"Well, when are we going to talk about this? And you know the 'this' I mean."

She gestured to the bull pen with the file. "I doubt the Homicide Squad Room is the optimal place to talk about your romp in the South of France with an old flame."

"No, the Homicide Squad Room is perfect. Because this is murder for me."

"Very glib, Pulitzer Man. We'll definitely talk. But I have enough distraction to deal with right now, and two murders to work."

"Make it three." They turned to Detective Feller as he made his way over from his desk. "Can't be sure it's your boy's doing, but another one just turned up." And just like that, another ball got juggled up in the air.

In the category of extended-stay, hybrid hotel-apartments, the HMS pressed the envelope. The uber-hip HMS, acronym for Home Meet Stay, catered more to the actor in town for a movie shoot than the road warrior looking for a plexi cylinder of Cheerios at a breakfast bar. On the way through the dour, mood-lit lobby, Detectives Heat and Feller had to pause while Rook got snagged by an Irish rock legend who was camping there while he scored a Broadway musical. Rook freed himself with a vague promise of c.o.c.ktails sometime, and they moved on to the crime scene upstairs.

A pair of uniforms stood a little taller when Heat got off the elevator on nine and walked the herringbone carpet toward their posts at an open door. Camera flashes from inside popped against their backs, briefly printing their shadows on the opposite wall.

"African-American male, age sixty to sixty-five," recited the medical examiner on their arrival in the bedroom of the suite. "Photo ID on the deceased indicates he is one Douglas Earl Sandmann." The top mattress had been pushed aside, and Heat and the other two had to move around the bed for a look at the victim, whose body reclined faceup on the box spring.

Feller asked, "Isn't this the exterminator dude from those TV commercials?"

"Oh, my G.o.d, it's Bedbug Doug," said Rook, who then recited the deceased's catchphrase, " 'We squash the compet.i.tion!' "

"Easy, Rook, we get who he is." Nikki turned to her friend Lauren Parry, whom she had been seeing too much of lately for the wrong reasons. "What about COD?"

"Prelim cause of death is asphyxia. But not strangled like Maxine Berkowitz. Mr. Sandmann was suffocated by a mattress."

"Ironic on so many levels," said Rook. "But mainly because Bedbug Doug was killed with a bed."

Heat forgave his irreverence because Rook had made a point. "Just like the restaurant inspector being killed by a pizza oven and a Channel 3 reporter getting strangled by a TV cable."

Detective Feller walked the room, which had not been disturbed, except for the upset bed and bedding. "If he was done here, there's no sign of struggle."

Dr. Parry, waiting out the body temp reading, said, "I picked up chloroform traces here on the front of his coveralls. Forensics roped off some sc.r.a.pe-and-drag depressions in the living room rug. They're testing the fibers for chloroform spills."

Heat turned to the responding officer. "Who found him?"

"Housekeeping. Manager says there's a supermodel coming in to do a calendar shoot, and the maid was checking to make sure the apartment was ready for her."

"So this isn't the victim's room?" asked Heat.

"No, but he does have a bedbug contract with the building."

"So why was he here? Did they call him in to check out the room?"

"Manager says no. He didn't even know the guy was up here."

Nikki sent Feller off to interview the manager more fully, and sent the pair of unis in the hall to knock on some doors to ask if anyone heard or saw anything. Lauren completed her field testing and ballparked the time of death window between midnight and 2 A.M. "Which means," said Rook, "that your serial killer had already murdered him when he called you this morning."

"If this is his work," said Nikki. "We don't know that yet." She crouched down and lifted the dust ruffle with her gloved hand to look under the bed.

Rook scanned the dresser and stuck his head inside the armoire housing the TV. He lifted up the Bible inside the nightstand and said, "Death, where is thy string?"

"Got it," said Lauren Parry. They came to her side, and she indicated about an eighth of an inch of red string, barely noticeable because it was wedged between the victim's shoulder and the box spring.

"OK to move him?" asked Nikki.

The ME said to hang on, called in the crime scene unit photographer to doc.u.ment the string and its position, then gave Heat a nod. She and Rook stood back while Parry and her technician rolled the body on its side. The CSU shooter positioned himself and clicked; his flash strobed at what they found underneath: a length of red string tied to a length of yellow string, tied to a length of purple string. The end of the purple string was knotted through the hole in the head of a futuristic-looking door key.

"I need you, and p.r.o.nto, Heat," called Captain Irons as she double-timed past his office door toward the squad room. In spite of her low opinion of him, as the skipper, Wally deserved a briefing. So she reversed field and caught him up on the murder of Bedbug Doug. When she'd finished and turned to go, he said, "Not done yet, Detective." Nikki stopped, not having a second to waste, hoping he could make it quick. "Do you know the pressure I'm under? Do you know how many times I get called about bringing this to a resolution?"

"Yes, sir, I can only imagine they're all over you at One PP."

He made a face and shrugged. "No, actually, the commissioner knows we're busting our humps. I'm talking about the media."

"Seriously? This is about media pressure?"

"Listen, Heat, this has been on my mind, so I might as well get it out." He gestured to a chair and they sat. "I know you're spending your time on your other... more personal case. But now that we have a serial killer and people are paying attention in the press, you have to stop chasing that dog and put your focus where I need it."

She had been waiting for this shoe to drop. She had known that her dimwit commander, who'd initially been so alarmed by Nikki's poisoning attempt that he tried to bench her a.s.s, would forget all that. Had known that he'd whimper about her split focus. Had known that because his coconut couldn't hold two thoughts at once, he'd a.s.sume n.o.body else's could. It p.i.s.sed her off that Irons talked so casually about this "other case" when it was her own mother's murder she was trying to solve. But as Nikki had waited for this inevitable chat to come down, she'd been forming a strategy.

Cement heads like Wally Irons had to be managed, not cornered. Heat needed to set her personal anger aside and be effective, because much more was at stake than justice for her mom. Nikki felt in her bones that something else was coming from this Tyler Wynn conspiracy. Otherwise all this new activity-including the attempt on her life-wouldn't be bubbling up. So instead of outboxing the Iron Man, she'd outsmart him.

"Sir, although my connection to the Tyler Wynn investigation started personally, there is one thing I am dead sure of."

"Which is?"

"That you and I are probably the only two cops in this department smart enough to see that this is all bigger than one homicide." A white lie of flattery couldn't hurt. In fact, it was pathetic to see how Wally lapped it up.

"True..." He smiled to himself, then to her. "True."

"And when the handcuffs come out-and they will-who is going to be the hero of this?" She watched his eyes rise to the trophies on his bookcase. "One more thing, sir? What you have so wisely done here is put me on notice not to drop the ball on either of these cases. You have my pledge, Captain. I won't fail you. Just watch."

She held her breath while his brow creases deepened in some version of thought. Then Irons stood and said the magic words. "Just let me know if you get swamped."

"Will do."

"Meantime, the media's storming me with ladders and torches. Can you give me something to tell them?"

"Sure," she said. "You might even want to write this down." She waited for him to uncap a pen with his teeth and turn to a fresh page of his legal pad. " 'No comment.' " And then she left to get to work.

Heat recited a download of the HMS crime scene for the bull pen. When she finished, Detective Rhymer said, "Trying to grab at any connection here. We found that rat with our first vic. Did Bedbug Doug, by chance, also exterminate rats?"

"Bedbug Doug?" asked Ochoa, incredulous.

"No rats, just bedbugs," said Raley, reenacting one of Bedbug Doug's TV commercials.

Rook couldn't resist. "What about ants?"

Raley came right with it. "Nope, just bedbugs."

"Racc.o.o.ns?"

"Just bedbugs."

"Skunks? c.o.c.kroaches? Opossums?"

"Nope, nope, nope. Just bedbugs."

Heat said, "Are you done? Be done."

"Got something," said Detective Malcolm as he and Reynolds rolled chairs over from their shared desk. "A link between our first two victims." The room hushed, and all heads tilted toward them. "Know how in ratings sweeps, TV stations do those shocking exposes about restaurant kitchen gross-outs? I just tracked down an exa.s.signment editor at Channel 3. When they b.u.mped Maxine Berkowitz off the anchor desk at WHNY, guess what her first 'Doorbuster' segment was? And who her prime on-camera source was from the Health Department?"

n.o.body said it. But Heat took a red marker and drew a line connecting restaurant inspector Roy Conklin and Maxine Berkowitz. She tossed the dry erase pen on the aluminum tray of the whiteboard and said, "Malcolm and Reynolds, you rock."

Feller said, "I wonder if Maxine B. ever did a 'Doorbuster' report on bedbugs or Bedbug Doug. That would connect them."

"We're all connected one way or another," said Rook. "You can trace anyone to anyone in six hops. It's like playing Six Degrees of Marsha Mason."

Detective Rhymer said, "You mean Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon."

Rook said, "Please. I grew up with a mom who's a Broadway diva. In our house, it was always Marsha Mason."

Roach interrupted with a report on the unusual key found under Doug Sandmann's body. Raley posted photos of it as Ochoa recited from his notes. "It's a high-security key. New technology from an Australian company. As you can see from the close-ups, it's futuristic in design. Looks like a Star Wars X-Wing fighter and a barracuda made a baby."

Raley picked up from his partner. "According to the manufacturer's Web site, because of its dual shank and one-of-a-kind cutting, this key would fit only one in about seventeen thousand locks. Here's the good part: Each set is registered. It's the middle of the night in Australia, but hopefully, we can get a line on whose lock this fits, because it could be the next victim's."

"We're also making rounds of local locksmiths who carry the brand," said Detective Ochoa. "It's high-end, so there aren't that many."

"So go to," said Heat, and the squad dispersed. Her excitement at sensing some traction became muted by mistrust. This killer was a gamesman, a manipulator who had already murdered his third victim hours before he called to threaten it. Nikki only hoped they could move fast enough to save his fourth.

Heat's e-mail chimed with a message from Bart Callan: "Ran Carey Maggs, per request. Your instinct right on. Clean returns on all data. PS: If you worked here, you'd be home now! Haha-BC."

As she saved the e-mail, Detectives Raley and Ochoa speed-walked to her desk, both wearing eager faces. Raley said, "The lock manufacturer in Australia has a 24/7 help desk."

Ochoa overlapped, "They tracked the serial number and said the lock and key set is registered through a locksmith on Amsterdam."

"Did you call?"

"No answer," said Roach.

"At a locksmith?" Nikki leaped to her feet. "Amsterdam and what?"

Heat and Rook pulled up behind the Roach Coach five blocks south, at 77th. As they came together on the sidewalk, Ochoa said to them, "Rales and I were just in this neighborhood running a check on that Rollerblade wheel." He indicated the skate shop with a sign that read, "Central Park rentals by the hour or half day."

Nikki's attention went to Windsor's Locks, the storefront next door. Something was definitely off. The window had an "Open" sign, but behind it the shop was dark.

"OK, now this is too weird," said Rook, pointing. "Rats. Check it out. A pet store on one side with rats in the window and a roller skate store on the other?"

The pair of backup blue-and-whites Heat had called for pulled up behind her. Without taking her eyes from the store, she told the unis to cover the back. As the patrol officers deployed, she took the lead toward the gla.s.s door, flanked by Raley and Ochoa. They paused. Heat put one hand on the grip of her Sig Sauer. She reached for the door handle with the other.

"Wait," said Ochoa. "You smell that?"

Heat sniffed. "Gas."

SIX.

"That smells stronger than just a tiny leak," said Ochoa.

Detective Heat turned immediately to Raley. "Call it in." Then she flashed back to the natural gas explosion she'd investigated in 2006, a suicide that completely leveled a three-story town house. "No sparks," she told him. "Use your phone on the upwind corner. Also, tell those uniforms to come back and start clearing these buildings." She waved a circle over her head to indicate the residences above the shops. "And tell everyone: no smokes, no light switches, no phones."

Ochoa was already on the move, waving people off the sidewalk, when Rook turned to her from peeking in the locksmith's window. "Nikki. Someone's on the floor."

She cupped her hands on the sides of her face to cut the glare and put her nose to the gla.s.s. In the back of the narrow store, a pair of man's legs protruded from behind the counter, toes splayed out. Heat ran a quick calculation. The risk of setting off an explosion versus the chance that if that man was alive but suffocating on fumes, she might save him.

Decision time.

"Miguel!" Detective Ochoa turned to her from up the street, where he had corralled some pedestrians. "Man down. I'm going in." Then she turned back and caught Rook reaching for the door handle. "Whoa, whoa, whoa!" He froze. "If that door has an electric chime or alarm contact, you could blow us to Newark."

Rook withdrew his hand. "What say we avoid that?"

A rapid sidewalk check. Nikki jogged to the corner and grabbed a city trash can. The steel barrel was heavy, and Ochoa met her to lift the other side. "Careful not to sc.r.a.pe the concrete," she said on their way up the sidewalk. "Don't want any sparks."

"On your three," said Ochoa. Litter spilled onto the ground as the two detectives lifted the garbage can sideways with the metal bottom aimed at the gla.s.s. Nikki gave a count and they rammed the window. Instead of breaking, though, it spider veined. Heat made another three count, and they hit it again, much harder. This time they not only punched a hole, the entire window shattered, cascading jagged-edged chunks down from above, nearly guillotine-slicing them before crashing to bits on the sidewalk and the floor of the shop. Nikki kicked out the shards on the spiky ledge of the sill, swung one leg inside, then the other.

She ran to the end of the front counter and knelt beside the man, pressing her fingers to his neck. The carotid b.u.mped against her touch. Ochoa joined her. Holding her breath in the toxic air, she nodded to Miguel to indicate the locksmith was still alive. Getting him out would be a challenge. He was short and slender, but unconsciousness had made him dead weight. Heat's aching lungs burned for air, and in the strain of lifting him, she gasped in a breath she instantly regretted. The rotten eggs smell from the mercaptan in the gas made her throat clutch and her head go light. Nikki lost her grip and the man fell against her. She quickly jammed her thigh under him and stopped the fall. Fighting nausea, she got a better hold and clawed his work shirt. Together she and Ochoa managed to lug him to the window, where the new, sure hands of the arriving FDNY crew took him from them, lifting the victim over the ledge and onto to a gurney, where paramedics took over.

Heat and Ochoa stood bent over on the sidewalk, coughing and gasping. Both took hits off the oxygen they were offered. In the short minutes it took them to recover, New York's Bravest had already killed electrical power to the building, shut off the gas main, and cranked up portable fans to vent the fumes.

Rook gave Heat and Ochoa each a bottle of water, and both chugged. "While you were in there, I went in the pet shop and got everyone out. Ever see Pee-wee's Big Adventure? I was this close to running out with two handfuls of snakes."

The paramedics said they had rescued the locksmith just in time. Glen Windsor had stabilized on oxygen, and they were about to transport him to Roosevelt for observation. Heat said she wanted to ask him a few questions first. The paramedic didn't like that, but Nikki promised to keep it brief.

"Thank you," said Windsor looking up from the gurney at Heat and Ochoa. "They said I almost didn't make it." An EMT asked him to keep his oxygen mask on, but he said he was fine, took a hit, and held it resting on his chest.

Nikki saw the tremble in his hand. An ordeal like this would take its toll on anyone. The locksmith was young, maybe about thirty, but for a small guy built slim like a pro bowler, it must have been extra rough on his body. "Mr. Windsor, we won't keep you, but I'm wondering if you can tell me what happened."

"s.h.i.t, you and me both." The pale guy on the stretcher had an affable soft-spokenness that reminded Nikki of Detective Rhymer, in whose mouth profanity sounded quaint instead of offensive. "Sorry," he said. "Another quarter in the swear jar for me." He took one more pull off the O2 mask and continued, "It was a slow day for business. I was sitting, just doing the Angry Birds at the counter. Next thing, I hear something behind me, and before I can turn, this hand comes around over my face. That's all she wrote till I woke up out here."

"Was there a rag in the hand?"

He shrugged. "Sorry, just don't remember."

"Did you smell anything? Something sweet, maybe?"