Death Match

“Neither have I, sir,” said Forster.

Standing beside the parole officer, Wyre’s eyes glittered.

“And these testimonials you’ve procured are equally remarkable.”

“They were all in the database, sir.”

“Hmm.” Corso riffled through the final pages of the document, then pushed it aside. “Yet I don’t know why we are so surprised. After all, we’re here because we believe in the efficacy of our prison system — no? We’ve struggled to bring these services, these opportunities for rehabilitation, to our inmates. So why should we be so shocked when we come face to face with an instance where this rehabilitation works? With a success story?”

Oh, my God, Piston thought. There was only one thing that could put Corso in a lenient mood. And that was the dangled carrot of advancement. Because Corso, the parole board head, was also Corso, would-be assemblyman. And transforming Edmund Wyre from sadistic murderer to reformed penitent would be a feather in his cap like no other…

But that couldn’t be, it simply wasn’t possible. Wyre was a puff adder, a malevolent nut case. What was in that case summary? What had happened on the tests?

“Sir,” Wyre said, gazing meekly at Corso, “in light of all this, I would like to request the board now grant my application for parole, set a release date, and formulate a plan for parole supervision.”

Piston stared in growing disbelief as Wyre glanced down again at the sheet of paper in his hand. He’s got this process nailed. Somebody’s coached him, shown him just what documents to read. But who?

Instinctively, he rose once again to his feet. “Mr. Corso!” he cried out.

The old man frowned at him. “What is it now?”

Piston’s mouth worked, but no words came. Wyre glanced casually over his shoulder. His eyes narrowed as he caught Piston’s gaze, and he licked his lips, slowly and deliberately: first the upper, then the lower.

Piston sat down abruptly. As the drone of conversation picked up again at the front of the room, he reached into his pocket, pulled out his cell phone, and dialed the office. It was, as he expected, answered by the service. He began to dial his boss’s private number, then stopped. The DA was out on the links right now, grabbing a quick eighteen, and he would have turned his phone off, as always.

He replaced the phone in his pocket and stared back at the parole board with slow, dreamlike movements. Because this felt like a dream: one of those nightmares where you witnessed something terrible unfolding — something you knew would lead to tragedy, disaster — yet you remained paralyzed somehow, powerless to change anything, do anything…

And that was where the similarity ended. Because, Piston knew, one always woke from nightmare. But from this there would be no awakening.

THIRTY-THREE

Change of plans,” Lash said, leaning forward to speak with the driver. “Just let me off here, please.”

He waited for the taxi to clear Columbus Circle and nose to the curb, then he paid the fare and got out. He watched the cab lose itself in a sea of identical yellow vehicles, then put his hands in his coat pockets and began walking slowly up Central Park West.

He wasn’t sure, exactly, why he’d decided to get out several blocks short of the restaurant. Something about not wanting to bump into her outside. And what exactly did that mean? It had to do with controlling the situation: he wanted to see her first, establish his own space before they met. It had to do with nervousness.

In a different mood, he might have smiled at this piece of self-analysis. But there was no mistaking his rapid breathing, his elevated heart rate. Here he was, Christopher Lash, eminent psychologist and veteran of a hundred crime scenes — nervous as a teenager on his first date.

It had begun slowly, that morning, when — instinctively — he’d picked up the phone to call Tavern on the Green. Eden had already made the reservation, but he wanted to choose the dining room personally. As quickly as he’d picked up the phone, he put it down again. What should it be: the Crystal Room, with its glittering array of chandeliers? Or the woodsy ambiance of the Rafters Room? It had taken him ten minutes to decide, then another fifteen on the phone, name-dropping and cajoling the best possible table out of the reservationist.

This wasn’t like him. He rarely ate out anymore, and when he did he was indifferent to seating. But it was equally unusual to pause beside a bus stop and scrutinize his image in the glass, as he was doing now. Or to worry that the tie he’d chosen was too passé, or too gauche, or maybe a little of both.

No doubt Eden had anticipated such reactions. No doubt, in the normal course of things, he’d have been briefed, given a reassuring pep talk. But this was not the normal course of things. Somehow, the company that never made a mistake had made one. And he was now walking up Central Park West, the time was 8 p.m. precisely, and for the first time in several days his thoughts were not preoccupied with the deaths of the Thorpes and the Wilners.

Ahead, where West Sixty-seventh Street emptied into Central Park, he could see countless white lights twinkling among the trees. He maneuvered his way past the clutter of limousines, then passed through the restaurant’s outer doors. He smoothed his jacket, making sure the small pin Eden had sent was still in place. Even that little detail had been fussed over for several minutes: adjusting its placement on his lapel, making sure it was clearly visible yet not too obvious. His mouth was dry, his palms sweaty. A

It all comes down to this, he thought. Fu

He stopped in the entrance of the bar, looking around. There were groups of twos and threes scattered around the tables, chatting boisterously. Other, single people were seated at the bar…

And there she was. At least, he thought it must be her. Because a small pin identical to his own was fixed to her dress; because she was looking directly at him; because she was rising from her seat and approaching with a smile.

And yet it could not be her. Because this woman looked nothing like what he expected. This was not willowy, slight, brunette Myrna Loy: this woman was tall and raven-haired. Mid-thirties, perhaps, with mischievous hazel eyes. Lash couldn’t remember ever going out with anybody almost a head taller than himself.

“Christopher, right?” she said, shaking his hand. She nodded toward his pin. “I recognize the fashion accessory.”

“Yes,” he replied. “And you’re Diana.”

“Diana Mirren.” Her accent was unexpected, too: a smooth contralto with a distinct Southern lilt.

Lash had always felt a completely unreasonable scorn for the intellect of Southern women; something about the accent set his teeth on edge. He began to wonder if, perhaps, the same mistake that had sent his avatar into the Tank had carried over to the matchmaking process itself.

“Shall we go in?” he said.

Diana slung her purse over her shoulder and together they approached the reservationist.