LITMIR.BIZ

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opened the magazine in his lap and leafed through it. “Yep,” he murmured, “that’s what it’s all about: knockin’ on doors, gathering evidence.”

      Lee gazed out the window as the gray granite cliffs of Weehawken whizzed by. He’d heard this line before, many times, not just from beat cops and guys like Butts, but also at John Jay. The culture of law enforcement had little patience for what most cops considered the “touchy-feely” aspect of crime solving. Most cops were not comfortable around profilers, any more than they were comfortable around psychiatrists.

      “It’s not that I think it doesn’t figure into the equation,” Butts said, staring down at a print ad promising whiter teeth. The woman in the picture grinned up at them, her parted lips displaying a row of broad, perfectly even teeth that gleamed like ivory dominoes. “But it’s really all about evidence in the end, you know? Cold, hard evidence—that’s what catches criminals.”

      Lee didn’t reply. They had no evidence so far: no hair, no fibers, no DNA—nothing. He didn’t feel optimistic about getting any, either. This killer would only get better at covering his tracks as time went on.

      Detective Butts was leafing through the magazine, his bulbous head bent low over the pages. Lee couldn’t help liking the man, in spite of his bluntness—or maybe because of it. He was like a lumbering old bulldog—grumpy, moody, eccentric—and yet Lee had the feeling he was someone you could count on in a crisis.

      “What did you find out about that broken lock in the church basement?” he asked.

      Butts looked up from the magazine. “The maintenance staff didn’t know anything about a broken lock, and no one I talked to in administration remembered making the call. But sure enough, there was one down there when they looked, so someone must have known about it.”

      “Hmm,” Lee said. “That’s interesting.”

      “Coincidence, you think?”

      “Maybe, maybe not.”

      Nutley was not a long ride—about thirty minutes, with the light traffic they encountered traveling westward—and soon they were trudging from the bus stop up the hill to the modest middle-class neighborhood where the Kellehers lived. The house itself was a tidy little white clapboard structure, with green awnings over the windows and a small wooden windmill on the front lawn. Nothing looks its best this time of year, Lee thought as they walked up the narrow sidewalk to the front door. The grass in front of the house was brown and windswept, and even the little windmill looked desolate and abandoned in the dull late winter light.

      The Kellehers were expecting them, and they were soon seated on opposite ends of the living room sofa, cradling cups of instant coffee in their hands. Their hosts sat opposite them in matching wing chairs. A fake electric log gave off an eerie red light in the hearth behind them.

      Mrs. Kelleher had a face like a deflated muffin—as though someone had taken a pin to it. Her flesh puckered softly, gathering under her eyes in doughy little pouches, lying in crinkled pockets around her small, pursed mouth, the flesh sinking into itself in tiny, concave crevices. Lee figured her for no older than sixty, but knew without asking that she was a longtime smoker. The room reeked of cigarettes.

      Her husband was as square and hard as she was fleshy. Short and broad of shoulder, he had the rugged build of a miner or a construction worker. Wisps of curly graying hair clung to the top of his big, square Irish head. A road map of spidery red blood vessels sprouted on either side of his straight, high-ridged nose, but his blue eyes were clear. Lee concluded that the broken blood vessels were more likely from excessive sun and exertion than alcohol. Or, if he was a drinker, he was off the bottle now.

      “Can you think of any reason that your daughter might have been a target? Anything at all?” Butts asked them. The opening condolences were out of the way, and he was zeroing in on the heart of the matter with his usual forthrightness—or tactlessness.

      Brian Kelleher cleared his throat and looked down at his wife. “We’re just simple people,” he said in a throaty, faintly accented voice. “We’ve never been associated with bad people—you know, criminal types.” A wave of stale tobacco floated from his clothing, the remnants of many cigarettes, and Lee realized that he, too, was a smoker.

      “What makes you think we’d know our daughter’s killer?” Mrs. Kelleher asked, her eyes wide with anxiety. “We don’t know people like that.”

      Butts was fidgeting with his notebook, and his eyes roamed the room restlessly. “We’re not saying you do,” he replied. “It’s just that sometimes people remember seeing and hearing something that can later be useful in an investigation. Can you think of anything that might stand out as strange or unusual in your daughter’s life—especially in the last few weeks or so?”

      The Kellehers appeared to consider his question, but to Lee it looked as if they were merely marking time. They frowned as if in concentration, studied their hands, and looked around the room. Finally Mrs. Kelleher spoke.

      “I can’t think of anything. Can you, dear?” she said to her husband. Mr. Kelleher looked at his wife—clearly, he took his cues from her.

      He shook his big square head sadly. “Not really. Marie was a straight-A student, you know,” he added, with a glance at his wife.

      “Did you ever see her with anyone strange or unusual?” Butts asked. “I mean, anyone who set off alarm bells or anything?”

      The couple looked indignant, as if he had called their dead daughter’s virtue into question.

      “Oh, Lordy, no,” Mrs. Kelleher replied. “She was dating that nice boy. He was respectful. We liked him, didn’t we, dear?” she said to her husband, who nodded obediently.

      “He told us that he thought she might be seeing someone else,” Butts said.

      “What do you mean?” Mrs. Kelleher demanded. Her soft, round face resembled a recently vacated couch cushion.

      “Did you know anything about another boyfriend?” Butts asked.

      Mrs. Kelleher’s prim face puckered like a prune. “No, of course not! Marie wasn’t that kind of girl.”

      “What kind of girl is that?” Lee asked.

      “The kind of girl who would be seeing two men at once, of course,” she snapped back. “Marie wouldn’t do that.”

      “Because she was a good girl?” Lee said.

      “Because she was a good Catholic girl. And, I might add,” she said, leaning forward and placing a plump hand on Lee’s arm, “we both trust in the good Lord to bring her killer to justice. We know he’s watching over us, and that he will help you capture this evil, evil man.”

      “I guess He was looking the other way when your daughter was murdered,” Butts muttered under his breath.

      “Excuse me?” Mrs. Kelleher said, her little button eyes bright with suspicion.

      Lee felt sour distaste gathering in his mouth. Brian and Francis Kelleher held their faith in front of them like a banner. He recognized the smugness lurking behind her eyes: even devastated as she was by grief, Mrs. Kelleher’s voice had the sanctimonious tone of the true believer. These people brandished their beliefs like a weapon. One sweep of the sword of their faith opened a swath between them and the world of nonbelievers—a swift and tidy demarcation.

      It set his teeth on edge and angered him beyond reason. He didn’t know why—perhaps he heard echoes of his mother’s stalwart stoicism and superiority. It was hubris in the guise of humility, close-mindedness masquerading as wisdom.

      He knew he would have to overcome his distaste, and tried to arrange his face in a proper attitude of sympathy and concern.

      “You know, my wife and I worked long and hard to raise our girl with solid Christian values,” Mr. Kelleher said, as if reciting a well-memorized speech. The words had all the spontaneity of a church litany. All the while, his wife watched him, smiling. Lee felt

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