“Listen.” Thomas’s hand was trembling. “I think Evans might be involved. He’s been up to his neck in this case from the very beginning, hasn’t he? He’s the one who fed us that story of the redhead and the car. He’s the one who wrote about the curse of the shrunken head in the first place.”
Pippa blinked. Slowly, an awed expression came over her face. “I saw that lighter once,” she said, in a hushed voice. “I saw it in his pocket, when we went to the office of the Daily Screamer.”
“That was just after Potts was killed,” Max said excitedly.
Pippa stiffened. Her eyes lost their focus. “The green fish . . . ,” she whispered.
“The green what?” Thomas said.
She blinked, and turned to him. “The green fish,” she said excitedly. So he had not misheard.
“What are you talking about, Pip?” Sam said.
Pippa made a noise of impatience. “Remember when we tracked Potts to that awful restaurant, Paulie’s? That was the first day I ever read a mind. I saw what Paulie was thinking. I saw a blurry green fish.” She paused. “Only it wasn’t a fish. It was a shark.”
“So?” Thomas was getting more impatient by the second.
“So?” Pippa practically choked on the word. “Don’t you see? He was thinking of a green shark tattoo, just like the one Evans has on his arm.” Her face split into a grin. “He said he didn’t remember anything about the man who was eating with Potts just before Potts died. But he must have seen Evans’s tattoo and remembered it without knowing he remembered it. Get it? Evans was there. Evans had dinner with Potts. And then Potts died.”
A chill spread over Thomas, starting in his chest and reaching to the roots of his hair. If they were right—and they had to be right—Evans had killed at least two people. Maybe three. They had only Evans’s word for it that Mrs. Weathersby was alive when he left her, and only later plunged to her death.
Thomas’s stomach turned over. He’d sat in Evans’s office, he’d spoken with Evans, and he’d had no idea.
Max broke the long stretch of silence. “I still don’t get it,” she said, hugging herself. “Did Evans steal the head, too? What’s he going to do with it? And why’d he go bonkers and start killing people?
Thomas took a deep breath. “There’s only one way to find out,” he said.
Pippa, Max, and Sam stared at him.
“How?” Pippa said.
“We ask Evans,” Thomas said.
They went straightaway, after changing in the darkness of the attic out of their pajamas and into street clothes. When they emerged into the brisk air, the sky was just beginning to lighten in the east, like a large blue blanket whose corners had caught flame. Max had always loved the city at this hour, when the buildings were like tall black stakes against the sky, and only a few lights flickered in the windows; when the streets were empty; when the whole city felt like a large, slumbering monster, and she could pass unseen in its shadows.
But now that they were on their way to catch a real-life monster, Max felt different. She imagined that the shadows were full of people waiting to reach out and grab her. The wind felt like an alien touch and lifted the hairs on the back of her neck. She was glad that she wasn’t alone. Sam spent the subway ride in silence, chin down, almost as if he were asleep, although Max knew better. Thomas, on the other hand, couldn’t stop moving. He stood up and sat down again. He drummed his fingers on the seat. He jogged his knee. And Pippa stared out the window, her breath fogging the glass.
Max would never have admitted it, but she was even—even—glad for Pippa.
They knew from the newspaper reports of Bill Evans’s accident that he lived on Ludlow Street, between Hester and Canal. Thomas trusted they’d be able to find it, and it turned out they shouldn’t have worried. As soon as they reached the corner of Canal and Ludlow, Evans’s apartment building was easy to spot: bouquets of flowers, get-well cards, and even soggy teddy bears were clustered in front of the gate at number 12.
“Looks like Evans has a fan club,” Sam said.
“Not for long,” Thomas said.
Max’s stomach knotted up. She shoved her hands in her pockets and reassured herself that her knives were still there.
All the windows of the apartment building were dark; it must have been just after six o’clock. Down the street, a man wheeled a fruit cart toward Canal, whistling softly. Soon the city would open its eyes.
Thomas navigated the piles of flowers and gifts and pushed open the gate. He gestured for the others to follow him.
“Are you going to ring?” Pippa whispered as they clustered together at the top of the stoop. To the right of the front door were several doorbells. BILL EVANS was written in block print next to the middle one, apartment 2A.
Thomas shook his head. “No ringing. We want to catch him by surprise.”
“You think he’ll try and run for it?” Max asked.