“Frank, I’m the last person in the world who should own a pet. I’m never home.”

Frank lifted his shoulders and let them fall, shaking his head. “It’s a beautiful cat. Rag doll or something. Furry.”

“Maybe she died trying to brush it,” Joe suggested.

“And I always thought you were a nice guy.”

“I’ll ask around. Raif Green has kids. Maybe they’ll want it.”

“You should reconsider, Joe. You have a place, not a home. A pet would make it a home. Let me take that back. A wife would make it a home. Hell, even just a live-in lover.”

“Frank, give me a break. Can we move on?”

“Sure. Sit.”

Joe took the offered chair. “Have you talked to the guy over in Jersey?”

“By ‘the guy over in Jersey,’ I’m going to assume you mean the medical examiner in charge of Miss Star, Dr. Benjamin Sears?”

“Yes, that guy,” Joe agreed.

“He sent me a copy of his initial report,” Frank said. “But why are you asking? You were at the autopsy. I wasn’t.”

“Sears said the bulk of the injuries were postmortem, including those to the genital region. What does that mean to you?”

Frank frowned, looking at him. “Hey, I’m basically a mechanic. I look at the pieces. I’m not a psychologist.”

“All right, I guess I want collaboration. Do you think the killer could have been imitating a crime, rather than committing one out of personal passion?”

Frank looked steadily at Joe. “I watch the news. You want to know if he was mimicking a real crime, or maybe the literary version of it. Mary Rogers. Marie Roget. Did you know that a number of researchers have bemoaned the fact that there were two autopsies done on Mary Rogers, the original in New Jersey and one later, in New York? No one ever definitively answered the question of whether she died as the result of a botched abortion, or if she was assaulted and killed by a gang. Back then, the Five Points area was overrun by gangs. Most people wanted to think it was gang members, wanted to use that as ammunition to get the police to clean up the streets.”

Joe stared at him, surprised.

Frank grinned. “Hey, I live in New York. I may not be an expert on Poe, but I know my share of local history.”

“Okay, what’s your take on this theory?” Joe asked, leaning forward. “The killer is an opportunist. Thorne Bigelow needed to die. The killer didn’t want the finger of truth pointing back at him, so it had to look as if Thorne died for some reason other than the real one, so the killer left the note referencing Poe, even though he hadn’t done a very good job of making the murder fit any of Poe’s works. And maybe, almost by accident, Bigelow became the first in a series of killings. The killer happened to see Sam Latham on the FDR and figured if he took him out, it would really give credence to the Poe connection. He only landed Sam in the hospital, but it was still good enough for his purposes. Maybe too good. Lori Star sealed her own fate when she went on television, purporting to be a psychic and saying she knew what happened. He couldn’t have that, but luckily for him—or her—Lori was easy to get rid of. All he had to do was convince her that he was a reporter or a writer or something, and that he was ready to make her really famous. He demanded to meet her alone, and you know the rest. This time, though, he had time to make a big deal of the Poe connection. With Lori dead, he should have felt safe, but then he started thinking about Sam and whether he might start remembering more of what happened on the highway, so he took steps.”

“Someone tried to kill Sam? I didn’t see anything about that in the news.”

“You won’t. The police are hoping that keeping something secret will give them an edge in finding the killer.”

“What was the method?” Frank asked, his brow creasing.

“They’re pretty sure it was an overdose of morphine, administered by someone in hospital scrubs and a mask. And if he’d succeeded, I bet a note would have shown up, too. So what do you think about my theory?”

“It sounds pretty convincing, but at this point it’s only a theory, right? The police haven’t actually figured anything out, have they?”

“Not yet, no,” Joe admitted.

“And it could have started out as a random killing that escalated.”

“It can’t be random,” Joe said. “Thorne Bigelow let his killer in. That wasn’t random.”

“No.” Frank was quiet for a long moment. “You know, Joe, back then…the killer was never identified. There were theories, plenty of them. But no one ever went to trial.”

“I know. But this can’t end this way.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m afraid it won’t end at all if this guy isn’t stopped.” Joe stood up suddenly. “Thanks Frank.”

“For what? I didn’t do anything.”

“Yes, you did. You just made me focus on a really important question.”

“What’s that?”

“Exactly why did Thorne have to die?”

Genevieve paced in her apartment, feeling like a caged tiger.

She’d spent her life being active, taking steps to make the world a better place, not just attending charity functions and luncheons. She’d majored in social sciences, received a degree in psychology and another in social service. She’d worked the streets convincing hookers to quit working for two-bit pimps, and she’d gotten a lot of women real jobs. She knew how to keep herself safe on the streets. She’d only been kidnapped because she’d been taken unaware by someone she knew and had thought she could trust.

Just like Thorne Bigelow.

Who hadn’t survived.

She thought about Lori Star and suddenly felt the urge to know her better.

It was a bit too late to get to know the woman herself, but there were other ways to find out more about her. Of course, Joe would be furious if she went out, investigating on her own.

Screw Joe. He certainly wasn’t consulting her about his plans.

She grabbed her keys and hurried out, but she didn’t take her car. Downstairs, she greeted the doorman, and asked him to hail her a cab. At Lori Star’s building, she exited and walked up the three flights of steps.

There was crime-scene tape on Lori’s door, but she hadn’t come to see the apartment. She strode over to Susie’s door.

Before she could knock, it opened and Susie, her face swollen, peered out, looked around warily, then quickly drew Gen inside.

“Sorry for acting so hush-hush. The press keep coming around, even though they’re not supposed to be able to get into the building,” Susie said.

“Oh? No one stopped me,” Genevieve said.

“I guess most of the cops have cleared away. And maybe whoever is down there decided you didn’t look like a reporter.”

“I guess.”

Gen didn’t think the police were actually watching the building at all anymore. She didn’t tell Susie so, but she suspected the reporters probably thought they’d gotten all they could from the neighbors.

Susie had evidently been through the wringer. She looked as if she had cried a lot and might start crying again at any moment. Genevieve’s heart went out to her.

“Some guy down there offered me a bunch of money if I had any sexy shots of Lori, or if I could tell him any sordid stories,” she said, and sniffed contemptuously. “And they called her a whore! They’re just a pack of pimps themselves. I’d never sell out a friend.”

“I’m sure Lori would have appreciated that,” Genevieve said, touching her arm consolingly.

Susie sniffed again, and wiped her cheeks, then tried to smile. “You’re different, you and that guy, Joe. He wanted to help. I know he did.”

“Yeah. He’s a good guy,” Genevieve said.

Susie frowned. “So, uh, why are you here?”

“I came to see you.”

“Why?” Susie asked, her tone slightly apprehensive.

“I’m not even sure,” Genevieve admitted. “I guess…I guess I just wanted to get to know Lori now, even if it’s too late. I feel that…knowing more about her might somehow help.”

Susie indicated her couch. It was worn, but the apartment was neat and tidy. “Sit. I’ll tell you what I can. She really did want to be an actress, you know. She worked a lot as an extra, and she went to auditions…even got some callbacks. But she didn’t get that one break she really needed.”

Genevieve nodded encouragingly and waited for Susie to go on.

“She was…she was just real, I guess you could say.” Susie hesitated. “Did she turn tricks? Well, yes, but she was discreet. She went with guys she liked and accepted what she could get. But she really worked at being an actress, and I think she would have made it.”

“So why did she go by Candy Cane? Why did she give that name when she was arrested?” Genevieve asked.

Susie laughed with dry humor. “I’m Peppermint Patsy. We all use names when we go clubbing. You don’t always want to be known. Hell, if I’m out for a good time and need a little sustenance from a guy, I don’t want him knowing who I really am.”

Genevieve asked, “Do you think she realized, when she went to the press, that they would check her out and discover her arrest record?”

“Maybe she thought it was worth the risk. The thing is, when she talked about what she saw, she was telling the truth. She believed it with her whole heart. She wouldn’t have lied to me.” Another big tear fell on Susie’s cheek. “Life’s a bitch and then you die. Sucks, huh?”

Genevieve felt her old life suddenly wrapping around her. “Susie, I can’t help Lori now. But if you want to get a real job—where you have to work hard, but you’ll make good money—I can manage that for you.”

Susie grimaced. “I work hard now. I just don’t seem to get anywhere. I flipped hamburgers for a while, but I couldn’t pay the rent.”