The Strangler by William Landay Page A

Statue Stolen; Brazen Theft Right Under Dumb-Ass Cop’s Nose.’ Now, if that doesn’t move paper, then I give up.”
    “You know, you Daleys aren’t nearly as fascinating to anyone else as you are to yourselves. Why don’t you leave poor Joe alone? He’s got enough trouble.”
    “Come on, this is news. The public has a right to know.”
    “Sorry. We’re a family newspaper. We don’t blaspheme.”
    Ricky wandered over to the dining room table, which was covered with papers, manila folders, handwritten notes, photos of women bloody and contorted. “What’s all this?”
    “It’s work. Try it sometime.”
    “Hey, I work.”
    Amy sniffed.
    “Since when are you covering the Strangler thing?”
    “They assigned the story today. We’re reviewing it, me and Claire.” Claire Downey was the other girl reporter at the
Observer
. The paper liked to team them up. They were good, and the two-girl byline was a novelty, especially on crime cases.
    “Hasn’t that story been written to death? What’s the new angle?”
    “Between us?”
    “Between us.”
    “The angle is that BPD screwed up the investigation.”
    “Did they?”
    “All I know is I’m looking through these reports and even I can see the mistakes. The crime scenes, the interviews, the leads they’ve missed—it’s a disaster, Ricky. Well, you can read it in the paper, same as everyone else.”
    He picked up one of the photos and examined it idly. It showed a room, a stained carpet, various marks and arrows drawn on it. “Maybe you’d better keep this little guy. You might need Him.” He propped the statue on a counter.
    “Just take it with you. I’m not stashing your stolen property.”
    “Now that’s blasphemy.”
    “No, that’s your…work. I wish you wouldn’t bring it here.”
    Ricky frowned. But he was feeling buoyant at the thought of Joe and the empty manger, and he did not want to argue. Ricky was determined not to acknowledge her sour mood, not to become snarled in it. He shuffled to the refrigerator. A few eggs, a block of American cheese, a loaf of Wonder bread. “You know what you need, Miss Ryan? A wife.”
    “The job’s yours if you want it. You know that.”
    “Maybe just for tonight.” He came to her and put his arms around her waist. “I’ll be the wife. You can be the Fuller brush salesman.”
    She forced a smile but it faded.
    “What?”
    “You know what.”
    He groaned.
    “Don’t worry, Ricky, we won’t talk about it. It’s late.”
    “It’s not that late. Come on, let’s go somewhere. Down to Wally’s. We’ll have a drink, hear some music, take your mind off things.”
    “Ricky, some people have to get up for work.”
    “Oh, that.”
    “Yeah, that.”
    “Maybe I should go.”
    “No.” She laid her head on his chest. “You can stick around if you want.”
    Ricky blinked uncertainly. He was not used to seeing Amy unnerved. He was not used to—and had no interest in—comforting her. “What is it?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “The Strangler stuff? Those pictures?”
    She shrugged.
    “Come on. Did you read the paper today? The police commissioner says the odds of getting attacked by the Strangler are two million to one. Two million to one! The whole city’s in a panic—for what? You’re more likely to get run over by a car.”
    “I know, I know.”
    She felt his collarbone against her forehead. Under her hands, Ricky’s lower back was hard as a shell. He had a little boy’s wiry body. It felt unbreakable.
    “Ricky, maybe we could just stay in tonight.”
    “Nah, I need to get out. Come on. One beer. You can sleep when you get old.”
    Amy felt with the tips of her fingers for the furrow at the center of Ricky’s back. She traced the backbone as it rose to the flat of the coccyx, and her anxiety receded.
    “I never thought you were a worrier, Aim.”
    “I’m not a worrier. I don’t care about the Strangler.”
    She felt Ricky tap her shoulder blades in mock comfort. The gesture