Detective Sergeant Mario Lagnese had become obsessed with Boxboy's murder. To him, the drug and weapon-dealing pimp had been slime personified. But as a sworn custodian of the law he held a firm belief that every murder deserved, and in fact required, a thorough investigation – all the more so for a murder as bizarre as that one.

And, also, there was Strasser.

Lagnese still harbored a deep suspicion, if not conviction, about his freewheeling subordinate – that somehow there was a connection between him and what happened to Boxboy.

So when the details of a similar murder in Pennsylvania came through on the National Cross-Profiling Network – the ripped-open throat, the lack of blood around the remains – Lagnese jumped on it. The only thing different was that in Pennsylvania the killer had also cut one of the victim's eyes out.

It would be interesting, Lagnese thought, to check out Strasser's reaction to the details of this new case. Read his face, his body language when he learned of it. Hopefully he hadn't gotten word yet.

"Any of that sound familiar?" he asked Strasser, after he'd brought him into the station's interview room and given him a recap of what had been found. They were sitting across from each other at a gray metal table in the windowless room.

"If you mean Boxboy, yeah," Strasser said.

"And what's your take? Right off the bat."

"Right off the bat I'd say copycat."

"Really? What about the eye?"

"That could be what, his personal flourish."

"Meaning..."

"I don't know. Keep it to show any doubters."

"And give himself away?"

"Or maybe just let it turn up somewhere that'd give him a media blast. Serial killers like their press."

"You think it's a serial killer?"

"Hey, you asked what I thought off the bat."

Lagnese nodded and shuffled some papers – the homicide report of the incident that the Pennsylvania cops had emailed, along with a printout of a newspaper article. The media hadn't made any connection between the two cases, but Lagnese knew it was just a matter of time. "The name Lester Nydell mean anything to you?"

Strasser shook his head. "No. Why?"

"That was the name the vic was using."

"Using?"

"It was an alias."

"Never heard of him."

"Uh-huh. How about Eamon Spink?"

Bingo. Lagnese saw Strasser's face freeze. Could sense his whole body going rigid. The detective made a quick recovery, knew the signs his Sergeant would be watching for if he were trying to somehow trap him. But the tell had been there.

"That another alias?" Strasser asked, his mind racing back to his sister Claudia's death, the high-dive finale to her cult days. The true story behind her suicide – her being under the influence of Spink and his mind games – was never made public. Few people knew about it. He could waffle until he got his thoughts straight.

"You tell me," Lagnese said. "They naturally ran the vic's prints and they matched with Spink's name in the Fed data base."

Strasser had to watch his responses here, didn't want to get caught in any lies down the road. "He have any connection to Boxboy?"

"I'm glad you asked," Lagnese said, like he'd been waiting for just that question. "Why don't you find that out for us?"

# # #

Strasser knew that Lagnese was setting him up, would be watching for him to stumble and implicate himself.

He went back to his desk in the bullpen and tried to think it through. The intersect of the two cases had to be Zanya. It could only be her. But, Jesus, how the hell did she come up with Spink? And why? And where was she now?

He thought about calling Kumi, but wasn't sure how to reconnect after that session with her on Zanya's mattress. She had been totally uninhibited – off with her clothes and down on his fly, mouthed him until he was good and ready, and then took him inside her. She slowed it down and made it last, the rain outside the open window seeming to keep the same wet rhythm.

The only anxiety was that he hadn't been sure if that snake was still in the loft or not.

He took out his phone now, had her on speed dial, pressed her number.

Got her voice mail, didn't leave a message, would try her again later.

# # #

Kumi heard her phone chime but didn't take the call. She was too disoriented after opening that package.

She had come home from the office to change into her night outfit, had told her section boss she wanted to get back on the street to see if she could pick up any Boxboy gossip. The package had been left on her kitchenette table by whoever had broken into her apartment. It had a note on it that was written in that same script as was on the one she and Strasser had found on the mattress.

You might recognize what is inside

from the picture of him your friend

showed you in the coffee shop.

Coffee shop? How did whoever it was know about that?

If you want to talk about it, meet me at

Pier 7, at the end of your street. I'll be

watching when you leave this building, so

don't even think about bringing company.

Kumi put the note down and stared at the package. What the hell could be in there? Not a bomb – the note had called for a meeting, so they wouldn't be blowing her up. She took a paring knife out of the drawer and cut the tape that wrapped the cardboard box. She lifted the lid and found a page from a newspaper folded inside. She took it out and saw it was the front page of a regional daily in Pennsylvania that had yesterday's date on it.

The lead story was about a murder that, as soon as she read the first paragraph, she knew was a duplicate of Boxboy's. Except for one additional detail – one of the victim's eyes had been cut out.

Which she got the feeling would be in the jar she could see the top of in the box. Reluctantly, she took it out.

And, Jesus Christ, there it was.

She held the jar up in front of her, let an incoming phone call go unanswered as she studied the eyeball that was submerged in clear liquid. She turned the jar slowly, but the eye somehow kept staring back. Her emotions caromed between riveted and panicked and repulsed.

"Meet Eamon Spink," said the voice behind her.

Kumi jumped and whipped around. She stared at the woman who had stepped out of the closet. Took a sharp breath, made the connection and managed to speak. "Your note said Pier 7."

The woman stared back, her mesmerizing eyes beginning to turn from green to yellow. "You came home before I expected."