CHAPTER 1

TUESDAY, MAY 17, 11:29 P.M.

Yvars, seated behind his mahogany desk, had just finished puttingaway his notes from the evening's group therapy session when hethought he heard a faint sound. It must be Max playing with his keys.He often wondered how Max passed the time. His ten to six shift hadto be incredibly boring.

He heard the thud again. This time louder. He knew it couldn't bethe bell. The sound was different. Besides, the bell had been broken, andhe didn't think the electrician had come to fix it. Neither could it be apatient. The hour was too late. Mort lifted his muscular frame from theleather chair and walked toward the noise. Then he heard it again. Athumping sound pressing against his front door. Who could it be? Maxwould have notified him on the intercom if someone was there to seehim. Maybe it was Max himself at the door. Yes, that was probably whatit was. He saw my light on, Mort thought, and his boredom got the best of him.He's probably out there wanting to chat.

Mort opened the door and stood momentarily frozen. Standingin front of him was a tall, thin young woman in a torn blood-soakednightgown. Before he could utter a word she collapsed, three notebooksscattering in all directions.

"Dr. Yvars," she panted, "you must help me! I have to talk to you."

Mort dragged her limp body into his office. He then closed the door.He raced to the phone on his desk and punched in 911.

"Please hang up. Don't call anyone," she uttered weakly.

"I must. You need immediate help or you'll bleed to death."

"It's too late." She coughed up several large clumps of blood.

"I can't just let you die," Yvars replied. "This is Dr. Yvars," he saidinto the telephone. "I'm at 201 West Eighty-Eighth Street. A woman isbleeding to death in my office. Send a paramedic unit over immediately."He quickly hung up the phone.

"It's no use. I'll be dead before they get here."

Mort bent down and gently held her bloody hand. "I have somegauze in my back room. I should be able to stop some of the bleeding,buy some time. Wentworth Hospital is only a few minutes from here.You'll be okay."

"Where are my three notebooks?" she whispered. "Get them!"

Mort glanced around the blood-spattered beige carpet, lifted himselfup, and retrieved two of them.

"There's another one someplace," she murmured.

"I'll find it later. Right now I have to stop the bleeding."

"I beg you not to. I'm dying. I know that. So do you. Kathy Stylestold me you were a good listener. Hear me out. I need you to find mykiller."

"I'm a doctor. That's for the police to do," Mort said, pressinghis right hand firmly against the large gaping wound under her rightbreast.

"No. Not the police. Not the FBI. Kathy told me that you ..." Shepaused to catch her breath. The room was starting to spin. "That youspecialize in treating violent patients."

"I do, but what has that to do with you?" Mort paused. "Did one ofmy patients stab you?" he asked.

"I doubt it. I don't think anybody I know other than Kathy wouldever go to a psychiatrist. It's your knowledge of human nature I need."

She began feeling a wave of nausea again. This time more forceful.She vomited once. Then again. "Will you help?"

"Yes," Mort reluctantly replied. "If I can, I will."

"All you need to know to find my killer is written in my threenotebooks." she gasped.

Mort spotted the third one next to his magazine rack.

"Put them in a safe place for now. Read them later. You'll knowwhat to do."

Mort stood up, took the three notebooks, and put them on the topshelf of the nearby closet. He then returned to her side.

"Promise me one thing," she said.

"What's that?"

"Don't hand those notebooks over to the police!"

"I have to," Mort replied.

"Please don't or you'll get yourself killed as well," she repliedweakly.

Then the room began a sickening whirl. She tried mouthing anothersentence, another word. She couldn't. Her breaths were becoming morerapid, less regular. The room was becoming darker. Then nothing.

Mort felt for her pulse. There wasn't any. He began cardiac message."Hang in there!"

Suddenly the door flew open. Max rushed in, followed by twoheavyset men in white. The two paramedics began working on her,attempting to revive her.

Five minutes later the taller of the two faced Mort. "It's no use. Herpupils are fixed and dilated."

Mort stared at the blood-soaked lifeless figure sprawled on thecarpet.

"Are you the doctor who called 911?" the shorter of the two askedas he took out a pad and pen from his jacket pocket.

"Yes. I'm Mort Yvars."

"What do you know about her?"

"Nothing," Mort replied helplessly.

"Why was she here?" the taller one asked.

Yvars hesitated before replying. Should he heed the words of a dyingwoman or tell them what she said? He decided he'd best acquiesce to herplea. "I don't know. I never saw her before."

"Where'd she live?" the shorter one asked.

"I'm not sure, but she was near death when she got here. I have tobelieve that she couldn't have walked very far. She must live close by."

"What was her name?" the taller one asked.

"I don't know. She knocked on my door. I let her in and called 911,and within minutes she arrested. I was trying to resuscitate her whenyou got here."

"Jim," the shorter one began, "call the Twentieth Precinct. Tell themto come to 201 West Eighty-Eighth apartment 1F. We have a DOA."

CHAPTER 2

WEDNESDAY, MAY 18, 12:47 A.M.

"Mort, are you okay? What happened?" Millie asked, standing in theentranceway to their apartment.

Mort, his hands trembling, related the events that had transpired.

"Where's Detective Feldman now?" Millie asked.

"Across the street from my office. They traced her path of blood. Itled right to her apartment. He's probably over there now. He orderedthe attendant to take her body to the medical examiner."

"Are you sure you're all right? You look green."

Mort took a deep breath and feigned a smile. "I'm shook up. That'sall. Really I'm fine."

Millie rubbed her thin fingers through Mort's thick brown hair.

"Forgive me for worrying, but it's not every night that you call to tellme about a stranger who comes to your office after being stabbed severaltimes and then drops dead. It's scary. I love you. I worry about you."

"You have nothing to worry about. I wasn't murdered. She was."

"That's not what I'm worried about. I know you better than youthink. Perhaps better than you know yourself. I'm afraid you'll meddle.Get involved. End up like her."

Mort kissed Millie on her cheek. "I'll be fine. We'll grow oldtogether. You'll see."

"Mort, you haven't answered my question!"

"I didn't realize you'd asked one," Mort said with a sheepish grin.

"Well, are you going to?"

"Am I going to what?"

"Search for her killer."

Mort didn't respond.

"I knew it. You are going to put your two cents in. Get killed. I'llbe widowed," Millie replied.

"I have to. She pleaded with me. If a client came to you, you'd dothe same. I know you would."

Millie couldn't say anything. Mort was right. She would. She sighed.She'd have to hope that Mort knew what he was doing. She had noother choice.

"Did you make any progress in court today?" Mort asked.

"Yes. We should be ready to start jury selection tomorrow."

"What's Benson's read on your chances?"

"He's optimistic that we'll finally get Tucci. Greg's confident that thewitnesses he's lined up will convince the jury of Tucci's guilt."

"I read in the Times that Benson's been approved by the WhiteHouse. Not bad, Millie. Your first job out of law school and not only areyou working for the Manhattan district attorney but the district attorneywho has been chosen by the president to become his new attorneygeneral. Quite impressive."

"What are you doing?" a curious Millie asked.

"I almost forgot about those notebooks. I have to go back to myoffice where I left them. I will be back in 15 minutes." Mort walked backinto their apartment carrying the notebooks twenty minutes later.

"What is in those blood covered notebooks,? Millie asked.

"I don't know. She gave them to me. She told me that everythingI'd need to know in order to find her killer I'd find written in thesethree books," Mort replied, placing all three on top of a file folder onhis desk.

Millie reached over, grabbed one of the three books, and opened it.

"Has her blood covered her writing?" Mort asked.

Millie said nothing. Her eyes were fixated on the writings. Shequickly turned the page. Then another. Then a third.

"I've never seen you at a loss for words. What's she written?" Mortasked.

"Read this page yourself. You won't believe it," Millie replied.

Mort seized one of the two remaining notebooks and flipped it open.The writing was clearly visible. There was no evidence of blood. Hebegan reading, his eyes bulging with each passage. He quickly glancedat a second page and then a third. "This is a sex journal!" he finallyblurted out.

"I'd say. It's far raunchier than the grossest X-rated porn movie youever forced me to watch."

Mort closed the book and placed it back on his desk.

"I can't see how this filth can help you find her killer. She's writtena diary of trash," Millie said.

Mort paced the carpet for a few moments before replying. "Exactly.Total filth. Sadomasochistic sex. Anal sex. Positions I can't even visualize.Every type of sex act imaginable and then some."

"And this supposedly is all you need to find her killer?" Millie askedin disbelief.

"That's what she said," Mort replied.

For the next fifteen minutes Mort and Millie flipped through manyof the pages in the three notebooks. Finally Millie said, "A completeaccount of her sex acts. Day by day. Hour by hour. But who are thesedisgusting perverts?"

Mort paused before replying, "I don't know, but I looked into hereyes. I heard her plea. She meant what she said."

"That might very well be true, but you don't have any leads. You'reat a dead end. Mort, give these diaries to Detective Feldman. Let himfigure out who killed her. You're a psychiatrist, not a detective. LetFeldman do his job. You concentrate on yours."

"I can't. I promised her I'd do all I could to find out who murderedher."

Mort walked into the back room.

"What are you doing now?' Millie asked following closely behind.

"Photocopying each of the pages in all three notebooks on our colorcopier. I'll give Feldman the originals. I'll keep the copies. This way hecan't accuse me of obstructing justice."

"And you'll still be able to hunt down her killer, right?" Millie askedsarcastically.

"Exactly. Now come on. I need your help. We've got a lot of pagesto copy."

CHAPTER 3

WEDNESDAY, MAY 18, 2:17 A.M.

Mort and Millie slipped between the two policemen guarding theentrance to the dead woman's third floor apartment and steppedaround the yellow police line. "Where's Detective Feldman?" Yvarsasked. One of the cops pointed to the bedroom.

Millie glanced around the living room. "She certainly lived well,"she whispered to Mort. The entire room was colored in soft creamwhite with moldings decorating the ceilings and bordering a fireplace.Two rose-printed chintz armchairs faced each other, and the same roseprinted chintz was on the draperies that hung on both of the floor-to-ceilingwindows.

"A lot of money went into decorating this place," she softly said.Mort nodded his head in agreement.

Millie's eyes took in the Chippendale sofa and the pair of EnglishRegency chairs at the far corner of the room and commented, "Mort,this is what I consider tastefully done."

They entered the bedroom. The four-poster bed was covered witha narrow pink and green striped bedspread. "She also was quite tidy,"Millie said, gazing at the carefully folded pink blanket at the foot ofthe bed. Her eyes took in a beautiful, small white porcelain dish witha pink rose painted on it, lying on a small Sheraton table beside thebed. The walls were blanketed with roses, roses, roses. Chintz, chintz,chintz. "The entire apartment reeks of an English country house," Mortreplied.

Mort commented that it seemed odd that there wasn't a single bookin the bedroom. "I guess she was too busy to read," he said.

Millie looked at him with a disapproving gaze. A tall, dark-featuredmiddle-aged man approached them. "Mort Yvars," he began, shakingthe psychiatrist's hand. "It's been a long time."

"Hello, Gabe," Yvars replied. "Do you remember Millie?"

"Of course," Feldman smiled. "I've followed your career." He gazedinto her hazel eyes. "I read in yesterday's Post that you're assisting Bensonwith the Tucci case. We thought we had him nailed several times. Eachtime he walked. I hope you get him this time."

"Benson has put together a great case. We feel confident," Milliesaid.

"I hope you have better luck than we did when Duffy was the districtattorney."

Yvars handed the three notebooks to the well-dressed detective.

"What gives?" Feldman asked as he began thumbing through thefirst of the three diaries. "Why did she come to see you? Was she apatient of yours?"

"No. I never saw her until tonight. I don't even know her name.Do you?"

"Beth Perry," Feldman replied. "She often had coffee with one ofher neighbors. He said she was very social, that she always seemed tobe entertaining." He paused momentarily. "Why did she give you thesenotebooks?"

Mort repeated all that had happened since the blood-drenched youngwoman knocked on his front door four and a half hours earlier. Whenhe finished Feldman asked, "What was her friend's name again?"

"Kathy Styles."

"I need her records."

"I can't give them to you. You know they're confidential. However,I'll call your office later with her address and phone number."

"I'll talk to her. I'll find out what, if anything, she knows." Feldmanskimmed several pages in each of the notebooks. Ten minutes passed insilence. Finally the detective looked up. "This is really raunchy stuff. It'squite a turn on."

"I'd say," Mort beamed. "She knew how to give head."

"You two are disgusting," Millie said.

"She was a hooker. Obviously well paid, but a whore nevertheless,"Feldman replied.

Millie's face turned scarlet. "How dare you talk about that poor deadwoman like that? How can you be so certain that she was a prostitute?Isn't it equally as possible that her detailed accounts of her sexual lifewere confined to whoever her boyfriend was at the time? Why couldn'tshe simply have just loved sex?" She stared at Mort. "Some women do,you know! Some even more so than men. How come that makes thema tramp? When men are oversexed they are thought of as studs."

"Feldman, don't get Millie going! Do you think one of the men thevictim wrote about is her killer?" Mort asked the bleary-eyed detective.

"That's rushing it a bit. Who knows?"

"What's your next step?" Mort asked.

"Tomorrow we'll start carefully going over her diaries. Hopefullywe'll come up with some names. We also found her checkbook andcredit cards. We'll contact her bank. We should get some informationthat way."

"And if not?"

"Forensics is still in the bathroom collecting fingerprints, hair, blood,and skin fragments. Judging by the mess in the bathroom it's likely shestruggled, ripped some of the perp's hair or skin. Maybe even cut himwith her fingernails. We'll do a DNA analysis."

"Anything else?" Mort continued prodding.

"We'll also talk to her neighbors. Find out who her other friendswere besides the Styles woman. Where she worked. Who she hungout with when she wasn't ..." Feldman eyed Millie and stopped inmid-sentence. "We'll do whatever has to be done. We'll get a lead; weusually do."

"When Millie and I entered the apartment I looked at the front door.It didn't seem as if any damage was done to either the door frame or thelock itself," Mort said.

"There wasn't. There's no evidence of a forced entry. The perpentered without any problem. Either Beth Perry was expecting him andleft the door unlocked or he had a key to her apartment. Either way it'sa good bet he was someone she knew quite well." Feldman looked at hiswatch. "Let's get out of here. I have a busy day ahead."