Page 14 of Vicious Hearts

I have no choice. If I do nothing, I am just waiting for the killer to return and finish the job. If Hillard isn't going to take me seriously, I have to go around him.

The request for the candy got Hillard to unlock the drawer, and the fake coughing fit got him out of his seat. The only thing left was to get him out of the room, so I asked for a drink, and off he went, leaving the drawer accessible.

Easy as one, two, three.

Hillard's desk drawer contains a black address book. I know it's there because I burst in on him once, and he put it away fast, locking the drawer and pocketing the key. I also know that he has refused point-blank to give me specific vital information that might be in that little book.

There is a criminal profile included in The Dollmaker case file. It's dated before Farraday was apprehended but had no signature or details of the profiler.

The person described in the profile bears no resemblance to Farraday, and it wasn't submitted as evidence in court—one of many things that don't seem right. Someone advised Hillard, but then their contribution was shelved.

The secrecy around Hillard's silent partner makes me highly interested in them. Despite their essential role, they are the only person involved in this case that I still need to meet and speak with. Maybe they will listen to me, help me lean on Hillard. After all, their profile would be pulled apart at Farraday's appeal, and they have their reputation to consider. It's the only card I have left to play.

I scoot around the desk and snatch the book, skimming it. There's a sticky tab sticking out, marked BV.

What does that mean? I flick to the page.

Profiling and acquisition, DM murder inquiry.

Ah.Nowwe're talking.

Evidence file delivery address: 274 Mott St., Nolita, NY10012. 12a.

I put the book back and return to my seat, muttering the address again and again in an effort to remember it. Hillard reappears only moments later, a glass of water in hand.

"I'll give you the statement now if you have time," I say.

Hillard's expression sours, but he manages a smile. It doesn't reach his eyes. "Whatever you say. But it's a new case. There's no way I'm even gonnamentionThe Dollmaker in connection with this incident, and neither are you. Is that clear?"

I nod. Hillard hands me the water and holds the door open for me.

By the time I get done at the station, the sun is low in the sky, but I'm not going home.

* * *

Ben

I'm cooking a steak and listening to Bowie when the intercom buzzer sounds. I turn off the music and look out of the window, craning my neck to see who is at the door.

It’s a woman with fair hair and a long coat. I can't see her too well, but she's obviously anxious—her hands pull at her hair, winding her fingers through it. She bites the tip of her thumb before jabbing at the bell, setting the intercom jangling again.

I pick up the handset.

"Yeah?"

A distorted voice, too loud in the speaker. "I'm sorry, I'm not sure who I'm looking for. Are you a profiler?"

How does she know that? It's not like I take out ads. I need to find out what the fuck she wants.

"Come in, and I'll explain." I press the button, and the main door unlocks. I glance outside and see her walking into the building.

I pull a sleeveless t-shirt over my head and think quickly.

No one is supposed to come to my fucking door. Freddie offers me the jobs, I take them, or I don't. Who thefuckhas been giving my address out? This woman didn't even call me first.

A firm knock. I flip my steak onto a plate and head for the door.

On the coat hook hangs the holster that cradles my pistol. I retrieve the gun, lifting my shirt to tuck the weapon into my waistband. Suitably prepared, I open the door.

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