost one, which represents him, the child before the abuse began.”

The task force’s answer to the question was still, “We don’t know at this point.”

Another man, stamping his feet against the cold, asked, “The doll he left last night, Ernie? Was it empty or were there other dolls inside?”

Russian nesting dolls could be opened to reveal a smaller doll, which in turn held another and so on. “Like at the other murders this one contained five other dolls.”

“Any message?”

“No message.”

“Have you considered if the killer is Russian?”

He ignored that one, though the answer, had it been given by his six-year-old daughter, would be: “Duh.”

“Can you tell us the brand of the doll? Was it the same as the others?”

“I’m not at liberty to say. That’s all for now.”

3

Ching-Hua Manufacturing, Michael Stendhal answered silently. He stood, shivering, at the edge of the crowd, watching Detective Neville fire up the cruiser and ease down Juniper Lane.

Michael was in a jogging outfit. Last night, after driving the white Toyota from here to a vacant lot on the outskirts of Marshall, he’d taken a bus back to his apartment. This morning, he’d parked his own car in the lot on the far side of the forest preserve and jogged to Juniper, working up a good, authentic sweat. He’d been warm for a while but now the damp chill was seeping in.

Ching-Hua . . .

Odd that the Russian nesting doll had been made in China, given that the relationship between those countries had never been particularly rosy.

Oh, and yes, FYI, it was the same brand that had been left at the other scenes.

Not at liberty to say . . .

Now, there was a tasty phrase for you. At. Liberty. To. Say. Archaic. Classic. Very Hamilton. A play that Michael had enjoyed a great deal. He’d pickpocketed a ticket from a scalper (hardly in any position to complain). He recalled upbraiding the couple next to him for whispering during the performance. One of the dramatic duel scenes, no less.

Really, some people.

“Excuse me, sir.”

Michael turned. It was the reporter in the navy watch coat, the one who’d asked the detective about the acceleration of the murders. He had the focused eyes of someone who liked to ask questions.

“I’m Jared Simms.” He tapped his press badge and lifted his recorder. “What’s your name, please?”

“No.”

Simms didn’t seem to know how to process this nonresponsive response. After a pause, he plowed ahead: “I’m trying to find the identity of the victim. Did you know her?”

Instead of replying, Michael looked around at the crowd; he thought of them as leeches.

No, sloppy metaphor. Leeches just snacked on the living. These were scavengers, lapping up dark satisfaction that Sonja was dead and they were not.

“Sir?”

Michael looked back. He’d forgotten about the man.

“Did you know her? I’m trying to find her name.”

“Didn’t that detective say they didn’t want it released until the next of kin were notified?”

“They’re probably contacting them now. Probably have already.”

In a voice as chill as the air Michael said, “But you don’t know if . . . they . . . have . . . already.”

Simms blinked at the jab. “Well, no.”

Michael was flexing his thinly gloved hands. The sun was bright but the temperature was midthirties. “I don’t know who she is. I don’t live near here.”

“You care to comment on the crime?”

“What’s the point of that?”

“I’m sorry?” Simms had a narrow face and, though he seemed to be in good shape, wasn’t very insulated against the cold—with either fat or garment. His nose was a charming pink.

Michael inhaled deeply and exhaled a Game of Thrones dragon torrent of steam. “You want me to comment on the crime?”

“Yes, sir, what are your thoughts on the murder?” His dark hair was astonishingly thick and combed up in a pompadour like a cartoon character’s. Whatever could be said about the rest of his slim form, his scalp would stay nice and toasty under that pelt.

“Okay. I’ll go out on a limb here . . . Wait. Your little box is working?” Michael glanced down at the digital voice recorder.

Simms verified that it was soaking up decibels. “We’re good. Go ahead.”

Michael screwed up his face and thought for a moment. “My comment is this: her murder was a bad thing.” A pause. “And I’ve got a corollary. You know what a corollary is?”

“I—”

“A proposition that follows from a statement already proven or accepted as a given. My corollary is that all murder is bad. You can attribute that to an unnamed source.”

Simms sighed out some steam of his own. “Look, mister, I’m just doing my job.”

“Preying on the sorrow of others to sell newspapers is what you’re just doing.”

“We’re online.”

“Oh, you don’t sell ads?” Michael squinted as he looked at the house and the busy crime-scene technicians. “You can also use this quote: ‘The source further stated that it was his opinion that the victim would be better off if she were still alive, rather than dead.’”

Simms clicked the recorder off. “Jesus.”

“Don’t give me that exasperation. What the fuck do you think people are going to say when you ask them to comment on a woman’s murder?” Michael’s hands were cold but his heart was hot as a bonfire. “You’re a shabby little man, aren’t you?”

“What?” Simms whispered.

“Shabby. Look at those shoes of yours. They make polish, you know. You can’t do anything about the heels—except buy new shoes. Maybe if you could report your way out of a paper bag somebody might pay you real money.”

The man stared. “Are you crazy?”

Depends on who’s manning the scale, thought Michael.

“You have no reason to talk to me that way.”

Ah, that got to the crux of it. Reporter Simms was one hundred percent right.

But no reason to talk to him that way was no reason not to.

“You drink, too, I’ll bet.” Michael glanced at the man’s bare hands. “Not married either. She leave you because of the bottle, the tawdry clothes, the pauper’s salary or bedroom issues? You don’t seem like you’d be a Lothario in the sack.”

Simms’s face twisted up in an alarming way. His cheeks now matched the ruddy nose, and the chameleon change was not from the cold. “My wife, she . . . last year . . .”

Apparently he couldn’t finish the sentence. Died, Michael guessed.

C’est la vie . . .

“And so you spend your days prying comments from parents about dead children, or children about dead parents. Is that really news? And you wonder why nobody gives a shit about journalism anymore.”

Grim faced, Simms waved a hand in the air as if fending off a wasp, then spun around and walked away. Was he crying? Hard to tell. Runny eyes and noses were the order of the day.

Michael, feeling good, noted the reporter had apparently had enough of asking senseless questions and was walking to his little all-I-can-afford car. He jogged back along the path that would take him to the far side of the preserve and his own vehicle.

As he ran, the reporter vanished from his mind. His thoughts spiraled to Sonja Parker last night. Her beautiful face was oval and her skin translucent as pearl. Her voice low. Her laser-beam blue eyes were severe. Her athletic figure was a bit boyish but her ass was great. The slim physique wouldn’t appeal to a lot of men. Michael, though, just plain loved that build. He didn’t want to get into sister issues at this moment but there you had it. He wondered where Marge and the kid were now. She hadn’t spoken to him for seven years.

Some people took things way too seriously.

He pictured Sonja once again, last night, standing at the door, fiddling with the key, her blonde hair lit like a halo from the starlight.

God’s shotgun . . .

Ah, Sonja.

Ah, Marge.

Both of whom gave him an idea.

Michael decided to go on a date.

4

Detective Ernest Neville was looking over the charts that hung in the Detective Division of the Handleman County Sheriff’s Office.

OPERATION: RUSSIAN DOLL KILLER (RDK)

This was a large room with cubicles for the detectives. Though Neville was senior, there was no separate office, which was fine by him. He liked being with his peeps, as his daughter, Sheri, would say. The walls were scuffed and stained, the gray furniture dented, the linoleum streaked.

The decor was municipal law enforcement everywhere.

A large room, yes, but of late the space had grown somewhat more crowded, as it was home to the RDK task force, which swelled the Division population to eleven, from its usual six. Neville was presently gazing at the details of evidence found at the sites of the murders—each in a different part of the county, miles apart (Neville had stuck pins in a map, thinking the sites might cluefully spell a word or designate a number, but no).

Homicides were not frequent in Handleman County. But Neville read the law-enforcement literature voraciously (and, with Betsy, watched the crime shows on TV); he’d never heard of anyone quite like RDK. There were virtually no forensic or circumstantial evidentiary leads that pointed to a suspect, no witnesses who could offer anything more specific than the vague description he’d recited to the reporters earlier. There were probably others who’d seen more but it took a special kind of person to go on record and give details about a man quick with a butcher knife.

No footprints. No useful toolmarks. The lab had isolated some DNA, but the killer wasn’t in the CODIS database. Neville had read an article about a rape and murder in England a few years ago. The police had asked every man in the county to take a DNA test for comparison with the perp’s. It wasn’t required but if you refused you obviously became suspect number one. That was how they caught their man (he’d tried to pay a friend to give a sample for him).

Neville sure liked the idea and came up with a plan to surreptitiously get samples of DNA from as many male residents in the county as he possibly could. That got shot down by the sheriff.

Wearing his thick camo jacket and jeans and boots, Deputy Benji Camp, Neville’s main assistant, walked up to his boss. Built like a wrestler, crew-cut Benji was the jock of the department, an athlete, outdoorsman and the best marksman for miles around. His cheeks were red and his nose damp. He dabbed and explained about his fieldwork after the Juniper Lane crime scene. He shrugged. “Might be a lead, but just can’t tell at this point.”

Which was the story of the investigation to date.

“Just keep at it.”

With a nod, the solid man hit the trail once more.

Neville sipped a Dr Pepper. It was his favorite drink. Betsy liked some wine at dinner, and though not fond of alcohol, he was sporting enough to sip a little, provided he “doctored” it, the pun referring to the soft drink he mixed in. The county didn’t stock the soda in the lunchroom, so Neville brought a stash from home. Which was just as well. Here, it was a ridiculous $1.50 each in the vending machine, and exact change only. Insult to injury.

“Hey.” The county sheriff walked into the Detective Division. He went by Jimbo Rawlins—the man hated his given “James,” as well as the nick “Jim,” so had for inexplicable reasons settled on that odd farm-boy mutation. He was a cowboy, with a weathered face and beer gut and broad shoulders. His hands were massive and the right palm was permanently tattooed with gunpowder particles from the time he held on to the barrel of a revolver for dear life, wrestling with a sinewy meth-head.

“Got that report,” Rawlins said. “The shrink.”

Last week the county had sprung to fly in a consultant based in Washington, DC, a psychiatrist who specialized in profiling.

Neville had a vague recollection of what Sigmund Freud looked like, skinny, bearded and bald, and Dr. Trenton Stoller fit the first and the last of that triad. He also smoked, it was easily deduced (either he indulged in the filthy habit frequently or laundered his clothing rarely).

The man had looked at the files and spent some time talking with the investigators. He’d taken notes, probably like a real shrink did in sessions with patients—Neville wouldn’t know—and had then flown back home.

Now, Neville was skimming the report.

The dolls are the key to his crimes, and will be the key to locating him. The problem centers on his parents. He was forced to play many different roles in order to survive a neglected, and possibly abusive, childhood. He would present one personality to his family and when that didn’t protect him he withdrew (i.e., became the next inner doll).

To find his identity, I would examine local school and family services records to locate reports of neglect (and/or abuse) from ten to fifteen years ago. You’re looking for reports of an adolescent—probably over- or underweight—acting out (“a cry for help”) who then would become passive and contrite when confronted with authority. The infractions he committed would have been vandalism, arson, bullying younger children. In recent years, his anger at his parents has pushed him past the tipping point and he is now murdering, in an attempt to reclaim his role as the outermost Russian doll.

Neville sighed. “School and county records? That long ago? I’ll get somebody on it, but talk about long shots.”

Rawlins grumbled, “Sounds like what they’re saying on TV. And CNN didn’t send us a bill for three hundred an hour.” He then turned to a slim, bespectacled, balding man in his forties, the Crime Scene Unit analyst on the task force. The sharp-eyed man usually could be found in white Tyvek coveralls but presently was in typical Sheriff’s Office couture—a starchy gray uniform. “Any luck with that print?”

The CSU man shook his head.

Sighing, Rawlins stared at the same chart that Neville was perusing. After a moment he said, “Mayor’s getting impatient.”

Whole town’s impatient.

Whole county’s impatient.

I’m impatient.

But Neville understood what he was really saying. If they didn’t catch RDK soon, there would be political consequences. The mayor had just been reelected by a slim margin. It was a one-year term and she might be facing unemployment come next November.

“I told her we’d have answers soon. Will we have answers soon?”

How do you reply to a question like that?

There going to be another earthquake like in ’08?

“We will, Jimbo.”

The sheriff acknowledged the pointlessness of the question, and the answer, with an ambiguous nod of the head.

Rawlins’s eyes strayed from the evidence chart to a large plastic jar with a slot cut into the lid beside the coffee maker. Inside were a number of crumpled bills, singles through tens mostly. A couple of twenties. A sign behind it read:

MARSHALL HOSPITAL CHILDREN’S WING FUNDRAISER.

GIVE LIKE A SON OF A BITCH!

The sheriff asked, “How much we raised?”

Eyeing the jar, the CSU man said, “I don’t know. Couple hundred.”

“Fire’s going to beat us. They always do.”

A young deputy pointed out, “They stand on intersections at red lights and guilt you into coughing up bucks. We can’t do that. They’ve got free time. We don’t.”

“Catch him.” Rawlins stepped into the corridor.

5

The app was like Tinder.

Or was the word ap? One p or two?

Michael didn’t have the inclination to check.

He had joined and submitted his profile, which was about forty percent accurate. The protocol for meeting was the same for blind dates everywhere: You never picked her up, or she you (girls could be psycho too). You met in a crowded, neutral place. A drink first, and if no one blundered or shocked, then it was off to dinner.

How the evening went after you sat down and tucked napkins was always a roll of the dice.

Tonight, Michael really hoped he’d get lucky.

He needed that. All the stress, the anxiety. The Russian Doll thing wasn’t helping the way he’d thought it would. The memory of the opalescent face of Sonja Parker wasn’t either.

Pausing, looking around casually, he tried to sense any threats. Hard to say. Maybe. Some of his ill ease was paranoia. But he couldn’t forget that he was a target. There were crosshairs on his back. He turned his collar up and continued on his way.

He was walking to the Riverfront District and the bar where he would meet Randi. The place was on the same street as his apartment, though the one-mile distance between the two might as well have been a light-year. The Riverfront scene was glitter and glass and chrome, populated after work, like now, with hordes of suited men and frocked women clustering and buzzing like worker bees in a hive. He had been to the place Randi’d picked—Chasin’s, what a name—and it set him on edge. Still, he was willing to endure it.

Lucky . . .

“Spare some money?”

Michael stopped, midstride, and looked down.

The man, in a worn, black sweatshirt and stained parka, sat cross-legged on a blanket. He was holding a cup. On his head was a stocking cap very much like the one in Michael’s backpack at home. A sign reported:

I’M A WOUNDED WAR VET. HOMELESS. PLEASE HELP.

He looked up with anticipation in his gray face. His hand, in fingerless gloves, rose. The cup he gripped contained bills and coins.

“Where did you serve?” Michael asked.

“Afghanistan.”

“What outfit?”

Brief hesitation. “The One-oh-one.”

“One-oh-one what?”

The man asked him, “Did you serve?”

“Fuck no. Why would I do that? What was your outfit?”

“Um, the One-oh-one . . .” Voice fading, maybe in confusion.

“You said that. Can’t you be more specific?”

When the man didn’t reply Michael tugged his gloves off and tapped a request into Google.

“What’re you doing?”

Reading, Michael asked, “The 101st Airborne?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“So, where in Afghanistan?”

“Why’re you asking me?”

“Where?”

“In Kabul.”

More reading. He was impressed. Quite the heroic outfit. He looked down at the man: “No, the One-oh-one wasn’t in Kabul.”

“I meant we landed there, and went, you know, someplace else.”

With irritation: “Okay. Where?”

“I don’t remember.”

“How can you not remember where you were stationed?”

“Man, come on. I had a head injury.” He pointed to the sign.

“Let me see.”

“See what?”

“Show me the scars. Take the hat off.”

“You’re crazy. I got hurt. My memory, it comes and goes.”

Michael said, matter-of-factly, “You’re asking me for money. I’ve got a right to know if you’re telling the truth. So far, seems you’re lying.”

“All right. Don’t give me any money.”

Crossing his arms, Michael said, “Let me tell you a story. This guy, young guy, he got arrested. Something small, shoplifting maybe. I heard this on the news. He was in court, claimed he was a veteran, to get sympathy from the judge. Only he’d made it up. The judge would’ve given him next to nothing as a sentence but he found out the army claim was fake and sentenced him to a year in jail and five hundred hours working in the VA, and then he had to write letters to a thousand wounded soldiers, apologizing. By hand.”

The man sputtered, “I’m not . . . faking. I forget things.”

“Why aren’t you working?”

“I can’t get a job.”

Michael pointed across the street. A grocery store had a help-wanted sign in the window. “You mean you don’t want to get a job.”

“The memory thing.”

“Got a solution. Find some help and then get a job.” Michael ignored the astonished look and pointed to the man’s handwritten sign. “All right. We’re not sure about the ‘vet’ part. What about ‘homeless.’ Is that real?”

“Jesus Christ, I live in a shelter!”

“And I live in an apartment. Neither of us own a home. So I guess that makes me homeless too. But I’m stupid because I pay and you don’t. Where’s the shelter?”

“On Seventeenth.”

“Hm. You remembered that.” Michael peered into the cup. “How much money you have in there?”

“What? Why?”

“How much?”

“You’re taking my money?”

“Only the bills. Have you touched them?”

The man stared.

Michael said, “You tried to rob me. There’re consequences. Tell me, have you touched the money? Your hands’re filthy.”

“I—”

“Don’t they have showers in shelters?”

The man raged, “I’ll call the cops.”

“That won’t end well. Most of them’re vets.”

“Fuck you. Take it. Just leave me alone!”

Michael pulled a tissue out of his pocket and scooped out the bills, seventeen dollars, wadded them up and slipped them into his pocket. It’d buy him lunch. He’d had a craving for pizza lately. He could leave the bills, still in the tissue, under the plate without actually touching them. He’d make sure the tab came to about sixteen dollars.

When he was ten feet up the sidewalk he heard a shout. “Barawala Kalay Valley.”

Michael paused, looked back.

“I remember! We were in Barawala Kalay Valley. My unit . . . it was the 327th Infantry. Second Battalion. We were after a warlord. Qari Ziaur Rahman.”

“Hm.” Michael turned and continued on his way. Thinking of the pizza had made him hungry. He’d be on good behavior during drinks so he and Randi could migrate to a restaurant ASAP after the booze.

Ten minutes later he was walking through the door of Chasin’s and looking around for the advertising account executive, thirty-four, lover of cats and sushi hand rolls and spinning classes and Stephen King and The Good Place and the Steelers. She didn’t write in the profile that she liked cuddling and fireplaces and walks on the beach and Lady Gaga concerts, but he’d bet if he told her that he did, her first thought would be: let’s check out caterers, Mom.

He spotted her standing at the far end of the bar. She’d picked a spot with dim, wrinkle-friendly light. She was in a brown leather jacket, quasi-low-cut black sweater (how long had she debated that choice?) and designer jeans. Kinky blue shoes with stubby heels.

A pretty face, girl next door. A substantial figure but not fat. Nice ass. And the wrinkles were no big deal.

She spotted him and her eyes brightened a few lumens. Since his photo had been uploaded to the dating site Michael hadn’t lost his hair, hadn’t porked up, hadn’t developed any scars. As he approached he didn’t try to hug or kiss, but simply nodded, leaving it to her to extend a hand, which he gripped in both of his.

Good behavior.

Lucky . . .

6

A grasshopper walks into a bar.”

Randi was telling a joke.

“The bartender says, ‘Hey, you know there’s a drink named after you.’ The grasshopper says, ‘Who names a drink Fred?’”

Michael gave an appropriate laugh/groan.

The fuel was bourbon and vodka, and the engine they powered churned out sentence after sentence about jobs, hobbies, residences present and residences past, schools, friends, vacations, NPR podcasts, food, sports, on and on and on.

All of it harmless, some of it interesting, none of it weaponized.

After forty minutes Michael reflected that the foundation of the evening seemed well laid—a clever verb for a date, he admitted to himself. He suggested dinner. Randi’s eyes brightened further and she left the choice of restaurant in Michael’s hands. Protocol dictated that it be walkable, of course. Not wise to get into a taxi with a strange man, even one who was more or less charming and attentive and apparently harmless. Besides, Michael could just imagine what might happen if he got the same cabbie who’d dropped him off last night before his little get-together with Sonja.

Whose fault is that? Get a better job . . .

With Italian food on his mind, thanks to the homeless vet, he suggested Lombardi’s Family-Style Trattoria, which dished up the solid, satisfying and overportioned fare you’d expect from the name.

They went for calamari, followed by Caesar salads, then decided to split a chicken marsala—an extra plate naturally; dining from a communal dish was a subset of intimacy and never appropriate for the first date.

Michael could write a book.

The main course came and the waiter poured more red wine. As she ate, Randi glanced from time to time at his plate. She was pacing herself. Given her figure, he guessed she tended to wolf.

Her phone dinged. “Excuse me. It’s my daughter.”

“Oh, please. Go right ahead.”

She read, then sent a message and put her phone down.

They conversed some more and when they were nearly finished with the meal, Michael wiped his mouth with his napkin. “So you have children?

A slight pause. “Just the one. Is that an . . .” She lifted her hand. The missing word was issue.

“Oh, no worries! I love kids. I’m sort of a surrogate father to my nephew—my sister’s son. His father abandoned the family.” A shake of the head. “I never had any of my own. One of my regrets.” A sip of Brunello, the best Tuscan—no, the best Italian—wine ever made. “What’s her name, your daughter?”

“Erin.”

“Pretty. How old?”

“Thirteen.”

“That’s what, high school?”

“Middle. Freshman next year.”

“You look athletic,” Michael said, without—of course—any glance whatsoever south of the neck. “Does she take after you, in sports?”

“Oh, I never played anything. Well, field hockey in high school but not seriously. I’ve always been into exercising. That’s my thing.”

“Spinning, that’s right.” A sip. “Me, I jog. It’s relaxing.”

Randi snuck a bread mop in the marsala sauce. “Erin’s game is softball.”

“I heard that underhand pitches are almost as fast as major-league baseball.”

“I wouldn’t know about that. But she’s good. She plays outfield mostly.”

The conversation meandered once more. The entrée dishes were cleared away. Michael toyed with the dessert menu card that the male server—a very non-Italian immigrant—had brought. Albanian was Michael’s guess.

Another sip of wine.

The night was winding down.

Lucky or not?

Michael asked, “Just curious. How does Erin feel about your dating?”

A brief, processing hesitation. “She’s good with it. I’ve been divorced six years now.” An awkward smile. “She understands it’s time for old Mom to get back on the horse.”

“‘Old’? Hardly.”

Randi dipped her head. Perhaps a blush?

“She was seven. Must have been hard for her.”

“Well, Bob was your definition of an uninvolved husband. And father. He missed most of her activities and games. Work, work, work.”

And sex, sex, sex. Bob had somebody on the side, of course. Somebodies probably. Maybe he came up with a fake name and joined the same app, or ap, that Michael and Randi had used tonight.

“Does Bob see Erin?”

Randi was toying with the dessert card but not looking at it. Though she was of the build that would enjoy some tiramisu or a gelato her appetite for uno dolce seemed to have slipped.

“Every other weekend.” Nothing more.

Michael slowly filled his mouth with wine, enjoying the rich, earthy tastes as they flowed around his tongue and then down to his belly.

Those Italians . . .

Her silence and stiff body language telegraphed what was coming next. A staged smile. “You know, Michael, I’d be a little more comfortable not talking about my ex.”

“Oh, hey. Sure.” He tapped his forehead as if catching himself in a terrible social blunder.

“Thank you.”

He said, “Really, I’m sorry. It’s just I feel comfortable talking to you. It’s not like it’s a first date at all.”

The smile warmed.

“Dessert?” he asked.

“Maybe I’ll just take a peek.” She ran her fingers, tipped in bright-red nails, over the menu card.

He did too. Lots of yummy options. Without looking up, he said, “I think back to when I was Erin’s age. You know what I loved? When my parents went out and they’d drop me off for a sleepover.”

“Those were fun. Sure. Sally, Ruth and Edie. We did that all the time. Pajama parties.”

“For me it was Josh and Tony—my buddies. We’d stay up till midnight. Playing board games, cards. What’re Erin and her BFFs doing tonight?” He grinned. “That’s what my nephew tells me the girls say. Best friends forever.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Erin? What’re she and her friends up to tonight?”

“Um . . . she’s home doing her homework.”

Michael kept his eyes on Randi as he dropped a pause between them. “Oh.” He sipped water, then wine and looked down as he rated the desserts.

He felt Randi’s face aimed his way.

“Anything look good to you?” he asked slowly.

After a moment: “She’s thirteen.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Erin’s thirteen. She’s not a little girl.”

Michael held up his palms and offered a broad smile. “Oh, please. God, I’m not being critical or anything.”

“The way you reacted.”

“Well . . . Okay, I was a little surprised. But I’m different. Don’t go by me.” Back to the menu. The cannoli were probably soggy. You had to fill them just before they were served, not ahead of time. “When my nephew’s with me I don’t leave him. Which I’m sure drives him crazy.” He leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “But I just think about all that inappropriate stuff on TV and the web. You read that article in the Times? It said sixty percent of teens watch online porn. Even girls. Shocking. And those chat rooms and things.”

“She doesn’t do that.”

“Of course not. I’m sure you’ve set up parental controls.”

A blink. She hadn’t.

Randi blurted, “And it’s a school night. She couldn’t go to a sleepover.”

“Homework. That’s right. Good for you. Keep her academics up. I’m sure she’s a great student.”

Randi was looking at the tablecloth as she surveyed the mudslide of the conversation. “I wouldn’t leave her if I thought there was any risk.”

“I know you wouldn’t. Remember at drinks, we were talking about faults? I guess I should have said I’m overprotective.” He shrugged. “I just can’t help myself. When I see someone who seems endangered or neglected these alarm bells go off. I’m trying to—”

“‘Neglected’?” Randi whispered. The dessert card flopped to the table and she was sitting forward. The wrinkles had returned. “What is this all about?”

He put his card down too. His face was troubled. “Well, to be honest, Randi, you didn’t mention you had a child in your profile.”

“No one ever does. There are some sick people out there. You said it didn’t matter.”

“Oh, it doesn’t—not you having children. Not one bit.” Michael had another taste of wine. It was opening up like a flower under a summer sun. He sighed, perhaps the way Erin’s history teacher would, when confronting her about a plagiarized essay. He put his hands, palms down, on the table. “But I have to say I was bothered you left her by herself. I’d always want an adult home with a child. I know, I know . . . thirteen. But that isn’t eighteen now, is it?

“I worry they could fall in the shower or choke. Or there’d be a fire. And, let’s face it, today’s kids? Left alone, what do they eat for dinner? Chips, soda and cookies. And then there’s the liquor cabinet. And those naughty pictures they send to their friends.”

“My God,” she stammered.

“I’m sorry but I have to say it. If I was divorced, I wouldn’t even date until my son or daughter went off to college. You choose to have a child, then your life is not about you. It’s about them.”

She snapped, “Who the hell are you to lecture me? I don’t have to defend my parenting to you.”

“If you can call that parenting.”

“What?”

“I pulled back before, trying to be polite but, yes, I do think you’re neglecting her . . . Hey, I don’t know why you’re looking so shocked. In the back of your mind, aren’t you always thinking when you’re out with a man: What’s Erin really up to back there? Is she okay? Did she have somebody over she shouldn’t?” He put some edge in his voice. “And that brings us back to my original question: What does she think about you dating? Well, we both know the answer: She hates it. She pretends not to mind but that’s because she’s afraid of alienating you even more.”

“You can’t talk to me that way!” The shouted words drew the attention of diners nearby.

“Looks like somebody has to. All your daughter knows is that you’re saying that some random men’re more important than she is.”

Face contorted with anger, Randi leaped to her feet. Her chair fell backward. He expected a sharp rejoinder but she didn’t bother. The woman grabbed her jacket and purse from the floor and fled to the door.

As a busboy righted the chair Michael sat back and took another sip of wine.

And struggled to keep the smile of satisfaction off his face.

A perfect date.

Lucky indeed.

He’d been out with women who were as bland and boring as white bread, providing him no ammunition. Moderately attractive, moderately successful, nice, polite. Those nights had been excruciating wastes of time, even if they ended up in bed.

That was Randi to a tee—at least at first. She gave him nothing to work with. But then—thank you, Lord—she turned out to be a mother and one who’d left her daughter home (as undoubtedly a hundred thousand other single parents were doing tonight across the country with no adverse consequences whatsoever).

The server approached uneasily. He put down the check, which otherwise would have irritated Michael because he hadn’t asked for it. Tonight, though, after Randi, he was in a jovial and forgiving mood.

He wagged a finger and the man took the bill back. Michael poured Randi’s wine into his own glass. He frowned and looked up at the server. “Have a question. What would you recommend? The chocolate cake or the tiramisu?”

7

A half hour later Michael was walking back to his apartment, through the chill night.

The veteran was gone, probably back to his “home” at the shelter.

He heard a scraping of sole on concrete behind him and glanced back. A larger shadow swallowed a smaller one. And a car moving slowly, only its parking lights on.

He felt a tremor of concern.

Crosshairs . . .

Waiting, shivering in the cold. But the shadow did not materialize again and the car turned and vanished. He picked up his pace, prodded by the freeze—and his concern.

Once in his small, grungy apartment, he doffed his jacket and made a cup of coffee, poured in sugar.

He sat at the unsteady table and looked at what rested on the stained plaid tablecloth: a set of Russian nesting dolls. He picked one up and gazed at it affectionately.

People thought they were ancient but the truth was they dated to only the late 1800s and could actually be traced to one man: Vasily Zvyozdochkin, a famed woodturner, who resembled a skinny Stalin. The dolls were based on a series of folk paintings by another Russian artist. Their official name was matryoshka, which meant little matron, after the given female name Matryona. Outside of Russia, they were usually called babushka—grandmother—dolls. Or nesting dolls.

The outer doll was traditionally a woman. The ones inside, revealed when you separated them at the waist, could be of either gender. The innermost was always a baby. Usually there were around five to ten dolls inside the outer doll. The record was fifty-one.

Sometimes the craftsman created a series that showcased his talent as a woodturner and artist. Sometimes the artist incorporated a social or political theme. There was a popular series at the moment in which Vladimir Putin was the outer doll and prior Russian and Soviet leaders nestled inside.

Matryoshka dolls traditionally represented the feminine aspects of Russian culture and, of course, fertility, given that they carried another person within them.

Michael had an idea of his own for a doll. The outer one was a woman. The next doll inside was that same person with her skin removed. In the next she would be without muscle. In the next, her organs would have been removed. The innermost would be a tiny skeleton.

If he’d had any artistic skill he would have made one.

Sipping coffee, feeling cozy in his little place.

Thoughts of the nesting doll brought another image to mind: Detective Ernest Neville. Michael pictured him in the bright sun outside the house on Juniper Lane, his breath puffing, as he awkwardly recited his statement.

What exactly are you, your wife and daughter up to on this cold evening? Are you as comfy warm as I am?

Are you enjoying wine and cocoa as a fake log burns in the fireplace, its pinchy chemical aroma wafting into the room? Are you watching Netflix? Are you playing Monopoly?

Your family might be but I know you aren’t, Detective. No, sir. You’ll be working through the night, into the wee hours, in your desperate quest to stop the RDK killings.

Michael wondered if, when Neville’s daughter turned thirteen, he and his wife would leave the girl alone when they went out on the town. He couldn’t answer that. But he knew that the Nevilles wouldn’t do so now. Not under any circumstances.

For one thing, she was only six years old.

But more than that: the poor thing was in a constant state of terror.

Michael Stendhal knew this for a fact.

8

Three Days Earlier

11:00 a.m., Sunday, November 9

I’m worried the princess will die.”

Neville replied, “Not if we get it right.”

“If it falls it could kill her and everyone. The wall’s too wobbly.”

These words gave Ernest Neville pause; they came from the mouth of his young daughter.

Oh, Sheri understood that the casualties she was concerned about wouldn’t technically be deaths at all, as the victims would be LEGO people, presently standing or sitting—it was hard to tell—at the base of the princess’s castle, which father and daughter had been constructing for the past hour and forty minutes.

But obviously the concept of death was on her mind. Why? The cheerful first grader, with silky hair and a smile made only more charming by the missing teeth, knew about Daddy’s job. Maybe she’d overheard him talking to Betsy about a homicide or fatal car crash.

“We can make it safe,” Neville told her. “Look at the instructions. There’s a piece we’re missing.”

She peered at the sizable document. In his day, LEGOs were rectangles that could be assembled to make walls and floors only and that lay in wait for your bare feet when you went to the bathroom at two a.m.

With a tiny finger Sheri traced over the fine print, then poked through the box that, to Neville, seemed to contain five hundred thousand small plastic pieces. Finally she found the stone-colored one meant to brace the base. Maybe it was a flying buttress. Neville seemed to remember something from school about them.

He lifted the castle carefully, praying it didn’t collapse and crush the spectators, and she inserted the piece where it belonged.

She beamed. The princess and her subjects would be safe.

Betsy walked into the doorway, eyeing the edifice. “Well, that’s impressive.”

His wife, a tanned and athletic blonde, forty-one, like him, remained as beautiful as she’d been when they met and married just after college. When not at the school where she taught, she volunteered at a hospice and jogged and biked. She was also a genius in the kitchen. While his body had refused to gain weight, even under the assault of her irresistible creations, of late she’d developed a slight roll of belly over her jeans. It piqued her somewhat but Neville found it utterly charming . . . and undeniably appealing.

“Leave in twenty?” A Sunday neighborhood barbecue was planned.

Neville looked at the box of LEGO pieces, which had mysteriously doubled in number to an even million. He said, “Sure.”

“Daddy!”

“We’ll finish it tonight.”

Betsy told their daughter, “Harold and Junie are back from their trip. They’ll be there.”

“Yay!” The girl pulled a small carton forward and opened the flaps.

“What’s in there, honey?”

“It’s the princess who’ll live in the castle.”

She tilted the box toward him.

Neville looked inside. “Where did you get that?”

“I found her on the back porch this morning.”

After a moment her father asked, “Hey, sweets, is it okay if I borrow her for a little while?”

A frown. “I guess. If you take good care of her.”

“I will. Don’t worry.”

Neville stepped into the kitchen and returned a moment later. He took the Russian nesting doll from the girl and slipped it into a plastic bag.

Twenty minutes later, holding the bagged doll, Neville strode into the Handleman County Sheriff’s Office.

The facility was in a functional nineteenth-century redbrick building in downtown Marshall, a dead ringer for the courthouse, which was across the square. Both buildings were large. And busy. Handleman was only partly idyllic; it was tethered to a much larger and more urban county, and gangs and other bad actors tended to bleed—so to speak—over the county line.

Neville made his way through the green-linoleum, green-walled, green-lit corridors straight to the Crime Scene Unit’s office.

The middle-aged clerk at the desk, a slim woman, said, “Uh-oh.” She eyed the bag.

“Not another killing. He was at my house.”

A grimace. “Lord, Detective. Is—”

“Everybody’s okay. But Sheri’s freaked out. Daddy took her doll as evidence and I called a team to search the backyard. She figured out somebody’d been to the house who shouldn’t’ve . . . Her face.” He sighed. “I’ll never forget that look as long as I live.”

The doll that RDK had left was the only evidence of the intrusion. The team had searched the property but found no signs of how he’d gotten into the yard. “No footprints. Nothing. Neighbors didn’t see anything either. We’ve got a security camera but it doesn’t record.”

“The family?”

“At Betsy’s mother’s. Way over in Gaither. Process this and let me know if you find anything.” A nod at the doll. “I’m guessing he was as careful as ever. It’ll be scrubbed. But give it a shot.”

Neville reflected that the doll would, however, bear his daughter’s fingerprints. According to procedure, she’d have to be printed, too, so hers could be eliminated. This would only add to her fears.

The thought made the detective burn with fury.

The woman studied him. “Detective?”

He noted her troubled face. He forced a smile. “Thanks, Brenda. All good.”

He left the lab area and walked to the file room.

The doll had changed everything. Traditional policing to stop RDK wasn’t working. It was time to change the game. Whatever the consequences.

Against protocol, he did not sign the log-in book, much less write down the names of the files he wanted. He simply prowled the stacks until he found what he sought. After poring over a dozen of the criminal records, representing some of the worst specimens of human beings ever to roam the earth, he sat staring at his phone for a long moment, rubbing his right thumb and forefinger together. Finally, Ernest Neville came to a decision and composed and sent a text, wondering just how bad the consequences would be if his plan blew up in his face.

9

Present

7:45 p.m., Thursday, November 13

Michael left his apartment and strode along the pitted and cracked sidewalk, weaving around the occasional shattered beer bottle or cluster of trash.

He was dressed for work, as he thought of it: his bulky black jacket, stocking cap, black jeans. He had with him the backpack but it was presently in a Whole Foods shopping bag, swinging by his side; now that the description of RDK was being broadcast everywhere, all the time, somebody noticing him might call 911 if he were wearing the pack.

He knelt to rub some cream on his ankle rash. He could have waited but this gave him an excuse to scan the street behind him.

The sensation of being followed was just as strong as it had been last night. But today the sidewalks and streets were more crowded with pedestrians and cars and he could spot no one focusing on him.

He rose and continued along the busy sidewalk. Michael knew he blended into this unassuming part of town, a kaleidoscope of ethnicity. A falafel shop, a pizza place (curiously, he thought, staffed by Northern Europeans), a nail salon (guess that one), a bodega (ditto). The whole hood was battered and abraded and saggy and every painted surface was in need of scraping and a new coat, though he couldn’t see why anyone would bother.

He looked about, troubled. No unoccupied cabs. A faint mist was falling and the few he saw were occupied. There was a nicer neighborhood about a half mile away and he hiked there at a fast pace, hoping for a better chance of a ride.

And, yes, just ahead of him a taxi pulled to the curb and discharged its passenger. Michael jogged forward and got to the taxi just a hair ahead of a mother and her teenage daughter. They’d been shopping. Mom was carrying three heavy bags from a posh store. The girl held only her mobile, on which she was texting.

Michael gripped the door handle.

“Excuse me. We saw it first.”

Michael didn’t respond because there was nothing to respond to.

“I said we saw it first.”

She might have seen it first, but he had captured it first. He continued to ignore her and pulled open the door. But the woman stepped forward, standing close and preventing him from opening it wide enough to get in.

He looked the two over. Both blondes, they were dressed similarly: close-fitting blue jeans, supple leather jackets. Black boots. The girl’s were tall and branded with the metallic-gold, mirror-image G for Gucci. Gloveless so she could text, the teen sported nails with an elaborate black-and-white checkerboard design. Seemed a bit inappropriate for a fifteen- or sixteen-year-old but what did Michael know?

He glanced at the cabbie, who remained expressionless. It wasn’t his job to play Solomon.

“I mean it,” the woman said. “It’s mine.” Her voice was high and flinty.

“Could you step back.” Not exactly threatening but the sentence wasn’t phrased as a question either.

“No. I saw it first.”

That again.

“Fuck, just let it go,” the girl muttered to her mother as she typed away.

“Language!” the woman snapped at her daughter.

“Call Uber,” Michael said, trying the door again. But her thigh—and an appealing one it was—remained in guard position.

“I don’t want to call Uber. I don’t have to call Uber. It’s my taxi!”

“No, it’s not.”

“Why’re you being such a bitch?” The girl rolled her eyes and brushed her long tresses off her face.

“Shut up! When we get home—”

Michael said to Mom, “You’re making a scene. It’s embarrassing.”

“I’m sorry if you feel uncomfortable, but that’s not my fault. You’re stealing our cab.”

“I’m not uncomfortable at all. It’s your granddaughter I’m worried about.”

“Granddaughter?” she gasped.

Good one, thought Michael.

“She’s the one you’re humiliating. Those people right there. And another couple.” A nod at some passersby who were watching the altercation. “They were pointing at her and laughing.”

The girl’s snobby disdain vanished, and alarmed now, she looked their way.

“Laughing?” Mom asked, breathlessly.

Michael frowned as if surprised she was oblivious to the problem. He waved his hand at the girl. “Obviously. Just look at her. Why on earth do you dress her that way?”

“What?”

“Jesus. The slutty makeup, the nails, the hooker boots. I can just imagine the crap she has to put up with at school. All the kids, gossiping behind her back. It must be devastating.”

“Mom!” she cried. Her precious phone slipped from her grip and clattered to the concrete. Michael knew the sound of a cracking screen. The girl turned and fled, sobbing.

“You son of a bitch,” the mother raged and, after picking up her daughter’s phone, started after her, lugging the bags.

He swung the door open, set the Whole Foods bag on the far seat and sat. He gave the driver the address, another vacant lot. The vehicle remained where it was.

Michael looked in the rearview mirror. The cabbie was staring at him.

“There a problem?” Michael asked.

“No, sir.”

“Then . . .” He lifted his arms, palms up.

The universal semaphore that meant: What the hell are you waiting for?

10

Michael stood across the street from the house on Martin Drive, gloves on his hands, stocking cap on his head, backpack on his back. Like Juniper Lane the other night, this road too was dark and he was nearly invisible.

He waited only three minutes before a car appeared up the street. The vehicle slowed as it approached the house and pulled into the drive. He watched the driver take some time gathering her packages and climbing out. He thought of the old-time word, bundles. That was what his mother called the parcels that Michael brought her at the detention center.

Michael flexed his hands against the chill.

As she got to the front door, he noted that one of the bags was from Whole Foods. Well, how was that for coincidence. He dug in the backpack and removed the heavy hammer from the plastic bag.

Michael gave it five minutes, then, looking around and seeing no one, quickly crossed the street.

Then he was at the front door.

He gripped the hammer hard.

He tested the knob.

Unlocked.

Michael kneaded the handle of the hammer once, then shoved his way inside.

11

Ten minutes later Michael stood in the living room, looking down at the woman sprawled on the floor before him.

Breathing hard, he examined her closely.

Such a fine figure. Her jeans were tight and were embroidered on the back pockets with yellow roses. Her shoes were functional pumps. He was disappointed that her top was a concealing, black sweatshirt. He recalled that when he’d observed her earlier she’d worn a close-fitting shirt. Blue. Baby blue. A good color for her. He estimated that she was a 34B, though Michael didn’t have a lot of experience in that department. Most of his successful dates ended as the one with Randi had.

Another deep breath. In and out. His palms sweated.

He cocked his head, hearing—he believed—a rustling outside. Footsteps? He couldn’t be sure.

Crosshairs . . .

At that moment a crash startled him as the front door was kicked in hard. There followed a loud bang as wood met wall. A man in dark clothing pushed his way into the room, slamming the door shut behind him. He gripped a long butcher knife.

Michael actually gasped in shock.

It was Jared Simms, the reporter from Juniper Lane.

You care to comment on the crime?

He wore a stocking cap, very much like Michael’s, and a backpack—also similar—was hooked over his shoulders. They had yet more in common: His hands, too, were encased in thin cotton gloves. And the knife he held was quite similar, if not identical, to the one Michael had brought with him.

If you counted only garments and accessories in determining genetics, the two men might be twins.

12

Simms’s eyes dropped to the woman’s still legs. He seemed disappointed that he’d missed the chance to murder her himself.

Michael whispered, “You’re . . .”

Gazing at him manically, Simms said, “Yessir, yessir. I’m RDK. Not quite so shabby now, am I?” The man had a tightly wound voice. It nearly vibrated.

When Michael said nothing Simms looked him over with contempt. “And you’re a goddamn copycat. What’s your name?”

“Michael.” His voice faded to a whisper. “How did you know . . . ?” He waved his hand around the room. Then he closed his eyes briefly. “I get it. You followed me from Juniper Lane the morning after I killed Sonja. And you’ve been following me ever since. I knew there was somebody watching me.” His eyes registered self-disgust. “Should’ve guessed the real RDK would be at the scene.”

“I had to find who was the copycat, stealing my thunder.” Tufts of his ample hair poked from under the stocking cap. Michael had gotten the color of the wool hat wrong. Simms’s was navy blue; Michael had picked black.

He asked the killer, “But how’d you know I was the one? At the press conference outside of Sonja’s?”

“You opened your big mouth. That’s how I knew. The way you tore into me? You were a sadist, a bully. If you got off on hurting people with words you’d get off on hurting them with blades.”

Michael asked, “You really are a reporter?”

“Only took up the pen a few months ago. After I started my little . . . projects.” He nodded at the Russian doll sitting on a table near the couch. “Being a reporter’s helpful. Gives me an excuse to go to the scenes and find out what the police know.” He looked Michael up and down. “What the hell is your story?”

Michael was silent for a long moment. He shook his head, his expression morose. “I’ve never amounted to anything. My whole life. I got fired, live in this crap place. Then I started to follow you on the news. The police said they’d never come across a smarter serial killer. You were a criminal genius.” Michael gave an admiring laugh. “You’ve gotten away with it, what? Four or five times?”

“Three. Well, then there was my wife. You were on the money there, Michael. At Juniper Lane. She did leave me last year. And then met with an unfortunate accident. It felt good. It was liberating. So I kept at it.”

Michael shrugged. “I wanted some of that, what would you call it, glory. With Sonja, I tried to be as good as you. But I don’t know. It was the first time I ever killed anyone.” He gave a brief laugh. “I didn’t have anybody to help me. I assume you work alone?”

“Of course,” Simms scoffed.

“You have more planned?”

The reedy voice said, “Oh, I do. But not here. I’ll be moving out of state. I made a mistake. That goddamn detective. Neville. Wanted to scare him off so I left a Russian doll at his house. But that only made him more of a pain in the ass. So I’m out of here. Florida, probably. Sick of the winters.” A pause. “I just have one more errand here. Then I’m gone.”

Simms walked to the TV and picked up the remote. Turning on the set, he flipped through HBO until he found a thriller—cops versus gangs, exchanging gunfire. He upped the volume.

One more errand here . . . ?

It was then that Michael noticed the grip of a gun in Simms’s waistband.

Oh, shit . . .

Michael called, “You have a gun!”

Simms turned to him, drawing the pistol.

“Listen! You shoot me here and the police’ll get all kinds of evidence. They can do that with guns. It’s called ballistics. A gunshot will lead straight to you.”

“It’s stolen.” A glance at the black Glock in his hand.

“It doesn’t matter if it’s a stolen gun!” Michael’s heart thudded, as loud and fast as one of the machine guns on the TV show. “They leave a ton of evidence. I know they do. I watch all the crime shows. They’re always talking about guns! You can’t shoot me! Please!”

Simms now frowned, probably wondered why Michael was shouting . . . and in particular shouting about firearms.

This was for one very good fucking reason.

So that the dozen cops hiding in the bedroom and bathroom and parlor would hear that RDK was armed and was about to blow his head off.

They finally did. Detective Neville and Benji Camp charged into the room, screaming for Simms to drop his weapon.

Seeing the muzzles of the weapons swinging throughout the room, Michael panicked and dove to the floor . . . though not onto the brown and beige shag itself. He landed on the woman starting to rise from behind the couch.

Together Michael and undercover detective Sonja Parker—playing the role of a serial killer’s victim for the second time in recent days—tumbled entwined to the carpet.

“Get the hell off me, Michael,” she raged.

He did so, reaching for her thigh as leverage to rise. The detective growled, “Don’t you dare.” Michael backed away, hands up, palms outward. She rose, lifting her gun and drawing down on Jared Simms—though not before lobbing a look toward Michael, one that suggested that she was equally inclined to park a slug in him.

13

Four Days Earlier

3:00 p.m., Sunday, November 9

Detective Ernest Neville was driving through flat fields, dotted with short gray cornstalks, like an old man’s stubble.

He navigated up a lengthy driveway and pulled into the Handleman County Consolidated Detention Center, parking in the law-enforcement-only portion of the lot. Climbing from the car and buttoning his jacket against the chill wind, he reflected: busy day. There’d been the clandestine visit to the Sheriff’s Office file room and his meeting with Benji Camp, the man he’d texted after he’d concocted his bizarre plan. There’d also been a stop at a weekend-duty magistrate’s house.

He looked over the low building, grim to start and made more so by the bleak, gray overcast. Okay, let’s see if we can get this thing done.

Once inside the lockup lobby he checked in, left his weapon in a lockbox and was handed a copy of a file. He then proceeded down Lawyer’s Row, the bank of interview rooms where prisoners met with their attorneys for the invariably useless attempts to reduce sentences or get new trials or pardons for crimes they “no way committed. No, I mean it. I swear to God.”

In Room I-7, the one to which he’d been directed, he sat in an uncomfortable chair, which was bolted to the floor, as was the metal table. The corners of the furniture were rounded, presumably so that a particularly strong convict couldn’t slam his lawyer’s or a guard’s head into the point and pith him.

He skimmed the file he’d been given. Five minutes later, a large blond man entered. He wore an orange jumpsuit. He wasn’t cuffed or shackled.

The guard accompanying him muttered, “Sit down. Watch your mouth.”

Michael Stendhal nodded to Neville, then glanced to the guard. “The screw here? His name’s Evans. He peed his pants once when a con went after him with a shiv—”

“Jesus Christ,” Evans muttered.

“That turned out to be a straw. You know, Detective, those things kill whales and cute little seals, straws do. But I’m not aware of any fatalities among humans.”

Evans was about to say something else but Michael just kept on going. “The screws have an option to wear tan or black uniforms. Everybody picks tan because they’re cooler. But not Evans. He likes black. Why? They don’t show pee stains.”

“So you’re gonna miss dessert tonight, Michael.”

“Christ, you’re not going to eat it, are you? Your wife’s gotta miss your dick, under all those spare tires.”

The guard left and would have slammed the door, it seemed, but the hinges were old and unoiled and they didn’t allow for dramatic exits.

“How you doing, Michael?”

“As can be expected, Detective. You know I never liked small talk unless I’m dishing it out. What do you want? Why in person, why not the phone?”

Neville didn’t answer but continued to examine the file.

The two men had a history. He had arrested Michael several years ago for burglary. The amount of cash taken from the assisted living facility was small and no one was hurt—or even present in the burglarized rooms—but it was his third conviction in five years and the crime bought him a long term. It might have been less, but at the sentencing hearing Michael had spouted a few choice words to the judge regarding his portly physique and comb-over hairstyle.

Michael was a curious creature. The son of a woman continually in and out of jail for drugs and petty theft and ignoring warrants (his father was long gone), Michael had worked various jobs—mostly menial or administrative—all his life but didn’t last very long at any of them. When not on payroll he was a pickpocket and shoplifter and burglar.

Criminal ran in his blood.

And he was the most obnoxious human being Neville had ever met, cruelly flinging about insults for sport.

“Why in person?” the detective repeated and closed the file.

“That was the question. Eons ago.” Michael smirked.

“No record.” Phone calls to and from the lockup were monitored and Neville definitely didn’t want any leaks about his secret plan to get RDK. “Maybe we can help each other. I have a problem and you have a problem.”

“I’m stuck in this shithole for another fifteen months. What’s yours?”

“The Russian Doll Killer.”

“Heard about that. We get the news here. I want NPR. Everybody else wants country. Sometimes I win, sometimes I don’t.”

“He’s killed three women and we don’t have many leads.”

“You are sort of Andy of Mayberry, not that Silence of the Lambs girl, the quick one.”

“He left a doll at my house. My daughter found it. Freaked her out.”

The con seemed bored at this news.

“I want him,” Neville said firmly. “Bad. And I have an idea of how to do it.”

Michael cocked a slightly less bored eyebrow.

“Here’s the deal. In exchange for release and a full pardon—your record expunged—you play the part of a copycat, mimicking RDK.

“The Sheriff’s Office is renting a couple of houses—we’ve got one on Juniper Lane and one on Martin Drive. An undercover detective of ours, Sonja Parker, will play the role of the victim. She’ll pretend to be new to town so the neighbors won’t think anything of a stranger in the rental. We’ll run Juniper Lane first. She’ll come back from work, pick up a package one of the neighbors is holding for her. While the door’s open you hike past so he’ll see you.

“You, quote, ‘break in’ and you and Sonja hang out for a half hour, and then you take her car and leave it somewhere. The next day our CSU people’ll pretend to run the scene. I’ll make a press announcement in front of the house.”

“What if the neighbor calls 911 when he sees me?”

“We delay sending a car until you have a chance to get away. Now, our profilers’ve painted RDK as someone with a huge ego. So I think when we announce in the press the killer’s struck again he’ll show up at Juniper Lane. He’ll want to find out about this copycat. So I want you to stand out in the crowd. You should seem—”

“Hinky.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

Michael offered a condescending glance. “Weirdly suspicious.”

“Hinky.”

Michael was nodding. “And I leave and go about my business and you’re hoping he’ll follow me, and if he does, you’ll follow him.”

“If he doesn’t go for the bait at Juniper, we’ll try again with Martin.”

“Ankle monitor?”

“Of course, Michael.”

“I get it. Trust only goes so far. But that also means you’ll put this bullshit in writing and send it to my lawyer.”

“It’s already written up. A magistrate signed it.”

“Which tells me you’re moving in an expeditious manner.”

Expeditious . . .

Neville had learned that Michael Stendhal would likely have graduated with high marks from the prestigious University of Chicago had he not been caught “borrowing” (his term) items from students’ rooms in residence halls. His second and final expulsion, from a good state school, occurred when he stood up in class and told the professor, the head of the English department, that he was dull as mud; did he not know he was fucking putting everyone to sleep?

“‘Bait’ is a telling word, Detective. What if RDK gets tired of girls and decides to chop me up?”

“I’ve got you a bulletproof vest and the tracker. And I’ll have somebody keeping an eye on you.”

“Anybody good?”

“My assistant. Benji Camp.”

“Now, that’s a silly name.”

“He’s the best shot in the department. No, in the county.”

Michael looked him over with shrewd eyes. “This’s a secret, isn’t it?”

“Only my close team and you know about it.”

“I suppose you’re bright enough, Detective, to realize this could blow up in your face. Be the end of your career. You might even get yourself a room here.” A wave, indicating the detention center. “Not that I care.”

“Understood.”

Michael rose and walked to the window. The thick glass, behind bars, was scuffed. Still, you could see a bit of green outside. “Ask you a question?”

Neville nodded.

He turned back. “Why’d you pick me, Detective?”

“I just spent an hour going through the arrest records of, let’s say, potential candidates.” He didn’t add the against-protocol part. “And you won. I wanted somebody who was getting near short time—you have fifteen months to go. Long enough to give you an incentive to agree, not so long a magistrate’d balk. And I needed a nonviolent offender.”

From his police, parole and counselor files, Neville had learned that Michael had never once physically hurt a living soul.

“But most important, for this to work, I needed somebody who could get into the part. Play the role of a heartless serial killer. Of all the cons I considered, you were the worst one.”

“Really?” His eyes brightened.

“I can’t tell you it’s risk-free, Michael. You can say no.”

“‘The worst one,’” he mused. Then smiled. “I’m in.”

14

Present

10:00 p.m., Thursday, November 13

Michael Stendhal muttered, “I said gun three times. Four maybe. I was shouting.”

Neville frowned and looked at Benji Camp. “I didn’t hear it.”

“Me either. The TV. The volume.”

“You didn’t even know he was armed.” Michael was snide and whining now.

“True. That wasn’t in the profile,” Benji said.

Neville nodded toward Michael’s chest. “You had the body armor.”

“Oh, I suppose nobody’s ever shot anyone in the head before.”

“That does happen, give you that.”

Benji added, “The crotch too.”

“Sonja wouldn’t’ve let anything happen to you.”

“Jesus, I feel soooo safe,” Michael said, adding sarcasm to snide.

Neville was reflecting that it had all gone largely as planned. At the press conference on Juniper Lane, Benji—dressed undercover in his camo—had kept an eye on their bait, Michael, who’d been acting suitably suspicious.

Hinky . . .

Benji had trailed Michael through the preserve and begun following him around Handleman County. Eventually he spotted somebody who might be tailing him in a car.

Might be a lead, but just can’t tell at this point . . .

Benji hadn’t come up with a tag number or other ID, so they didn’t have a suspect to roll up. Besides, Neville wanted to record RDK and Michael: to find out if there were other victims unknown to the authorities and learn if he was working alone. It was rare for serial killers to have partners but occasionally wives or girlfriends were co-conspirators.

They’d set up another “murder” in this rental tonight and Benji reported that the real RDK was on the move again, following Michael here. With Neville, Benji and the tactical cops staked out inside, Michael followed the undercover detective, Sonja Parker, into the living room, where she played dead. They’d then awaited RDK’s arrival. After he made his dramatic entry, they learned there were no other victims, that he worked alone and, a bonus, that he’d murdered his wife. All of this was largely thanks to Michael’s award-winning playacting.

Neville now turned to the serial killer, sitting cuffed in an armchair.

Simms apparently knew they had him cold and he had waived his right to remain silent.

Neville said, “We heard about your wife.”

“Is it a cliché to say that she deserved to die?”

“Give me the details.”

Simms seemed happy—even proud—to cooperate.

Neville asked dozens of questions about the murder of the wife and the Russian doll victims. After a half hour he was nearly done. He had one last question and he was thinking of the TV pundit’s assessment and the pricey psychiatrist’s report.

In recent years, his anger at his parents has pushed him past the tipping point and he is now murdering, in an attempt to reclaim his role as the outermost Russian doll.

“So, Jared, I’m curious. Did you have a tough time when you were young? Your family life?”

The killer was surprised. “What? No. My folks were great.”

“Then tell me: Why leave Russian dolls as a calling card?”

“Oh, they were on sale at Walmart.”

15

There we go.”

The technician from the Comms Division removed the ankle monitor.

Michael examined the rash. His scratching over the past few days hadn’t helped.

“You didn’t think to put it over my sock?” Michael grumbled.

The round, balding Black man replied laconically, “I would have but I thought it might be helpful to encourage a trip to the laundry.”

“Meaning my feet stink?”

No answer. But yeah, that was what he meant.

Michael could only laugh. He respected anyone quick with an insult.

He headed into the hallway, then upstairs to the Detective Pen. He spotted the sheriff and Detective Neville conferring, heads down. Closer to him was Sonja Parker’s cubicle. She sat perfectly upright at her desk, typing on a keyboard.

He’d thought about her a hundred times in the past few days—ever since they’d met, preparing for the operation. He’d picture her while walking down the street, while shopping, while jogging. Also while lying in bed at night. He wondered if there was any way he could tell her how she’d unknowingly participated at those particular times.

Sadly, no credible option presented itself. Not at this moment.

The detective was still in her black sweatshirt. He’d hoped she’d taken it off, revealing that snug baby-blue blouse.

He walked to a table on which sat a Keurig coffee machine and brewed himself a cup, to which he added four sugars.

After a brief massage of his raw ankle Michael ambled across the pen to her cubicle.

“Hey.”

Sonja looked up. Her expression was clear. She was waiting for an apology for his piling onto her during the Simms arrest. Well, lock up your ego, honey. I was just trying not to get my ass shot up in Dodge City back there and you happened to be in the way.

So, no, a mea culpa wasn’t going to happen. Michael Stendhal had apologized sincerely once or twice in his entire life. He couldn’t remember those transgressions but could easily recall the sting he’d felt from actually saying the reviled word sorry.

“Listen.” His voice dipped into sincerity as her brows rose. “There’s this place near me, Thai. When I was inside, the joint, you know, all I could think about was Thai. How about it tonight? When you’re off?”

This date would be a real date and his goal would not be verbal vivisection, but getting her into his squeaky bed.

Her brows went up, an ascent that he wouldn’t have thought possible. “You’re asking me out?”

“Dinner, back to my place after, nightcap.”

Sonja didn’t seem like someone who would fall prey to speechlessness. She did now.

“My treat,” he added generously.

She exhaled an odd noise. Exasperation and wonderment figured.

“Okay.” He held up a hand. “You seem hesitant. We can save the nightcap for next time.”

“No next time, no this time.” Her face was both stony and amused.

He was growing irritated. Jesus. Was she really pissed he’d reached for her thigh to stand up, when they were behind the couch? It was chaos. There were guns everywhere. “Why not?”

“The last man on earth phenom,” she said coolly. “You ever heard of it?”

“Excuse me, Sonja. You take that attitude with me? You are not exactly a spring chicken.” She laughed. He was insulted and doubled down. “And I’m guessing male models aren’t exactly knocking down your door.”

It was then that her eyes turned toward a small framed photo on her desk. Sonja and a man around her age. Arms around shoulders.

“Boyfriend?”

“Husband.”

“Hm. Is he a male model?”

Sonja didn’t answer but he could well have been.

“Congratulations,” he said snidely. “Hope you know how lucky you are to’ve snagged him.”

She studied him briefly. “I think you really don’t have any idea what you’re saying half the time.”

A voice: “Michael.”

He tipped his head to Sonja and with a parting glance assward, joined Neville, who said, “Paperwork’s been signed by the court. You’re free to go.”

Benji Camp, hovering nearby, offered, “We couldn’t’ve done it without you.”

Michael screwed up his face in a way that he hoped telegraphed his contempt for obvious statements.

Neville asked, “What’re you going to do now?”

“I’m thinking of a legit job. Health care. I loved anatomy in college. Maybe I’ll get a nursing degree or something.”

The cop blinked and stared for a moment, like he was trying to imagine Michael treating patients. “Well, whatever you do, stay the hell out of trouble.”

“Appreciate your concern for me, Detective.”

“That’s for my sake, not yours. You screw up and I may have to come and arrest you and I surely don’t ever want to see you again.”

“That’s a good one, Detective.” Michael winked.

As he walked into the corridor and then to the front door and outside he was thinking of something that Sonja Parker had just said.

I think you really don’t have any idea what you’re saying half the time . . .

He answered her now. No, babe, I always know exactly what I’m saying, every minute of every day.

The insults, the barbs, the snide rejoinders, the icy sarcasm.

But, he reflected, was this not a valid question: While, yes, Michael Stendhal was the “bad one,” irredeemably bad, didn’t his venomous art on occasion produce some good?

Might not the cabbie rethink his dead-end job? Might not the army veteran wrangle some self-esteem and get help? Might not Gucci Girl begin to think she really didn’t want to end up like her narcissistic mother? Might not Randi decide to roll up her mom sleeves, get those parental controls in place and maybe appreciate her daughter just a bit more?

Was not Michael Stendhal, in a small way, a turning point in people’s lives, smacking some sense into them?

He considered this for a moment.

Yes, no, maybe.

Then concluded: Who cares?

Stepping to the curb, he flagged down a cab.

16

11:40 a.m., Friday, November 14

All the forensics good?” Jimbo Rawlins asked.

The sheriff was on his third coffee of the day. Neville was drinking a Dr Pepper. Man, he loved Dr Pepper.

“Crime Scene’s got everything buttoned up. DNA matches across the board. Simms’s confessing to avoid the needle.”

Much of the RDK task force was hovering in and around Neville’s cubicle.

Benji asked, “Think it’s a trick, Simms cooperating? Maybe his lawyer’s going to claim insanity.”

Sonja Parker, who’d been in the business some years longer than the young deputy, said, “Courts don’t buy it. You’ve got to prove you really believe you’re from the planet Zantar or that you talk to plantains and broccoli and that said vegetables reply.”

“She’s right, Benji. It’s a tough defense.” Neville didn’t mention that his wife, an ace gardener, talked soothingly to her hibiscuses and ferns and roses. The flower beds were spectacular.

Rawlins: “The pushback’s started. I got a call from the mayor.”

Neville held up his hands, palms forward, surrendering. “Because I ran a private operation, staged a fake crime scene and cut a deal with a particularly unpleasant prisoner? Oh, and didn’t tell anybody—you included.”

“Yeah, all of the above.”

“Well, I had to keep everyone in the dark,” Neville said. “Couldn’t risk word getting out. I’ll talk to the mayor.”

Sonja said, “Well, what’s she going to do? Cut out our fruitcake at Christmas?”

The matronly city executive sent loaves, heavy as bricks, to all government departments. Neville had never seen anyone actually eat any. Three sat in the department freezer, everyone afraid to discard them, lest a maintenance man or garbage collector dime them out.

“We can hope,” the sheriff said. “When’ll your report be ready?”

“A few hours.”

Rawlins was nearly out the door when he paused and turned. “Was sharp, what you all did. Appreciate it.” He nodded at the Russian Doll Killer wall charts. “We took on a serial killer as good as the big boys in Quantico and, more important”—he gave a wink to them all—“as good as those cops on cable TV.” A nod to the room, and the sheriff was gone.

Neville took a call. He recognized the number as that of the detention center director. “Lou?”

“Hey, Ernie. Got a weird thing that happened. Need to run it by you.” He sounded troubled.

“Sure.”

“When we processed Simms he said he wanted a receipt for his five thousand.”

“What? Dollars, he meant?”

“Yeah. What he said. Only there was no five K. He came in with a couple hundred in his wallet. That was all. He said it was in his backpack. An envelope. But there wasn’t one there. We just found floral wire, hammer, screwdriver, ammunition, camera. That was it.”

“He said he was getting out of town. He probably emptied his bank account. But I didn’t see any cash at the takedown set.” Neville looked at the others in the room. “Anybody remember an envelope of money in Simms’s backpack or anywhere at the scene? Five K?”

Sonja and Benji shook their heads.

“Nobody saw it. You call Crime Scene?”

“Yeah, they didn’t either.”

“Sorry, Lou.”

They disconnected and Neville sighed.

“What, Detective?” Benji asked.

“That money’s gone missing. And I know what happened to it.”

Sonja Parker clicked her tongue. “When we were cuffing Simms and securing his weapon Michael was right beside the backpack.”

Benji said, “He dipped it. He’s a goddamn pickpocket, remember?”

Sonja: “Means he broke the get-out-of-jail deal.”

“He sure did. The release document says he commits any crime during the remaining time on his sentence, he goes back and serves the entire sentence out, on top of the time for the new offense.” Neville shook his head and said, half to himself, “Michael, what the hell were you thinking?”

Benji said, “You want me to go over to his place with Tac and bring him in?”

Neville’s face filled with disappointment. “I do not like that man one iota. He’s despicable. But he put his life on the line for us.”

Still, the law was the law. Oh, hell. “Just you and me, Benji,” he said. “Not Tac.”

Sonja offered, “I’m sorry, Ernie.”

Neville nodded and, with Benji beside him, walked to the coatrack. As he passed the coffee setup he glanced down and stopped.

He was looking at the children’s hospital wing charity jar, sitting beside the Keurig. At the bottom was a mass of crumpled bills, small denominations. On top was a thick stack of crisp $100s.

“Hold on.” Neville unscrewed the lid and pulled the big bills out.

Sonja and Benji joined him.

Neville counted the money.

“Five K?” she asked.

“On the nose . . . Michael got a coffee when he was here, didn’t he?”

She confirmed that he had.

Benji said, “You mean, he stuffed the money in there? Jesus. Why?”

Sonja suggested, “Maybe he’s turned a new leaf. After helping us out the world’s looking at a new Michael Stendhal.”

Neville gave a laugh. “No way. That’s never going to happen. I’m pretty sure he just wanted to screw over Jared Simms one last time. A parting shot.”

Benji pointed out, “It’s still grand larceny.”

True.

Neville was silent for a moment. “Tough case to make, though. I’m sure Michael’s prints aren’t on any of those bills. No witnesses.”

“Detective . . . ,” Benji began. “It’s just wrong.”

“You’ve got to admit it’d sure be fun to see the face of the fire chief when he turns in his nine hundred and twelve dollars to the hospital. And we plop down five Gs.” He smiled.

Benji grimaced. He persisted, “Detective . . .”

Neville thought for a moment. “Benji. Got a hypothetical for you.”

“Yeah?”

“Say some drug dealers’re cutting up the Evansville River in one of those cigarette boats of theirs.”

The young officer laughed. “They call it a river but you know it’s but two feet deep most places.”

“Humor me. Big shiny cigarette boat. Loads of drugs and cash. When we bust ’em—”

Sonja said, “I’d like a piece of that takedown.”

“—what happens to the boat and the money?”

“County confiscates it.”

“And where does most of it go?”

“Into our budget, Sheriff’s Office.”

“So you could look at it that Michael just, sort of, bypassed the red tape and got us the killer’s money directly. And we decided not to buy a tactical helicopter but to give it to a charity.”

Sonja asked, “We ever going to get a tac chopper?”

“No,” Neville told her, then turned once more to Benji. “We have less of a crime than a . . .” It took him a minute to come up with a phrase and it was one he liked. “Procedural anomaly. So, I suppose, sure, we could light up a case file on Michael Stendhal. But you know what I’m thinking? RDK derailed us.” Neville pointed at the manila folders covering his desk. “We have meth, we have opioids, we have spouses playing Whac-A-Mole on each other, we got drivers who climb behind the wheel with a Slurpee’s worth of Absolut in their veins. RDK’s rolled up. So I say let’s get back to work.”

Benji gave a shrug. “Aw, too cold to go outside anyway.”

Ernest Neville put the bills back in the charity jar and screwed the lid back on. He got another Dr Pepper from the fridge and cracked it open. Sipped long. He returned to his cubicle, sat down in his well-worn chair and pulled a file toward him.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Photo © Gunner Publications

Jeffery Deaver is a former journalist, folk singer, and attorney whose novels have appeared on bestseller lists around the world, including the New York Times, the Times of London, Italy’s Corriere della Sera, the Sydney Morning Herald and the Los Angeles Times. His books are sold in 150 countries and have been translated into twenty-five languages.

The author of more than forty novels, three collections of short stories, and a nonfiction law book, as well as the lyricist of a country-western album, he’s received or been short-listed for dozens of awards.

Deaver’s book The Bodies Left Behind was named best novel of the year by the International Thriller Writers association. His Lincoln Rhyme thriller The Broken Window and stand-alone novel Edge were also nominated for that prize, as was his short story The Victims’ Club. He has been awarded the Ian Fleming Steel Dagger and the Short Story Dagger from the British Crime Writers’ Association, and he is a winner of the British Thumping Good Read Award and the Nero Award. The Cold Moon was named the book of the year by the Mystery Writers of Japan. In addition, the Japan Adventure Fiction Association gave The Cold Moon and Carte Blanche its annual Grand Prix award. Deaver’s book The Kill Room was awarded the Political Thriller of the Year award by Killer Nashville. And his collection of short stories, Trouble in Mind, was nominated for best anthology by that organization as well.

Deaver has been honored with the Lifetime Achievement Award by the Bouchercon World Mystery Convention and the Raymond Chandler Award for lifetime achievement in Italy. Strand Magazine also presented him with a Lifetime Achievement Award.

Deaver has been nominated for eight Edgar Awards from the Mystery Writers of America, as well as an Anthony, a Shamus, and a Gumshoe. He served two terms as president of the Mystery Writers of America.

His audiobook The Starling Project, starring Alfred Molina and produced by Audible, won the Audie Award for best original audiobook of the year in 2016. Deaver contributed to the anthologies In the Company of Sherlock Holmes and Books to Die For, which won the Anthony. Books to Die For recently won the Agatha as well.

Deaver’s most recent novels are The Goodbye Man and The Never Game in his Colter Shaw series; the Lincoln Rhyme novels The Cutting Edge, The Burial Hour, and The Steel Kiss; Solitude Creek, a Kathryn Dance thriller; and The October List, a thriller told in reverse. For the Dance novel XO, Deaver wrote an album of country-western songs, available on iTunes and as a CD; before that, he wrote Carte Blanche, a James Bond continuation novel and a number one international bestseller. Deaver’s most recent short fiction includes Verona, Captivated, which introduced Colter Shaw, Ninth & Nowhere, The Victims’ Club, and The Debriefing.

Deaver’s book A Maiden’s Grave was made into an HBO movie starring James Garner and Marlee Matlin, and his novel The Bone Collector was a feature release from Universal Pictures starring Denzel Washington and Angelina Jolie. Deaver’s Lincoln Rhyme / Amelia Sachs novels were the basis for the nine-episode NBC TV show Lincoln Rhyme: Hunt for the Bone Collector. Lifetime aired an adaptation of his book The Devil’s Teardrop. And yes, the rumors are true: he did appear as a corrupt reporter on his favorite soap opera, As the World Turns. He was born outside Chicago and has a bachelor of journalism degree from the University of Missouri and a law degree from Fordham University.

Readers can visit his website at www.jefferydeaver.com.