Candyland

By eight, the morning fog

Must disappear…

Chapter seven

The three detectives leave the crime scene at about nine a.m. and go for breakfast in a diner on Seventieth and Third. They sit together in a window booth, drinking hot coffee and eating bacon and eggs. Emma and the guy from Homicide work in the same building on Broadway, all the way uptown on the West Side, but they've never met each other before now. The guy from Vice works out of a building here on the Upper East Side, another planet. He is telling them the strangled girl was a known hooker.

"Worked at a massage parlor on Seventy-fourth and Third. Used the name Heidi on the job. Her real name is Cathy Frese. Twenty-six years old, new in the city."

The guy from Vice is maybe in his early to mid-forties, a good-looking man in a rough-hewn sort of way, dark hair going gray at the temples, brown eyes, what her father would call "a black Irishman." Irish manner about him, too, if there is such a thing. Emma supposes she herself has an Irish manner. The guy from Homicide is Italian. He is in his early fifties, Emma guesses, and dressed in what her father would call a "natty" way, wearing a tan tropical suit she swears is silk, a snap-brimmed straw hat of a deeper hue, beige button-down shirt, summery tie with alternating yellow and blue pastel stripes. His name is Anthony Manzetti, and he is telling them the One-Nine Precinct called around six-fifteen this morning to report a girl strangled in an alleyway on Seventieth and First. The guy from Vice has been called in because one of the blues recognized the dead girl as a neighborhood hooker. Emma was called in because it appears the girl was raped.

"What's Special Victims working just now?" Manzetti asks.

Special Victims was already called that when Emma joined the squad eight years ago. Until 1988, it was called the Sex Crimes Squad. She guesses Special Victims sounds more politically correct. Manzetti's squad used to be called Homicide North. Now it's Manhattan North Homicide Task Force, which makes it sound like an invading army. Manzetti is looking for an M.O. that will wrap the case in five seconds flat, fat chance.

"Nothing like this," Emma says.

"How about your phantom rape artist?" the guy from Vice asks.

This is sort of an inside joke. Special Victims has been chasing a black guy in a woolen watch cap for the past three years now, with still no arrest. His poster is in store windows all over the Upper East Side, but he just keeps doing his thing.

"Not his style," Emma says.

She's not quite sure she likes the guy from Vice, maybe because they kind of work different sides of the same street. Vice used to be called the Public Morals Division but for the past four years it's been called the Vice Enforcement Division, which makes it sound like they're rooting for the bad guys. Are they here to enforce vice? her father would ask. Make it stronger somehow? Help vice flourish and grow in this fair city?

"You know," she says, "I'm sorry, but I didn't catch your name before."

"Morgan," he says. "James Morgan."

"Emma Boyle," she says, and extends her hand.

"Nice to meet you," he says. "You know the James Bond joke?"

"No," Emma says.

Manzetti shakes his head.

Morgan grins in anticipation.

"James Bond walks into this bar," he says, "and takes a stool next to this gorgeous blonde. He looks her in the eye, extends his hand, and says, “Bond. James Bond.” The blonde looks back at him and says, “Off. Fuck off.”"

Manzetti laughs. Morgan laughs with him. Two Good Old Boys hooting it up over the bacon and eggs. Emma merely smiles and nods. To her, the joke seems inappropriate when they're here to discuss a girl who was strangled and raped. Well, the job, she thinks. Twelve years on the force, they still have to test you with fuck, piss, shit, cunt.

"So how do you want us to proceed?" Morgan asks.

"As if he's a moving target," Manzetti says, "three-point triangle on his tail. Emma, you come at it like a run-of-the-mill rape…"

Run-of-the-mill rape, she thinks.

"Check your Lousy File, see if you've got anything matches the M.O…."

"I'm sure we don't," she says.

I just told you we don't, she thinks.

"Well, just to make sure. See who's on the street doing mischief, find out where he was this morning around dawn."

Emma nods.

She is already thinking this will lead to zero. She is thinking her team doesn't investigate many rapes resulting in murders. She is thinking she can count such cases on the fingers of one hand. She is thinking Anyway, a rape-homicide is always investigated as a homicide, not a rape, so what's Manzetti trying to pull here? Is his plate too full just now? Is he trying to dump this one on the local talent?

"Jim, I want you to come at it like some whore got killed cause of her line of work. Maybe her father or her brother or her boyfriend didn't like what she was doing. Or maybe it was a disgruntled John, or a jealous girl in the same stable, or a pimp deciding she held out on him, whatever. Or just some guy don't like hookers, whatever."

"Along those lines…" Morgan says, and lets the sentence dangle.

Master of suspense, Emma thinks.

"Yeah, what?" Manzetti says.

"We had a disturbance up the XS two, three…"

"The what?"

"The XS Salon. Where the vic worked."

"What kind of disturbance?"

"Two, three weeks ago. Some drunk got out of hand, started pushing two of the girls around."

"What's that got to do with…?"

"Cathy Frese was one of the girls."

Manzetti looks across the table at Emma. Emma nods maybe.

"You think he might have gone back?" Manzetti asks. "Is that it?"

"It's possible," Morgan says. "Getting laid is an obsession with these people. They ain't normal, you know. All they do is think about sex day and night, it's the only thing on their minds."

"Check him out," Manzetti says.

"So what do I call you?" Emma asks. "James? Jimmy? Jim?"

"Well, I'll tell you," he says, and turns toward her and grins. Big Irish grin. They're walking crosstown toward the XS Salon, dodging light morning traffic as they cross Second Avenue. John F. Kennedy, Jr. was found dead in the ocean yesterday, but the city doesn't seem to be overly distressed today. A twenty-six-year-old girl was found strangled and raped in an alleyway at six this morning, but the city is just going about its usual business three. and a half hours later. "My mother still calls me James," he says, "and my father still calls me Jimmy. Everybody else calls me Jim. You can take your choice."

"Which do you prefer?"

"I guess Jimmy," he says, and shrugs. "How about you? Is Emma what you like?"

"It's what most people call me."

"Not Em?"

"I hate Em."

"Emma Boyle," he says, trying the name.

"All over again."

"What do you mean?"

"Boyle's my maiden name. I'm in the middle of a divorce."

"Sorry."

"No big deal," she says.

But it is.

They walk in silence for several moments.

"Is he in the job, too?" Morgan asks.

"No. He's a lawyer."

"Is that how you met?"

"Yes. In court. He was defending a guy we sent away for twenty years."

"Good start."

"I thought so."

"What happened?"

"The job happened," she says.

The day has turned sticky and hot.

Emma is wearing a wheat-colored linen suit over a lavender cotton blouse open at the throat. Her dark brown hair is clipped short, falling in bangs on her forehead. She would prefer going barelegged on a day like today, but the job dictates pantyhose and low-heeled pumps that match the suit. All in all, she could be any woman walking to her office on Madison or Lex — except for the snub-nosed Detective Special in her tote bag. Morgan is wearing a white short-sleeved shirt under a blue Dacron suit. A shoulder holster under the jacket shows the butt of a nine-millimeter semi-automatic pistol. They walk side by side, moving through miasmic heat.

"This XS Salon we're going to," Morgan says, giving the word "Salon" a deliberate French spin, "is a whore house, never mind what it says in their magazine ads. But if we tried to bust every one of these little places, we wouldn't be able to focus on the big boys anymore. Where the mob's concerned, prostitution and dope go hand in hand. We look to get 'em on RICO, send 'em away for a long long time. We're not only into prostitution, you know. We're after the policy racket, bookmaking, loan sharking, ticket scalping, the whole nine yards."

On Third Avenue, he leads her to the front of a four-story, red-brick tenement squatting between a Korean grocery and a bar called The Shamrock. Newspapers outside the grocery store carry the headline Bodies From Kennedy Crash Are Found. A subhead under a photo of Senator Kennedy and four of JFK, Jr.'s cousins reads PLAN IS FOR CREMATION WITH ASHES TO BE SCATTERED AT SEA. As they approach the door to the building, Morgan says, "It's B for Beautiful."

She doesn't know what he means until he reaches out to press the only bell button with a nameplate on it, the letter B in outline, filled in with a red marker. A girl's voice comes from a speaker set in the door-jamb above the bell buttons.

"Yes?"

"Police," Morgan says. "Want to buzz us in, please?"

"One moment, sir," the girl says.

They wait.

And wait.

"Putting on their panties," Morgan says, and smiles knowingly.

They wait.

"Come in, sir," the girl says at last, "we're on the first floor."

A buzzer sounds. Morgan twists the doorknob, opens the door, and allows Emma to precede him into a small foyer. They immediately recognize as blood the dried stains on the black-and-white tiles underfoot. This is not a crime scene, but they step around the stains gingerly, and then climb a steep flight of steps to the first-floor landing. Walking familiarly to a door with the brass letter B hanging on it, Morgan knocks on it sharply. The door opens at once. A very fat black man wearing a sweat shirt over Bermuda shorts, white socks, and sneakers stands in the doorway, a red light glowing behind him.

"Police," Morgan says, and shows his detective shield.

"What seems to be the trouble, Officers?" the black man asks.

"No trouble," Morgan says. "We're looking for a man who might've been here last night."

"Okay to come in?" Emma asks, and reaches into her tote for her shield on its leather fob. "Detective/Second Grade Emma Boyle," she says, "Special Victims Squad." She drops the shield back into her bag. "And your name, sir?"

"Jefferson."

"Is that your first name or your last?"

"My whole name's Jefferson Moore."

"Okay if we come in, Mr Moore?"

"What for?"

"Talk to some of your girls."

"There's hardly nobody here just now," Moore says. "We don't open till ten."

"Whoever's here," Emma says.

"Well, come in, I guess," he says.

They step past him into a small entryway and then beyond that into an empty room where a threadbare, velvet-covered couch rests against the wall. Moore closes and locks the entrance door behind them.

"They's juss me and one of the girls here juss now," he says. "We don't get too many people needin massages in the mornin hours."

"Massages, huh?" Morgan says.

"Yes, suh, this is a massage parlor, is what it is."

"Uh-huh," Morgan says. "Besides Cathy Frese, who else was working last night?"

"I don't know no Cathy Freeze."

"Try Heidi."

"Don't know her neither. Don't know none of the girls work nights. You got to ask the night manager about that."

"Harry Davis? Is that who was here?"

"That's his name. You know him?"

"He knows me," Morgan says. "Is he here now?"

"Was you the one here on that holdup last week?"

"No. I was up here two, three weeks ago, you had some drunk making a fuss here. Is Davis in or not?"

"No, sir, he's the night manager. He don't get here till six p.m."

"You got his phone number?"

"Yeah, but he don't like to be bothered at home."

"Bother him," Morgan says.

"You mention the word “homicide,” they'll give up their own mothers," Morgan says.

He is talking about the list of names Davis gave him on the phone. They are driving across the Queensboro Bridge in a Vice Division sedan, the air conditioner rattling, the car stiflingly hot even though they've rolled down all the windows. Emma throws her suit jacket onto the back seat, over Morgan's. Her cotton blouse clings to her. She can feel beads of perspiration rolling down her chest and into her bra, between her breasts.

"I'm still trying to place this first one," Morgan says, "Consuelo Gomez." He takes his right hand from the wheel, taps his temple with the index finger, and says, "I've got a computer right up here, but there are too many names in it. I think she uses the name Bianca on the job. She used to go to Queens College. I think she got pregnant or something, had to quit school, been hooking all over town the past five or six years. You got any kids, Emma?"

"One. A daughter."

"So what's gonna happen?"

"What do you mean?"

"The divorce and all."

"I'm fighting for custody right this minute."

"How come? The mother usually…"

"My husband says I'm too busy to raise her. Too busy being a cop, he says."

"So who's been raising her till now?"

"Exactly my point."

"What's the judge have to say?"

"He's still deciding."

"Who has the kid meanwhile?"

"His mother. Temporary custody."

"Your husband's mother?"

"Bitch of the world."

"Like my mother-in-law," Morgan says, and grins. "Must be an accident up ahead," he says, and hits the horn. It is a signal for drivers all up and down the line of traffic to begin honking. Morgan shakes his head in annoyance. Emma takes a Kleenex from her tote, dabs at her upper lip. She feels sweaty and tired and unattractive. Everywhere around her, there is the din of automobile horns. "How'd she seem last time you talked to her?" she asks.

"Who's that?"

"Cathy. The night that drunk pushed her around."

"He did a real number on her. Split her lip, there was blood all over the front of this baby doll nightie she wears." Morgan turns from the wheel, looks at her. "She wanted to kill him," he says.

The girl standing in the open doorway is some five-feet six-inches tall, a full-figured girl with curly black hair and dark brown eyes, wearing a pair of blue jeans and a red tube-top blouse. No makeup, no lipstick. She seems to be in her early twenties, fresh-faced and clean-scrubbed, but according to Morgan she's been hooking all over town for almost six years.

"How you doing, Consuelo?" Morgan asks, and grins. "Or should I call you Bianca?"

Anger flashes in her dark eyes.

"How'd you get this address?" she says.

"Harry gave it to me."

"I'll kill him."

"You hear this, Emma?" he says, and grins again. "Nothing better happen to him, huh? We just heard a death threat."

"He had no right telling you where I live."

"I could've got it from the files."

"No, you couldn't. I've never been busted."

"Anyway, we're here," Morgan says. "Offer us some lemonade."

"Lemonade, sure," she says.

"This is Detective Boyle," he says. "Few questions we'd like to ask you. Okay to come in?"

She glances at Emma appraisingly, gives Morgan a dirty look, and then steps aside to let them enter.

The apartment is cool and tidy and somehow barren. A small kitchen is to the left as they enter. In the living room, sunlight streams through windows overlooking low rooftops. Emma and Morgan sit on a cheap modern sofa with their backs to the windows. Consuelo sits in a straight-backed chair facing them. An air conditioner hums. A clock ticks.

"So what is this?" she asks.

"Somebody killed Cathy Frese," Morgan says.

"What?"

"Little Heidi."

"Jesus! Where? Up the place?"

"On the street," Morgan says.

"Outside the salon?"

"Few blocks away."

"I'll tell you the truth, that's what scares hell out of me."

"What's that?"

"Some john waiting for me outside. The weirdoes we get up there?" she says, and shakes her head.

"You didn't see anybody waiting outside for Cathy, did you?" Morgan asks. "This morning?"

"I left after she did."

"Any other time?"

"No. It's just the whole idea scares me."

"She didn't leave with anyone this morning, did she?" Emma asks.

"Harry would've busted her head."

"Why? Was he doing her, too?" Morgan asks.

"Go ask him."

"We will," Emma says. "Do you remember an incident with some guy who was drunk? Two, three weeks ago? Do you remember him?"

"Yeah, what about him?"

"Did he come back last night?"

"If he did, I didn't see him."

"Who was the other girl he roughed up, would you remember?"

"I think it was T.J. You know her?" she asks Morgan. "She wears these little Wizard of Oz shoes? Red sequins on them? You ever see her up there?"

"Alice," he says, and taps his temple.

"Yeah, Alice, that's what she calls herself up there. She did a lot of three-ways with Cathy."

"How about you?"

"Only once or twice. In fact, Cathy and me almost did one together last night."

"Almost?"

"Yeah. Guy wanted a room with a little blue light in it. I asked her did we have a room with a little blue light, some of these guys we get, I have to tell you. What it was, I went upstairs to take this John down because his time was up, and then I helped him find his raincoat in the closet, there's like this little closet as you come in. He found his coat…"

"This one's mine," he said, and took the coat off its wire hanger.

"You still here?" Heidi said, and grinned at him, the gold tooth in her mouth flashing.

"I'm waiting to talk to the manager," he said.

"I'll go get him," Bianca said. "We got a room with a little blue light, Heidi?"

"You want a little blue light?" Heidi asked him.

"How about both of you and a little blue light?" he said. "I've got plenty of time coming."

"He thinks he has time coming," Bianca said, and started out of the room.

"No kidding?" Heidi said, and grinned as if she'd just heard something very comical. "You really think so, Michael?"

"Was that his name?" Emma asks. "Michael?"

"That's what she called him."

"Why'd he want to see the manager?"

"He thought he had time coming."

"What's that mean?"

"He thought he didn't get his full hour or something, who the fuck knows? Harry threw him out on his ass."

"What do you mean?"

"Threw him down the stairs, beat the shit out of him."

"What time was this?" Emma asks at once.

"Two, three in the morning, who knows? He wanted to do me and Cathy in the time he had coming."

"And you say Cathy knew him?"

"Called him by name."

"Michael."

"Michael."

"What was his last name?"

"If that was even his first name," Consuelo says. "None of these guys give you their right names, am I right, Jimmy?"

"None of them," Morgan says. "What'd he look like?"

"Average-looking guy."

"Meaning?"

"Who knows what these guys look like?"

"Remember what he was wearing?" Emma asks.

"Sure. A gray cashmere jacket, dark gray flannel trousers, a blue button-down shirt and a dark blue tie."

"But you don't remember what he looked like."

"I notice what people are wearing."

"You say you went upstairs to get him…"

"Yeah. Cause his time was up."

"Who was he with?" Morgan asks.

"He was alone."

"I mean who'd be been with?"

"Oh. Josie and one of the other girls, I don't know who."

"Josie?" Emma says.

"Zampada. Up there, she goes by Fatima. She lives in Brooklyn. Right over the bridge."

"Looks like an Arab spy, right?" Morgan says, and taps his temple.

"You think so?" Consuelo says, and shrugs. "But you know, I don't think Cathy knew him that way, you know what I mean, this guy Michael, whatever his name was. I mean, they were just like trains that pass in the night, you know? Hello, goodbye, nice to see you, let's fuck, and Harry throws him down the stairs. I don't want to tell you how to run your business, but I'd be lookin for the guy who smacked her and T.J. around that time."

"Where does this T.J. live?" Emma asks.

"She's on Harry's list," Morgan says, and reaches into his jacket pocket for his notebook.

"She thinks she looks like Judy Garland," Conseulo says. "If you go see her, humor her."

Chapter eight

Except for her brown eyes, Terri Jean Ryan doesn't look at all like Judy Garland. She isn't even wearing the signature red-sequined slippers she wears when she's Alice at the XS. When Morgan asks about them, she says simply, "That's for the job," and goes back to folding the laundry she's just carried up from the laundromat around the corner. Her television set is tuned to CNN. The newscaster is telling them that while most Americans are pleased that no expense was spared in locating the Kennedy plane, many are still wondering why the government exhausted such unusual efforts on the case. Occasionally, she glances up from the laundry to the TV screen. Her apartment is in the Ninth Precinct. Morgan tells both T.J. and Emma that he used to work out of the Ninth, when he first started as a patrolman.

"Used to be a lot of drugs in this precinct, it's much better now, gentrification. Back then, we had young people squatting in abandoned apartments here in Alphabet City, these “Too-Late Hippies,” I used to call them, feathers in their hair, no bras. They used to get beat up all the time by junkies who came crashing in. This was some wild precinct for a new cop, I gotta tell you."

T.J. is folding towels now. She listens to Morgan as if he is talking about another city here, this long-ago precinct when he was a rookie cop. Now there are decent restaurants all up and down the avenues, little theater groups, even art galleries. Emma tries to imagine a much younger Morgan strutting the streets in his brand new blues. She herself used to work out of the Three-Two up in Harlem, on West a Hun" Thirty-fifth and Seventh — which by the way was no picnic either. The male cops there used to jimmy open her locker and piss in her shoes, made her feel right at home, you know. She caught one with his penis in his hand one time, about to let go. She rammed her baton into his back, and he pissed all over his own pants. That was the last time she found soggy shoes in her locker.

"So what's this about Cathy?" T.J. asks.

They figure Consuelo called ahead, told her to expect a visit from the Law. They're not surprised. T.J.'s apartment is on the third floor of a building on East Sixth Street, just off Avenue A. At ten to eleven that morning, they can hear the sounds of summer traffic below. The windows are wide open, but there isn't the faintest hint of a breeze. On CNN, a black guy and a blonde woman who looks cross-eyed are exchanging views on whether or not JFK, Jr. should have taken the plane up when weather conditions were so bad.

"Somebody raped and strangled her," Emma says.

T.J. takes the comment casually, not a flicker of emotion crossing her face as she continues folding the laundry. She glances at the TV screen again. They are showing for the umpteenth time the photograph of John John saluting his father's coffin.

"I once had a guy said he worked for the State Department in Washington," she comments idly.

"Tell us about this drunk a few weeks back," Emma says.

"What drunk?"

"Guy who got rough with you and Cathy."

"As if I remember," T.J. says.

"This would've been two, three weeks ago," Emma prompts.

"You know how many drunks we've had up there since?" T.J. asks, and looks up at her. There is in that look her entire autobiography. There is nothing sexy or inviting about this person wearing blue jeans and a tight cotton sweater. She is simply a barefoot, freckle-faced, overweight woman of about thirty, with reddish-brown hair, sweating profusely as she folds her laundry on a stiflingly hot Thursday morning in an apartment without air-conditioning. One would never guess she sells blow-jobs uptown. Her hands are her only delicate feature. She spreads the laundry, flattens it under long slender coaxing fingers, folds, flattens, folds again. She is wearing a wedding band on her right hand. Emma wonders if she's a widow. Or is she divorced? Does she have children who now live with her ex-husband's mother?

"You did a three-way with him and Cathy, remember?" Emma says.

Again the look from T.J. The look says Do you know how many three-ways I've done with Cathy over the past three weeks? Do you know how many three-ways I've done in my lifetime? I'm thirty years old, the look says, I've been a hooker since I was seventeen, do you know how many fucking three-ways I've done? Please. This is what Emma reads in the look. She almost wants to get out of here. The hell with it, she thinks. We'll get the information somewhere else. But where?

"Try to remember," she says. "Detective Morgan and his partner were there that night, does that help you?"

"You were flirting with my partner," Morgan says, and winks at her.

"Oh sure, flirt with a fuckin Vice cop," T.J. says. She picks up a stack of folded towels, carries them to a closet, opens the door, puts them on a shelf inside, and comes back to the table where the rest of the laundry is piled.

"He found you very attractive," Morgan says, and winks again.

"Yeah, thousands of men find me very attractive," T.J. says drily. "That's why I have a million dollars socked away. Cause all the men who come up the XS find me very attractive."

"This guy picked you out of the crowd, didn't he?" Morgan says.

"Proves my point," T.J. says, continuing the vaudeville routine. "He was drunk."

Emma has heard this kind of banter before between cops and cheap thieves, Hey, Willie, when did they let you out? Hello, Officer Muldoon, you're puttin on a little weight. Good old buddies. Two sides of the same coin, heads or tails. She has heard cops say that without crooks they'd be out of a job. She has heard cops say they feel more at ease with law breakers than with honest citizens who come in with a complaint. Civilians, we call them, she thinks. And wonders when she herself stopped being a civilian and became a cop.

"Do you remember him?" she asks.

"Had a little mustache, didn't he?" T.J. asks Morgan.

"Don't ask me," Morgan says, "I never saw him. We got there after he split."

"Par for the course," T.J. says, grinning. "Never a cop around when you need one. I think he had a little mustache," she tells Emma.

"Was he white or black?" Emma asks.

"I don't do black men," T.J. says.

"How come?" Morgan asks.

"Big whangers."

"That's hearsay, Your Honor."

"Oh yeah? Try sticking one up your ass sometime."

"Watch it," Morgan says, "there's a lady present," and winks at T.J. yet another time.

"I got hurt one time doing a black guy," she says. "That was it for me, man. Never again."

"What else besides the mustache?" Emma asks.

"He was about Jimmy's size," she says, and looks Morgan over. "Five-ten maybe, a buck ninety or so."

"You're short an inch and five pounds," Morgan says.

"Close though."

"How old?" Emma asks.

"Late thirties, early forties."

"What color hair?"

"Brown."

"Eyes?"

"Who notices eyes, this business?"

"And you say he had a mustache."

"I'm pretty sure. A little mustache."

"Tell me what happened?"

"Cathy already told Jimmy what happened."

"I'd like to hear it, too," Emma says.

Morgan looks at her. Shrugs. Nods to T.J. that it's okay to repeat the story. Two old buddies here. Opposite sides of the same coin. Without hookers, there'd be no Vice cops.

"He must've come in sometime after midnight," T.J. says. "He'd been drinking a lot, he picked Cathy cause she was little Heidi, you know, and me cause I look like Judy. I guess he likes virgins. Judy Garland," she explains. "People say I look like Judy Garland."

"I can see the resemblance," Morgan says. He does not wink this time. He's not exactly sulking, but his body language is telling Emma You want to handle this, go right ahead, girlfriend. One day I'll piss in your shoes.

"We went up to this big room we have on the third floor," T.J. says, "the girls call it The Honeymoon Suite, we use it for three-ways a lot. There's a big king-sized bed with this beautiful painting over it, it's like a naked gypsy girl."

Now, as her delicate slender hands fold and flatten and fold the blouses and jeans and panties and slips, she remembers that the drunk called himself Stanley—

"These guys never use their real names," she says.

— and told them he was an actor, he'd been in a lot of movies, he said. Well, he didn't look like any movie star she or Cathy had ever seen, but they went along with it, anyway, what the hell. This was after the party was over and all—

"Complete satisfaction," she says drily, and rolls her eyes in a mock swoon.

— and they were just sitting around bullshitting and waiting for his hour to be up, he had about five minutes left on the clock, he was already dressed and ready to leave. She remembers Cathy asking him what movies he was in, and he told her he was in The Sixth Sense, was his most recent one, the scene in the restaurant where Bruce Willis is with his wife, did they see… that movie? Stanley was one of the people eating at a table in the restaurant. But he was also in Saving Private Ryan, the scene at the beginning where everybody on the beach is getting killed, he was one of the soldiers on the beach.

"So Cathy, the big mouth, says, “What you mean is you're an extra, ain't that it?” and the guy, being drunk and all, gets on his high horse and says, “No, I'm an actor! Those scenes required a great deal of preparation,” and Cathy busts out laughing. So he slaps her. So I tell him, “Hey, Mr. Hanks, keep your fuckin hands to yourself, okay?” So he slaps me, too. Well, we both jump off the bed, and run for the hall, with him chasing right behind us. He grabs Cathy by the hair, she has this long blond hair, and he starts calling her a cunt and a whore and whatever else he can think of, bitch, slut, and really hitting her, like hard, I mean, never mind the slaps. Cathy starts screaming bloody murder, we both start screaming, in fact, and Stanley panics and runs out of there. I mean, he's out of there, down the stairs and out in the street, I mean out!. We called the cops, anyway. A day late and a dollar short, right?"

"Just the way Cathy told it to me," Morgan says, and smiles pleasantly at Emma.

"What else can you tell us about him?" she asks.

"Like what?"

"Tattoos, scars, birth marks, any other identifying…?"

"He was just your everyday John," T.J. says wearily. "No better, no worse, no different from any of the others. They're all the same, each and every one of them."

She is carrying folded underwear into the bedroom when they let themselves out of the apartment. On the television screen, the anchors are describing the makeshift shrine on the sidewalk outside Kennedy's TriBeCa apartment…

"Mounds of flowers," the blonde is saying, "and candles…"

"Flags and balloons," the black man says.

"… and photos of a small boy in short pants saluting his dead father's coffin," the blonde says.

In the street outside, as they walk to the car, Morgan says, "Couple of things."

"Yeah?" Emma says.

"First, I been dealing with hookers a long time now…"

"And I've been dealing with…"

"I just don't need…"

"… rapists a long time. So if you're about to tell me…"

"I'm telling you I don't need advice on how to deal with hookers."

"Who the hell gave you any advice?"

"You wanted to hear the story from her, isn't that what you said? Why? You think it was gonna be any different from the story I heard?"

"I just wanted to get her version. As opposed to Cathy's."

"Just don't ever again diss me in front of a two-bit whore, okay?"

"Fine."

"And don't look so pissed off. If we're gonna work together, we gotta be honest with each other."

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"I said okay."

"Good."

"What's the second thing?" Emma asks.

"What?"

"You said a couple of things."

"The second thing is we ought to arrange some signals we can use. If we're gonna be working together any amount of time. Like if I touch my nose, for example, it'll mean you're Good Cop, I'm Bad Cop. Or if I call you Em instead of Emma…"

"I told you I don't like being called Em."

"That's just what I'm saying. If I call you Em in front of somebody we're questioning, that'll mean Don't go there. Same as if you call me James. Don't go there, leave it be, shift the topic to something else."

"Okay, but I don't think we'll be working together that long. That we have to arrange signals."

"How come? You know something I don't know?"

"We have a name. Stanley."

"I had the same name three weeks ago. It doesn't mean a thing. In fact, we have two names, if you want to get technical. Michael and Stanley. Both phony. These guys never use their real names."

"Stanley was drunk," Emma says.

"Even when they're drunk," Morgan insists.

"I'm saying if Stanley is his real name…"

"It's not, believe me."

"… and if he's an actor."

"That was all bullshit."

"Maybe not. He gave them the names of both movies he was in."

"He was trying to impress them. You heard T.J. One guy told her he worked for the State Department."

"He got upset cause they called him an extra."

"All part of the act."

"But if he really was in those movies, he got paid for his work. And if he got paid, there's a record someplace."

Morgan thinks this over for a minute.

"Maybe," he says, and nods.

"Let's make some phone calls," Emma says.

The lieutenant in command of the One-Nine Squad on East Sixty-seventh Street knows Emma from other rape cases she's worked in the precinct, especially the one Morgan earlier called "The Phantom Rape Artist," the black guy in the watch cap who has every cop on the Upper East Side running around in circles. He gives her and Morgan desks and telephones upstairs and tells them to yell if they need anything. The first call they make is to Manzetti, who tells Morgan at once that they already have two witnesses to what happened this morning. Surprised, Morgan turns to Emma and says, "You'd better pick up, he's got two witnesses."

Emma lifts the receiver on the extension phone. "Hi, Tony," she says. "You kidding?"

"No, we're gettin lucky here all of a sudden," Manzetti says. "There's this guy's a bartender in an after-hours joint on Second Avenue, he gets off work at three-thirty, four o'clock in the morning. He walks up to Third, and is heading uptown where he lives a few blocks away when this cab speeds by and splashes him with water from a puddle, all that rain we had last night, you remember? The cab pulls in just ahead, drops off a passenger, and pulls away. But he gets the license plate number, which is the same number as the medallion. It's also on both side doors and in a light on the roof, there's no question he got the right number, it's only three digits and a single letter."

Emma is wondering where all this is going.

"Well," Manzetti says, "the bartender's really pissed off, you know? When he wakes up today — which is around ten o'clock or so — he walks over to the One-Nine, which is the precinct where he got splashed…"

O-kay, Emma thinks.

"… so he can make a complaint because this was a new suit he was wearing and all. The sergeant he talks to takes down the cab's license plate number and then asks where the incident occurred…"

"I'm ahead of you," Emma says.

"Seventy-fourth and Third," Manzetti says.

"The XS Salon," Morgan says, nodding.

"You got it. That's where the cabbie dropped off his passenger. Guy was still standing outside the place with a blonde — you hearing this? — when the bartender leaves. Well, the sergeant is for a change alert, they just had a freakin homicide this morning and the vic happened to work on Seventy-fourth and Third. So he takes the guy upstairs to the detective who caught the squeal, who gets a descrip…"

"What'd he look like?" Morgan asks.

"Five-ten or so, medium build, dark hair."

"Could be our Stanley."

"Who's our Stanley?"

"Guy who caused the trouble up the XS I was telling you about. Emma thinks he might have given them his real name — cause he was drunk and all. We're just about to call the Screen Actors Guild, see if they got anything on him."

"He's a movie actor?"

"An extra."

"Well, let me know," Manzetti says dubiously.

"Who's your second witness?" Emma asks.

"A black cleaning lady going home from doing offices. She saw what looks like the same guy beating on a blonde, her words, on the corner of Seventieth and Second, this is now around four-fifteen, four-thirty, she didn't look at her watch, she just got the hell out of there fast. So if we get anybody we can parade for these two people, we're maybe getting someplace."

"Anybody call STED?" Morgan asks.

STED is the acronym for Surface Transit Enforcement Division. If Emma had that medallion number in her possession, first place she'd call would be the Taxi Enforcement Unit at STED. In New York City, every cab driver is required by law to fill out a so-called trip sheet, on which he writes down the location and time of every pick-up and drop-off he makes. Individual cab owners, fleet owners, and lease managers all keep these trip sheets on file until they're eventually turned over to the Taxi and Limousine Commission. Morgan was getting back to basics. A cab had dropped off a possible suspect who was waiting outside the XS at close to the time Cathy Frese left work this morning. The trip sheet would tell them where the passenger was picked up. So had anyone called STED?

"Working it now," Manzetti says. "There's a hundred and four cabs in this particular fleet, they park in a garage here on the West Side. The night dispatcher'll go through the trip sheets soon as he gets in."

"Be nice to know," Morgan says.

"You realize, of course…"

"I realize."

"That a little homicide isn't the first thing on these guys' minds."

"How about the ME?" Emma asks. "Is a little homicide the first thing on his mind?"

"Listen, at least he told us she's dead. Maybe he thinks that's enough."

"Can one of your people give him another call?"

"Sure," Manzetti says, but the weariness in his voice indicates his people have already made enough calls to the Medical Examiner's Office.

"We're here at the One-Nine," Emma says. "If you get anything, let us know."

"You, too," Manzetti says, and hangs up.

There are four listings in the Manhattan Directory for the Screen Actors Guild at 1515 Broadway. They would go there in person, but in any homicide investigation, time is of the essence and if they can get what they want on the phone, they'd much prefer it. Cathy Frese's body was found by a woman walking her dog at six this morning. If indeed someone had seen a man assaulting her at four-fifteen a.m., chances are she was killed not too long afterward. They will know more positively once they get the autopsy report, although an accurate post-mortem interval is often difficult to establish, especially during the summer months when the body is slow to cool. It is now eleven-fifteen a.m. If indeed Cathy was killed sometime between four-thirty and five o'clock, the killer already has a lead time of six to seven hours. In police work, such a lead is often conclusive: the killer can be lost to them forever.

Morgan dials the general listing for the Guild while Emma dials the listing for the Guild's Membership Department. At the very moment she is being connected to a man named Nelson Shears, Morgan is being told by a receptionist on another line that he can get the information he needs from a Mr Nelson Shears in the Membership Department. He hangs up and listens to Emma.

"This is Detective Boyle," she says, "Special Victims Squad." She listens. "N.Y.P.D.," she says. "We're trying to locate an actor who may have been an extra on both The Sixth Sense and Saving Private Ryan. Well, that's just it," she says, "we don't have his name. Not his full name, anyway." She listens, and then says, "I would imagine quite a few. Though possibly not on The Sixth Sense. That wasn't as massive a movie, was it? We have a first name for him, if that's any help. Well, wouldn't he have to join the Guild to work as an extra? That's what I thought. So isn't there a record someplace of who got paid for working on those films? These people pay social security, don't they? Even if they're only extras? Gee, I'm terribly sorry if I sound snippy, Mr Shears, is that the word you just used, snippy? I sure hope there wasn't anything sexist intended in the choice of that word, snippy. This is a homicide we're investigating, you see, and I would sincerely appreciate your cooperation here. Yes, I'll wait, sure I will. Thank you."

She looks at Morgan, rolls her eyes. Morgan nods sympathetically. She waits. Taps her fingers on the desktop. Continues to wait.

"Hello?" she says. "Yes, who am I speaking to now, please? Miss Hennings, how do you do, this is Detective Boyle, I'm investigating a homicide, and I'm trying to get the name of a man who may have done extra work on two… yes, may have done. That's what I said. And may also have committed murder, as I mentioned. We have a first name for him and we have the two movies he says he worked on…" She listens. "The Sixth Sense. And Saving Private Ryan." She listens again. "I would imagine so, yes. Well, whichever would be easier for you, we're really trying to get to this man as soon as we can." She listens again. "Stanley," she says. "I'm sorry, that's all we have. He's in his late thirties, early forties, if that's any help. Five-ten or eleven, weighs around a hun'eighty, a hun'ninety. Dark hair. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Well, could you do that, please? Let me give you a number where I can be reached." She reels off the number on her cell phone and then listens again. "Uh-huh. DreamWorks, did you say? Would you have a number for them? And the other company? Hollywood Pictures? And… Spyglass, did you say? Could I have that number, too, please? Thank you, Miss Hennings, I'll be waiting for your call."

She hangs up, looks across the desk to Morgan.

"She says there were a zillion extras on Ryan..."

"I'll bet."

"… but she thinks she may have better luck with Sixth Sense. She's going to check with Pension Plan and Health, see if they've got anything for a Stanley who worked on both movies. She didn't sound too hopeful."

"Miracles happen," Morgan says, but he doesn't sound too hopeful, either. "She's got your number," he says. "There's nothing we can do till she calls back. Why don't we go see Josie Zampada?"

"Who's Josie Zampada?"

"Fatima," he says, and taps his temple. "Remember what Consuelo said? She lives in Brooklyn, right over the bridge." He opens his notebook, runs his finger down the list of names Harry Davis supplied. "Nope," he says, and looks up, surprised. "Probably laying her," he says, and shrugs. "Let's see if there's anything on her up the squad." He pulls a desk phone to him, dials. "Lou," he says, "it's Jimmy. Hit the computer for me, will you? I need an address for a hooker named Josie Zampada, trade name Fatima, works up the XS. Have we got anything?" He waits. He looks up at the ceiling.

"Who's that you're calling?" Emma asks.

"My partner."

Emma is hoping Miss Hennings at the Screen Actors Guild will call back this very moment with a last name and an address for their movie star friend Stanley. This will save them a trip to Brooklyn and a wild goose chase looking for Michael, who also has no last name. She is wondering whether she should call both DreamWorks and Hollywood Pictures, get them working on Stanley as well. She really believes he's a better suspect than some guy who wanted a room with a little blue light.

"That's her," Morgan says into the phone. "Let me have it."

When they get to Josie Zampada at ten minutes to twelve that morning, she is sprawled in a striped beach chair, taking the sun in the park across the street from her garden apartment. As they approach, she lowers the foil reflector she's holding under her chin, recognizes Morgan at once, frowns, sits up, and holds up her hand to shield her eyes from the sun. She has long black hair and pale blue eyes and she's wearing a skimpy blue bikini that scarcely conceals her full breasts and narrow hips. Morgan's earlier description of her seems completely fitting; she does look like some sort of exotic foreign agent.

"What's this?" she asks, annoyed.

There are mothers sitting on benches everywhere around them, rocking baby carriages. Emma has the feeling Josie is controlling her anger, her voice low, the pale blue eyes darting.

"Cathy Frese was killed this morning," Morgan says.

"This is where I live," she says tightly. "I share the apartment with a girl studying telecommunications at NYU, she thinks I'm a salesperson at Bloomie's. Who sent you here? Harry?"

"You're in our computer," Morgan says. "Cathy Frese was killed this morning," he says again.

"Tell us about a guy named Michael," Emma says.

"Who the hell is Michael?"

"A john you and Cathy…"

"Come on, cool it, willya?" Josie says.

"Where would you like to talk?" Emma asks.

"I wouldn't," Josie says.

She bends over, reaches into a striped bag at her feet. Emma can see the nipple of one breast. So can Morgan. He stares openly, just as if he's never before seen a half-naked woman in any of the whore houses he's busted. Josie pulls out a package of Virginia Slims, sits up, shakes a cigarette loose, lights it. In the distance, a church bell tolls the hour. It is twelve noon. The bonging of the bells serves as a signal. Mothers everywhere in the park rise from the benches, begin wheeling baby carriages home. Josie puffs on her cigarette, watching the exodus. Two women linger near the jungle gym, but they are too distant to hear any conversation from this end of the park.

"Michael," Morgan reminds her.

"Who remembers names?" Josie says. "You think any of these guys is different to me from any of the others?"

"This guy got beat up by Harry last night."

"Oh, him."

"Comes the dawn," Morgan says.

"Remember him now?" Emma asks.

"Yeah. Michael. From L.A."

"Did he give you a last name?"

"Even the first name wasn't his. He got it from a kid he knew when he was six."

"What'd he look like?"

"Dark hair, brown eyes, nothing special. None of these guys are anything special."

"How tall?"

"Five-ten, eleven, something like that."

"Fat, skinny, what?"

"Average. A buck-sixty, a buck-seventy, in there."

"What'd you talk about?"

"He told me he was an architect. These guys all say they're something they ain't. You don't know how many Johns come up the salon and tell me they're diplomats at the U.N. They're all full of shit."

"What else did you talk about?"

"Fucking young girls," Josie says. "He likes to fuck young girls."

"He must've really dug Cathy then, huh?" Morgan says.

"Should've, but he didn't. He had his choice, he didn't pick her."

"How come?"

"Who knows? When he first came in, I thought he was gonna choose me, in fact. Gave me the once-over, you know the way they do…"

"But he did choose you," Emma says, puzzled.

"Not right then. He asked for me later. But not when he first came in. He looked me straight in the eye, and then he turned away to where Cathy was standing in the doorway to the back…"

… the long leggy look of a thirteen-year-old about her, cupcake breasts under a short, sheer, white, baby doll nightgown… the image of a precocious teeny-bopper. She was wearing high-heeled, white satin slippers with puffy white pom-poms. No panties. Long blond hair on her head. Blond hair shaved close below. Single gold tooth in the corner of her mouth. Lounging in a doorway that led to the further reaches of the apartment, an amber light glowing somewhere behind her. She threw him a sultry look when she was introduced as Heidi.

"But you say he didn't choose her."

"Nope. He asked who Cindy was…"

"And you are?

"Cindy. See anything you like?

"Yes. You."

"… and settled on her. They went upstairs alone together."

"Which one is Cindy?" Morgan asks. "Refresh my memory."

"Tall busty blond with frizzy hair."

"Right. What's her real name?"

"That's her real name! Crazy, am I right? To use it up there?"

"How'd you happen to get in the act?" Emma asks.

"What do you mean?"

"The three-way."

"Oh. He told Cindy he wanted both of us. He sent her downstairs for me."

"Changed his mind about you, huh?"

"I guess so."

"How come?"

"I have this strange mysterious power over men," she says, and winks at Morgan. He winks back.

"What else did he say about himself?" Emma asks.

"Not much."

"Did he say he was married? Single? Div…"

"I don't know about the married part, but he's got a twenty-one-year-old daughter."

"Where? Here in the city?"

"He didn't say."

"Did he mention where he was staying?"

"No."

"Was it with his daughter?"

"I have no idea."

"Or a hotel? Did he mention a hotel?"

"Not to me."

"To Cindy maybe?"

"They were alone for a while, who knows what lovers' secrets they whispered in each other's ears," Josie says, and narrows her eyes like Fatima the spy, and then grins slyly, as if she has just made a secret joke only Saddam Hussein would understand.

"Guess we'll have to ask her," Morgan says.

"Guess so," Josie says, and flips the reflector back under her chin again.

"Is she on our list?" Emma asks.

Morgan checks it. "No," he says. "You know where she lives, Josie?"

"Nope."

"Got her phone number?"

"Nope."

"What's her last name, would you know that?"

"Gee, I can't remember."

"Know how we can get in touch with her?"

"Sure," Josie says. Her eyes are closed, sunlight bounces off the foil reflector, highlighting her cheekbones. "Wait outside the salon at six tonight."

As they walk to where he parked the car, Morgan dials his office and asks his partner to hit the computer for an XS girl named Cindy, no last name. He listens for a moment, and then says, "Never mind after lunch, do it now, Lou, you have my number," and breaks the connection. "Wanted to wait till after lunch," he tells Emma. "You know what it is, he thinks this is just a dead hooker here, we don't have to break our balls on it, that's his thinking, there's no rush. Meanwhile, our guy has a seven-hour lead." He unlocks the door to the car. Emma takes off her jacket, tosses it onto the back seat. The moment he starts the car, she slides the window down on her side.

"I need an hour," she tells him.

Morgan turns to look at her, puzzled.

"I have to go see my husband. I'm sorry."

"Nothing we can do, anyway," Morgan says. "Not till somebody gets back to us."

"I wish we could get to this other girl sooner."

"Maybe Lou'll find something on the computer."

"By six tonight he'll have a twelve-hour lead."

"Look at the bright side," Morgan says. "If our guy's still in the city, he doesn't know we've got anything yet. The minute we find out where he is…"

"Our guy? Who's our guy, Jimmy? So far, we've only got a couple of names."

"That puts us ahead of the game," Morgan says. "Where should I drop you?"

"Forty-eighth and Madison."

"Thing you have to remember is these guys all lead double lives," Morgan says. "I know these guys, believe me. Michael, Stanley, whoever he is, he's probably got a wife and two kids, he's an insurance salesman lives in Larchmont. Most of them were abused one way or another when they were kids, they got bad memories go back half a century, all of them sex-related. It's the same with the girls. In her other life, Cathy Frese was a virgin in a white baby doll nightie, no panties, a shaved pussy. Heidi, hm? They all got some kind of gimmick, these girls. They all try to look like anything but a whore."

Emma is thinking that Cathy Frese wasn't wearing a baby doll nightgown when she saw her sprawled in that misty alleyway early this morning. Cathy Frese hadn't looked like a virgin and she hadn't looked like a whore, either. She had merely looked like any young woman who'd been brutally raped and murdered. Emma suddenly wonders if Morgan has any daughters of his own.

"You mentioned a mother-in-law," she says. "Are you still married?"

"Divorced for six years now."

"Any children?"

"A thirteen-year-old daughter. Drop-dead gorgeous and smart as hell. Well, she goes to St Mary's on the Mount, you know the school? Nuns, uniforms, the whole bit. They're very strict, but boy, is she learning! I get her every other weekend and on alternate holidays. I just had her for Easter, I'm getting her again this weekend. I hope this fuckin case doesn't run over."

"What's her name?"

"Fiona. My wife chose it. They look exactly alike. Long blond hair, blue eyes. She's a good-lookin woman, my ex. A bitch, but good-lookin."

"You still get along with her?"

"She hates me."

"Why?"

"Who knows? My daughter adores me, she hates me. Maybe she resents I'm such a good father." He nods, pleased with himself. "Who's your money on?" he asks. "Michael or Stanley?"

"So far they're both just names," Emma says. "How about you?"

"Michael, I think. Guy starts complaining about being short-changed, hits on Heidi and Bianca right after he comes down from a three-way upstairs, causes some kind of disturbance that gets him kicked out of the place, what does that sound like to you?"

"What does it sound like to you?"

"It sounds like a guy pissed off enough to maybe wait outside and go after Heidi when she comes down."

"Why Heidi?" Emma says.

"He can't take it out on the guy who beat him up, so he goes after a girl looks like a teenager, he doesn't even know why."

They drive across the bridge in silence. Emma is thinking Michael may already be back in Los Angeles telling his wife what a good boy he was here in the Big Apple. She is thinking Stanley may already be on his way to Florida to be an extra in a beach movie. The crosstown traffic creeps across the city streets. Outside the car, people are moving as if through a thick viscous haze. When Morgan at last pulls the car to the curb on Madison, it is almost one-thirty.

"Try your partner again," Emma suggests.

Morgan dials the number. He lets it ring and ring.

"Guess he decided to wait till after lunch, after all," he says. "I'll run back there, hit the computer myself."

"If you get a chance, call that lady at the Guild, too."

"Sure. What's her name again?"

"Hennings. Let me know if you get anything."

"Otherwise I'll see you outside the XS at ten to six. You've got all my numbers, stay in touch."

Emma reaches over the back seat for her jacket. Morgan watches her. She slides out of the car, puts the jacket on, hoists her tote from the floor of the car.

"See you," she says, and closes the door. She watches as Morgan pulls the car from the curb and moves it into the stream of uptown traffic. The sidewalk is crowded with lunch-hour pedestrians. She remembers something Morgan said as they were coming across the bridge.

Most of them were abused one way or another when they were kids, they got bad memories go back half a century, all of them sex-related.

The pedestrians move past her and around her. Any one of them could be a Stanley or a Michael, rushing by on the sidewalk here, haunted by memories he can't fathom, trying to figure out what led him to a point in his life where he ended up killing a young girl on the street.

The thought is chilling.

She hurries into the building.

Chapter nine

It's peculiar how Andrew's office now seems such a strange and forbidding place to her. It used to be as intimate to her as her own office on Broadway. A sanctuary. A place to which a person could retreat from the city. Sometimes you needed to hide in this city. But now it is a cold and somewhat sterile fortress on the twenty-seventh floor of the building, its windows facing east, relentlessly cool on this day when the temperature outside is ninety-seven degrees.

Andrew himself looks natty…

Thank you, Dad, she thinks.

… in a blue tropical suit that was hand-tailored at Chipp's, where she went with him to pick out the fabric. He is wearing a paler blue button-down shirt, and a blue silk tie patterned with minuscule ruby-red dots. She knows the tie. She bought it for him on a sudden whim one day.

"It's nice to see you," he says. "How have you been, Em?"

"Fine," she says.

She hates being called Em. And she has not been fine.

She has been missing her daughter terribly. She has been considering defying the court order that gave Andrew's mother temporary custody of their little girl. She has been thinking of taking the train to Westport, Connecticut, and kidnapping Jackie. She has been thinking of shooting Andrew's mother if she has to. Anything to get her daughter back.

"Andrew," she says, "I think it's absurd that I can't see Jackie."

"Honey, I'm not the judge," he says, and lifts his shoulders and opens his palms to her in the classic What Can I Do? body language. She resents him calling her honey when she's no longer his honey, wonders in fact if she ever was his honey now that she knows he was seeing another woman for the last two years of their marriage!

"The court order is predicated on neglect," she says. "I know, and you know — don't deny it, Andrew — that I have never neglected Jackie from the minute she was born. I was a little disoriented when you left, I admit that, but I was in the middle of hiring someone to stay with her full time when your mother pulled her end run…"

"I had nothing to do with my mother's motion to the court."

"You could have said something."

"I could have, yes. But I happen to agree with her."

He looks content and puffy and paunchy sitting in his hand-tailored suit behind his designer desk in his corner office on the twenty-seventh floor, enjoying the fact that his mother prevailed, enjoying the insane notion that she, Emma Boyle Cullen, could possibly in a hundred million years be an unfit mother. I happen to agree with her. You smug little bastard, she thinks, but she clenches her fists in her lap, behind the tote so that he can't see her hands, he knows all her tricks and tics, and she very calmly says, "Andrew, why don't you ask her to let me see Jackie this weekend?"

"Sure," he says.

"You will?"

"Sure. I know what her answer will be, but sure. I'll ask her."

"I would appreciate that."

"No problem."

She is tempted to ask how Jackie is, ask how her own daughter is, when he looks at his watch and says, "Em, I'm really sorry. I've got someone coming in at three, and I haven't even looked at the file."

"I know you're busy," she says, and rises swiftly, and goes to the door without even shaking hands.

She rings the B for Beautiful bell button and when a girl's voice says, "Yes, Miss?" she announces herself as Detective Boyle, Special Victims Squad, and tells the girl to buzz her in, please. She waits for at least three minutes, and is about to press the bell button again, when an answering buzz sounds. She throws open the outside door. The blood stains have been washed off the black-and-white tiles in the entrance foyer. She climbs the steps to the first floor, and knocks on the door with the hanging brass letter on it. The time on her watch is 2:57 p.m.

The black man who answers the door is not the same one they talked to earlier today. By contrast, he is some six-feet two-inches tall, wearing tight blue jeans and a tank top undershirt, with prison-gym muscles bulging everywhere and jailhouse tattoos on the biceps of both arms. He grins amiably, introduces himself as Harry Davis, tells her he hopes the names he gave Detective Morgan proved helpful, and cordially invites her in.

They pass through the foyer with its red light, and through the small room with the couch beyond, and then make an abrupt left turn into a corridor at the end of which is an open door leading to a small office. A small television monitor above Davis's desk shows the sidewalk outside the building's entrance door. Another monitor shows the first-floor corridor and the area immediately outside the door marked with the letter B. He offers her a seat.

"I came in early today," he says. "To tidy up my office. Now I'm glad I did."

She figures he came in early because Cathy Frese was murdered and the police have been snooping around. He smiles, his eyes frankly appraising her. She has made his day, the smile says, the eyes say, this hot and tired thirty-four-year-old woman who has a two-year-old daughter living in Westport, Connecticut, with her grandmother instead of at home in Chelsea. You are young and beautiful and desirable, his shining smile says, his twinkling brown eyes say, and you smell of all the perfumes of Araby instead of the sweat and grime of the nasty city outside. She suddenly wonders how many young girls Harry Davis has conned into believing that fucking strangers for money is a life of romantic adventure. Here you go, girls, short hours and high pay, a no-risk occupation replete with exciting men and snappy dialogue! A thrill a minute! Mr Charm here. Shove it up your ass, she thinks.

"This guy you threw down the stairs," she says.

"He was threatening me," Davis says at once.

"I'm not looking for a shitty assault bust," she says. "One of your girls got killed this morning."

"So I understand. He was nonetheless threatening me. And the girls who work here aren't my girls, by the way. I'm merely the night manager. I normally come on at five, make sure everything's in order for the night shift, which starts at six. This is a massage parlor, Detective. You'll find nothing out of order here. Ask Detective Morgan. He knows this is a respectable establishment."

"So you beat him up."

"No. Just hustled him out."

"Threw him down the stairs."

"Showed him the way out. Look, the man was looking for trouble."

"Why do you say that?"

"Why? Gee, maybe because first he told Bianca he had time coming, and next he asked Heidi to come back to his hotel with him, which he had to know was against…"

"Asked her what?"

"What time do you quit here?"

"Around three-thirty, four o'clock," Heidi said. "Why?"

"I was thinking after we get this time business straightened out…"

"The time business, right"

"After you and me and Bianca find that room with the little blue light…"

"Oh, sure, the blue light"

"You might want to come back to the hotel with me."

"Gee, a hotel," she said, and rolled her eyes in mock wonder.

"It's not far from here, Fifty-sixth and Sixth," he said. "What do you think?"

"I think it's not allowed, is what I think. But let's talk about it later, okay?" she said, and raised her eyebrows to indicate someone was standing behind him.

"How do you know this?" Emma asks.

"It was me standing behind him," Davis says.

"What time did Cathy leave here, would you know?"

"Around four o'clock."

"Anyone leave with her?" Emma asks. "Any of your customers?"

"That's not allowed."

"Anyone waiting for her downstairs?"

"I didn't go downstairs."

"Any of the other girls go downstairs around that time?"

He hesitates.

"Who?" Emma says at once.

"Cindy might have left around then."

"Cindy who? What's her last name?"

"I don't want to get her in any trouble."

"Is that why she wasn't on your list?"

"Cindy Mayes. I don't have her phone number and I don't know where she lives. That's why I didn't put her on my list."

"Then it wasn't just an oversight."

"I just told you what it was."

"Will she be here tonight?"

"Six o'clock," he says, and nods.

"Tell her I'll be here, too," Emma says.

"Be happy to," Davis says, but he is no longer smiling.

She calls the number she has for the Vice Enforcement Office and asks to talk to Jimmy Morgan, please. The guy on the other end tells her Detective Morgan is away from his desk just now, and asks what this is in reference to.

"This is Emma Boyle," she says, "Special Victims Squad. Jimmy and I are working this homicide together…"

"Oh yeah, hi, this is Lou Greenberg, his partner. Can I tell him anything if he calls in?"

"I was supposed to meet him outside the XS Salon at…"

"Know it well," Greenberg says.

"… at ten to six," Emma says, "but something came up. Cut him off at the pass, will you?"

"Will do. Anything good?"

"Maybe. Right now, I'm heading for the Palmer Continental, on Fifty-sixth and Sixth. Ask him to call me, he has my mobile number. Incidentally, I've got a last name for Cindy."

"Who's Cindy?" Greenberg asks.

The desk clerk at the Palmer Continental tells Emma he does not have any first-name Michaels from Los Angeles registered at the moment, nor were there any registered this past week, he's terribly sorry. Emma asks him to check for any first-initial M's from Los Angeles, which she can tell is a nuisance for the clerk, but hey, she's terribly sorry, this is a fucking homicide, you know?

There are no M's, either. She tries describing him, which she knows is a hopeless task, but she plunges onward regardless, five-feet-ten, — eleven inches tall, around a hundred-and-seventy pounds, dark hair, brown eyes, remember anyone like that? No one at the front desk recalls anyone fitting that description. Or, more accurately, they remember at least a dozen men fitting that description, which is tantamount to no positive identification at all.

According to Harry Davis, what started the altercation between him and this Michael character was the fact that the man had been drinking too much. Since the Palmer is the only hotel on Fifty-sixth and Sixth, and since Michael said he was staying here, a possibility is that he began drinking here before starting his prowl last night.

She heads into the bar.

The bartender is a man in his early forties, she guesses, with black hair combed sideways to conceal encroaching baldness. He is wearing a little black bar jacket and a white shirt with a black bow tie. He looks surprised when she places her shield on the bartop and announces herself as a detective from the Special Victims Squad.

"We're looking for a man who may have been in here last night, possibly a hotel guest," she says. "All we have is the name Michael and a description that may or may not be accurate. Five-ten or — eleven, weighing around a hun'seventy, dark hair, brown eyes. See anyone like that in here last night?"

"You're kidding, right?" the bartender says. "Every guy in here last night looked like that."

It is almost a quarter to five now, the hotel bar is rapidly filling with people drifting in after work. Most of the men are wearing business suits. The bartender's right, they all look like they're five-ten or — eleven, with medium builds and dark hair and eyes. The bar is full of Michael clones. Maybe the whole world is full of Michael clones. Maybe they'll never find him. Maybe he'll live happily ever after in L.A. and environs without the N.Y.P.D. ever zeroing in on him. It's a depressing thought.

"Can I get a Coke?" she asks.

"Sure."

He goes to the end of the bar, takes a glass from behind him, pulls down a handle on a dispenser with three other handles. A dark fluid she supposes is Coke flows into the glass. He carries it back to her, sets it down in front of her on a little cocktail napkin. She guesses the Coke's going to cost her sixty-five dollars, this place.

"The guy we're looking for would've been wearing a gray cashmere jacket," she says. "Dark gray flannel trousers, a blue button-down shirt with a dark blue tie. See anybody like that?"

"How old would he be?"

"Early forties," she says, and picks up the glass, and takes a long swallow.

"Alone or what?"

"He may have been cruising."

"What time would this have been?"

"Don't know. He might've been going out for the night."

"Like around now?"

"Could've been. Could've been later."

"Like seven, eight o'clock?"

"Maybe."

"Cause there was a guy came in around seven-thirty last night might be him. Forty, forty-five years old, dressed in blue and gray, like you said. He was hitting on a girl sitting at the bar here."

"A hooker?" Emma says.

"No," he answers at once, offended. "What makes you think that?"

"Well, sitting alone at the bar," Emma says, and shrugs.

"Don't you ever sit alone at bars?"

I sit alone at bars, yes, she thinks. I do that a lot these days.

"She comes in here two, three times a week," the bartender says, "sits alone here for an hour or so. I thought she was a hooker, too, at first, same as you did. But she's just lonely, you know?" He shakes his head. He looks suddenly balder all at once. His brown eyes look suddenly more mournful. "Beautiful redhead," he says, "you wouldn't think she'd have to cruise. You'd think she was married already, with kids of her own. Are you married?"

"I'm getting a divorce," Emma says. "You didn't hear this guy's name, did you? While they were talking."

"I wasn't listening."

"How'd they get on?"

"Fine. Had a few drinks, left here together."

"Who paid for the drinks?"

"He did."

"How?"

"Charged them to his room."

"What was the room number? Do you remember?"

"You know how many people charge drinks to their room?"

"Did you happen to hear the girl's name?"

"I didn't have to, she comes in here all the time."

She looks at him.

"Karen Tager," he says.

From the Manhattan directory in the lobby, Emma copies the phone number for a Tager, K., no address, and then flips open the lid on her cell phone. It is now five-fifteen p.m. She dials the number, and lets it ring ten times, finally assumes the woman hasn't come home from work yet, if she works, or else has already gone out for the evening. She clears the call and then immediately dials Homicide's number.

"Manzetti," his voice says.

She tells him where she is, tells him everything she's learned so far, tells him about the girl this Michael character picked up in the hotel bar…

"How'd you get the hotel?"

"Night manager at the XS."

"This is moving too fast."

"Let's hope. I'll let you know if I reach her."

"How does all this sit with you?" Manzetti asks.

"What do you mean?"

"Guy who frequents whore houses suddenly turning into a homicidal rapist."

"I know what you mean. Most of our…"

"You're breaking up," Manzetti says. "I'm losing you, Emma."

"Stay with me," she says, and moves to another part of the lobby. Everywhere around her, men and women are moving in and out of the hotel bar. There is lively chatter. There is hugging and laughter. Men and women embrace, kiss each other in greeting. Sudden tears rush to her eyes. She brushes them away with the back of her hand. "How's that?" she asks into the phone.

"Much better."

"What I was about to say, most of our rape arrests are guys who've done burglaries, you know, some of them, auto theft, even your two-bit Mom-and-Pop stickups, like that. But they aren't career rapists, they're career criminals. I'm not even sure there is such a thing as a career sex criminal."

"So how do you figure him?"

"Well… we once busted a guy who'd raped five women at knife point, physically molested four others. Before then, he'd spent eight grand on prostitutes in a two-year period. If our guy is a sex addict…"

"You think he is?"

"I don't know enough about him yet. But if he is…"

"I'm losing you again."

"I said if he is — hello? Tony? Can you hear me? Tony? Shit! she says, and angrily stabs the END key. She looks at her watch, and then walks swiftly and purposefully out of the hotel and into the sultry heat of early evening. She signals to a cab, gets in, and gives the driver the address of the XS Salon on Third Avenue, interrupting his phone conversation in Urdu with someone she feels certain is plotting to blow up Grand Central Station. She searches in her tote bag for Manzetti's number at Homicide, dials it as the driver keeps babbling. When Manzetti comes on the line, he immediately says, "We were cut off."

"I know. Could you please get off the phone?" she asks the driver, and when he says, "I have rights, too, madam," she snaps, "I'm a police officer! Get off the goddamn phone!"

She waits for silence. It is sullen, but it comes.

"What I was saying, it doesn't have to follow that just because the guy's a sex addict, he does a rape."

"How about he's just one of your burglars or car thieves or whatever who raped her cause he was pissed off at her?"

"Could be."

"Could be one or the other, is that what you're saying?"

"One or the other, yes," Emma says.

Or both, she thinks.

"Only thing is he was staying there at the Palmer. That doesn't fit, does it?"

"Why not? There are rich sex addicts, Tony. Rich rapists, too."

"What time did he check out, do you know?"

"He may still be there. We don't even have his real name yet."

"Cause we've got him outside the salon at four this morning. How long would it take from the Palmer that time of night? Ten, fifteen minutes?"

"About that. Tony, I have to go. I don't want to miss Cindy."

"Who's Cindy?" he asks.

Cindy Mayes — if she is Cindy Mayes — is wearing a long white cotton T-shirt dress that falls amply to her ankles, where white Reeboks complete the impression of someone who's just come up from a long walk on the beach, as well she may have. She is wearing no makeup. Not a trace of liner, lipstick, or blush. Her complexion has a freshly burnished look, her frizzed blond hair is alive with natural highlights, her blue eyes sparkle with vitality. She is really a quite beautiful young girl, stepping boldly into the doorway of the salon, pressing the B for Beautiful bell button, and looking up familiarly at the surveillance camera. She is recognized at once. A buzzer sounds just as Emma says, "Miss Mayes?"

Cindy turns, her hand on the doorknob.

"Police officer," Emma says, and flashes the tin. "Mind if we have a few words?"

"Shit," Cindy says, and whirls away from the door. She looks up at the camera, says, "Later," to it, waves toodle-oo, and falls in beside Emma as she starts walking away from the building.

The sidewalks at three minutes before six on this steamy Thursday evening are thronged with office workers heading for subways and busses. Emma, wearing the same soggy linen suit she's been wearing since six this morning, feels part of the sweaty masses, this amorphous, anonymous crowd of workers heading home after a grinding day — except that she's not heading home just yet, her grinding day isn't quite over yet. It is not yet dusk, evengloam is not yet upon the city. But there is that expectant hush to the streets, the odd quiet that comes over the city before nightfall, an air of anticipation that signals excitement and sometimes danger.

"This is about Cathy, isn't it?" Cindy says.

"Yes," Emma says.

She can't help feeling somewhat envious. Cindy's workday is just beginning. She's been on the beach all day, young Cindy here, and can well afford the athletic stride, the quick pace of their march down Third Avenue. They are approaching Seventy-second Street. Emma is a little out of breath. She spots a coffee bar called La Traviata, asks, "Okay here?" and Cindy shrugs. "Who cares?"

The place is empty save for a very fat woman reading a newspaper and using a mobile phone, her belongings spread everywhere around her. Cindy orders a latte mochaccino, whatever that may be. Emma sticks with a double capp, cinnamon and chocolate sprinkled over the foam. They take a table far from the fat lady who seems to have moved in for the summer. She is telling someone on the other end of her phone that the "cells" look just terrific. She is either a corrections officer or an animated film maker or an oncologist. An overhead fan circulates air redolent with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. An air conditioner high on the wall hums noisy accompaniment.

"Do you have a name?" Cindy asks.

"Emma Boyle."

"Are you a Homicide detective?"

"Special Victims." She shows her shield again. "Detective/Second Grade," she says.

"Is that good?"

Emma looks at her.

"I mean, is it high up or something?"

"It's okay," Emma says. "First would be better."

"How much do you make?"

"Tell me about this morning," Emma says.

"I'll bet I make ten times what you make."

"I'll bet you do," Emma says. "What time did you leave the XS this morning?"

"Around four o'clock. How do you know about me?"

"Did you see Cathy Frese around that time?"

"Listen, I don't want to get in any trouble here."

On the phone, the fat woman is saying "Very high fidelity, you can hear butterflies." Maybe the "cells" she's talking about are cellular phones. Maybe the lady's into electronics. Or maybe she's just full of shit, Emma thinks, another New York phony carrying her office to the coffee bar, talking loud and loose and trying to impress the world at large, little realizing she's beaming her act to a two-bit whore who makes ten times what the lowly Detective/Second in the rumpled linen suit earns. Emma suddenly realizes how angry she is. And thinks she may be angry only because someone raped and killed Cathy Frese. But knows that isn't it. She's angry because of Andrew Cullen. She's angry because his fucking mother stole Jackie from her. Or maybe she's just angry in general these days.

"What kind of trouble do you think you might be getting into?" she asks.

"Somebody killed Cathy, right?" Cindy says, and her grimace adds the word "Duhhh." She sips at the mochaccino. Foam gives her a momentary white mustache. She licks it clean with a neat little tongue. Emma imagines her doing a three-way with Michael the night before.

"You're here because you think I may know something about it. I don't. So let's not look for trouble, okay?"

"Let's look for whatever I have to look for, okay?" Emma says. "Your girlfriend was killed, so let's cut the crap. Did you see her this morning when you were leaving the salon?"

"Yes," Cindy snaps.

"Was she alone?"

"Yes."

"Sure about that?"

"Positive."

"Did you talk to her?"

"Yes. We said goodnight."

"And?"

"I walked off to the subway."

"What'd she do?"

"She stood there waiting."

"For what? For who?"

"How would I know?"

"Did you see anybody pull up in a taxi?"

"No."

"See a man get out of a taxi and walk over to her?"

"No."

"Did you see somebody named Michael getting out of a taxi at that time?"

"Who's Michael?"

"You did a three-way with him around one, two this morning."

"Who says?"

"Any number of people."

"I don't remember anybody named Michael."

She shakes her head, sips at her coffee. Her face is blank.

"You and Fatima," Emma says. "Dark hair, brown eyes, around five-ten or — eleven," Emma says. "Did you see him outside the XS at around four this morning?"

"I don't remember seeing anybody who looked like that."

"How do you know Cathy was waiting for someone?"

"Well, she was standing there, I assumed she was waiting for someone. Otherwise, why was she standing there? Are you sure you're a detective?"

"Yes, I'm positive," Emma says. "She didn't say she was waiting for someone, did she?"

"She said goodnight, see you tomorrow, is what she said."

"Did she ever mention waiting for someone after work?"

"Never."

She ducks her head, sips coffee and foam from the cardboard container. Emma waits for her to raise her head again. Waits to look into those clear blue eyes again.

"You're sure about that?"

"Yes, I'm positive," Cindy says, and again ducks her head.

Across the room, the fat woman is packing her tent. Emma waits. The woman waddles at last to the front door. A bell tinkles as she opens the door. The contained heat of the day rushes into the room like a plague of rattling locusts. The door closes behind the fat woman. The room is silent except for the whirring of the overhead fan and the hum of the air conditioner high on the wall.

"What are you afraid of?" Emma asks.

"Who's afraid?" Cindy asks.

But she is.

Emma knows she is.

She lets the number ring once, twice, three times…

"Hello?"

A woman's voice. Wary. Apprehensive. Even in that single word. Emma wonders why.

"Karen Tager?"

"Yes?"

"This is Detective Boyle, Special Victims Squad? Okay if I come there and talk to you?"

"What?"

"This is Detective…"

"Yes, but why do you want to talk to me?"

"A woman was killed, Miss Tager, we're trying to find the man who may have done it."

"Well… how would I… I mean, what would I know about…?"

"May I come there, Miss Tager?"

"Well… all right, but…"

"Could you let me have the address, please?"

"Well, okay," she says, and gives Emma the address and apartment number. "But I still don't…"

"See you in a little while," Emma says, and presses the END key. She dials Vice at once, gets a detective she's never spoken to before, asks for Jimmy Morgan, and is told he's gone for the day. She locates Morgan's home number in the little muddle of cards she collected early this morning, and dials it. It rings twice, and Morgan picks up.

"Jimmy Morgan," he says.

"Hi, it's Emma. You got my message, huh?"

"Yeah. What's happening?"

"I think I've got a lead. Woman this Michael character picked up at the Palmer. I'm on my way to see her now. Can you meet me?"

"Where?" he says at once.

Chapter ten

The building on Greenwich Avenue is a three-story walkup stuccoed over in brown, with black fire escapes running to the top floor from just above a teal-colored awning that shades a ground-floor French pastry shop. The entrance door to the building is just left of the bakery, painted black to match the fire escapes. Two steps lead up to the door; a brass kick plate protects its lower edge. Immediately to the left of the doorway is a store-front beauty spa with a sign that makes the entrance look like a golden minaret. The street at six-forty-seven p.m. is busy with pedestrians and automobiles. Emma is on the phone again, standing just in front of the black door, when Morgan cruises by in the Vice Squad sedan and toots the horn. He signals to her that he's going to park around the corner, then makes the turn and the car vanishes from sight.

"… but there had to be blood, am I right?" she's telling Manzetti. "What he did to her? So this Michael character couldn't have walked into the Palmer with blood all over his raincoat, right? If it even was him. So maybe there's a raincoat down a sewer near the crime scene someplace. Yeah, could you put some blues on it? That'd save us a lot of time. Thanks," she says, and is about to hit the END key when Manzetti says, "Hold it, here's Danny with something."

She waits.

"The ME's report," he says. "Finalmente."

She continues waiting. Static riddles the line.

She's afraid she will lose him again. She seems to keep losing people, this phone.

"ME's name is Malone," he says, "do you know him?"

"No."

"Good man, I've worked with him before. Anyway, this is it." He clears his throat, and begins reading. "She was strangled manually, neck grasped from the front. They found curved impressions of the thumbnail and grouped abrasions caused by other fingers. They also found contusions and tears of the thyro… I don't know how to pronounce this… the thyrohyoid membrane?"

"Yeah, go on."

"Also fractures of the hyoid bone, thyroid and cricoid cartilages. Large effusions of blood in the submucous layer of the larynx and pharynx. Impression of the assailant's teeth on the girl's cheek, be nice if we can find a suspect to do a bite imprint. Here's the stuff about her hair… tortuous and deformed roots… patches ripped from her head while still firmly attached to it. Jesus. Cause of death: violence of a nature sufficient to produce a fatal compacting of the throat organs."

He pauses.

He is reading ahead.

She waits again.

"Here's the rape stuff," he says. "She was all torn up, Emma. Forced entry seriously lacerated the posterior commisure and produced a lesion similar to a birth tear unquote. They found dried semen in the pubic hair and on the thighs and vulva. Spermatozoa in the vaginal smears. Multitude of foreign pubic hairs, too, but the girl was a hooker, so that was to be expected. We've got plenty to compare if we ever catch this guy."

"Here's Morgan now," she says. "We'll get back to you after we talk to the redhead."

"She's a redhead?"

"I thought I told you, sorry."

"I Would've liked a blond better. Establish an M.O."

"I gotta go, Tony."

"Go," he says.

"Who was that?" Morgan asks, nodding to the phone.

"Manzetti," she says, and drops it into her bag. "He just got the ME's report, the guy was a fucking monster."

"Tell me about it," Morgan says, nodding.

"Did you ever reach that lady at the Guild?"

"Yes. Nobody named Stanley worked on both those pictures."

"So scratch Stanley," she says, and nods glumly.

"Easy come, easy go," Morgan says.

A Chinese delivery boy on a bicycle goes zipping past on the sidewalk. Morgan takes an angry slap at his rear wheel. The kid turns to him, is about to say something when Morgan gives him a look. The kid pedals off in a hurry. Morgan turns back to Emma. He shrugs, grins. This city, he is telling her. She shrugs, grins back. This city, she agrees. And turns to scan the bell buttons for a Tager, K.

She knows at once that Karen Tager is a rape victim.

The woman doesn't even have to open her mouth. Emma knows. Perhaps it's the way she instinctively backs away from Morgan as they come into the apartment — and then immediately smiles at him. This is a woman who's been violated. Emma has met this woman before.

She greets them in pajamas over which she wears a green robe that matches her eyes. She tells them she's sorry, but she was getting ready for bed when they called. She gets up at three-thirty every morning because she has to be at work at five. She's a phlebotomist, she tells them, and waits expectantly, knowing they will ask what that is. She explains that she draws blood.

"Thank you for letting us come here," Emma says.

"How'd you get my name?" Karen asks.

"The bartender at the Palmer gave it to us."

"Freddie? Really? Why? You said on the phone that a woman had been killed. I don't see what my being at the Palmer…"

"Did you meet a man named Michael last night?" Morgan asks.

"Michael?"

"Yes. At the Palmer bar."

"Well… yes, I did," she says, and her green eyes suddenly open very wide. "Oh my God," she says. "Did he kill somebody?"

"We don't know yet, Miss Tager. Did you leave the hotel bar with him?"

"Yes, but I don't know anything about…"

"Where'd you go?"

"An Italian restaurant around the corner. Who did he kill?"

"What time did you finish eating?"

"Nine-thirty, ten o'clock. Who'd he kill?"

"Where'd you go then?"

She hesitates.

"Miss Tager? Where'd you go then?"

"Back to the hotel."

"To the bar again?"

She hesitates again.

"Miss Tager?"

"No. We went to his room."

Morgan merely glances at Emma. They are both experienced detectives. And although they have never worked together before, there is a shorthand they both understand. He is asking her to pick up the questioning. He is telling her a woman will get better results from this point on.

"How long did you stay in his room?" Emma asks.

"I was only there for a few minutes."

"Do you remember what time you left?"

"I guess it was around ten-fifteen."

"Where'd you go, Miss Tager?"

"Home."

"Was he alone when you left him?"

"Yes. Well, yes. What'd you think? We were just the two of us, he was alone when I left, yes."

"Why'd you leave?"

"He tried to rape me," Karen says.

Here it comes, Emma thinks.

"Tried?"

"Yes. I ran right out of there."

"Good."

"You don't believe me, do you?"

"Of course I do."

"Well, your partner doesn't."

"I believe you," Morgan says.

"Then why are you smirking that way?"

"Sorry, I didn't know I was."

Emma glances at him. He is definitely not smirking. In fact, there is a very serious look on his face and in his eyes. She does not know what is wrong with Karen Tager or why she has suddenly decided to lie. Nor does she understand what woman's intuition or cop's insight is telling her this girl sitting in the easy chair across the room there is lying, but she would stake her life on it. Whatever this Michael character did or didn't do later on last night, he did not try to rape Karen Tager after dinner.

"So you ran out of there around ten-fifteen or so."

"I think it was about then. He's married, you know. He told me he was expecting a call from his wife. In fact, he has a twenty-one-year-old daughter. She lives in Princeton. His father plays trumpet. Used to play trumpet. He had his own band."

"Was that the last time you saw him? When you left his room?"

"I called him later. But that was the last time I actually saw him, yes."

"Why'd you call him?"

"To tell him what I thought of him."

"What time was that?"

"That I called him?"

"Yes."

"Around eleven or so. I was already in bed."

"He was still there at eleven?"

"Yes."

"What room was it, Miss Tager?"

"What?"

"What room did you call?" Morgan says impatiently. "What was his room number?"

"Oh. 721."

"You're sure about that?"

"Positive. Michael Thorpe. Room 721."

Bingo, Emma thinks.

The hotel manager tells them that the person who occupied room 721 from early yesterday morning to early this morning was not a Michael Thorpe but a Mr Benjamin Thorpe from Los Angeles, California. He gives them Thorpe's address and telephone number in Topanga Canyon, and tells them he would allow them to inspect room 721, but a new guest has already checked into it. If there's anything else he can do to…

"What time did he check out this morning?" Morgan asks.

"Six-thirty-one."

"Give us a list of all the phone calls he made from the time he checked in to the time he checked out," Emma says.

The computer printout of Benjamin Thorpe's hotel bill shows ten outgoing calls on July 21 and three on July 22. It is now six minutes to eight. Emma calls Manzetti's office, and somebody on the squad tells her he's in the field. She gives him the number of her cell phone, even though Manzetti already has it, and asks that he call back as soon as he checks in.

"He's out," she tells Morgan, and gets on the pipe to her own office. She tells a detective there named Susan Hawkes that she'll be faxing her a list of numbers for which she'll need corresponding names and addresses. "If the phone company gives you trouble with addresses…"

"The phone company!" Susan says, and Emma visualizes her rolling her eyes.

"… just settle for localities, we've already got the numbers. I also need a list of all planes leaving New York for Los Angeles anytime from, say, seven this morning to whenever tonight."

"Newark, too?" Susan asks.

"Newark, too. How's the rape business?"

"Quiet."

"Let me know if you pick up a white male, medium height, medium build, dark hair, dark eyes, okay?"

"Sounds like my husband," Susan says.

"Sounds like everybody's husband."

"How soon do you need this stuff?"

"Now," Emma says.

"Okay, m'dear, shoot me the fax."

Standing at the fax machine in a little alcove off the cashier's office, feeding the several pages of Thorpe's hotel bill into it, Emma says, "Did I tell you I went to see Cindy?"

Morgan is sitting in a leather-and-chrome chair near the machine. "Cindy, Cindy," he says, and taps his temple. "Tall busty blonde, frizzed…"

"That's the one. She left the salon same time as Cathy this morning. Says she didn't see anyone, but I think she's hiding something. She knows what Thorpe looks like, she's the one who did the three-way with him."

"I guess that's one way to remember a person," Morgan says and grins. He is silent for a moment. The fax machine whirs and beeps. He glances at it. "Couple of things," he says, and looks up at Emma.

Uh-oh, she thinks.

"If we're gonna be partners on this thing…"

"We are partners, Jimmy."

"Yeah, that's what I thought, I thought we were investigating this thing together. But it's turning out to be you're some kind of lone wolf, Emma. You go back to the XS alone, you talk to the bartender here at the Palmer alone…"

"I was trying to save…"

"I know, time is of the essence. But now I learn you also went to see this girl Cindy alone…"

"I know, I'm sorry."

"I mean, I do have experience, I'm an experienced Vice cop, and the dead girl was a hooker, Emma, you do remember that, don't you?"

"You're right, I'm sorry."

"All I'm saying is we're either in this together or we're not, Emma. I want to catch this son of a bitch as much as you do, believe me."

"I believe you, Jimmy."

"Okay then."

"Okay."

"Are we finished with the domestic dispute?" she asks, and smiles.

"We're finished," he says.

Emma's phone rings. She snaps open the lid.

"Boyle," she says.

"Emma, it's me," Manzetti says. "Where are you?"

"The Palmer," she says.

Morgan mimes Who is it?

She mouths the name Manzetti.

"Can you meet me on Sixty-eighth and York?" he says. "Somebody broke into the dead girl's apartment."

Even though Manzetti's people were here earlier today, apartment 22 did not become a bona fide crime scene until someone broke the lock on the door and illegally entered the premises. Homicide's morning visit was merely routine, a matter of course; a murder victim had lived here, the possibility existed that among her belongings they might find some clue to her death.

Now, as the three detectives trudge up the steps to the second floor, two uniformed cops are busy hanging yellow plastic CRIME SCENE tape in the hallway. The original lock dangles from brass screws on the splintered doorjamb, but a Medeco lock, and a hasp that will later be fastened to door and jamb, are sitting in a box on the floor just to the right of the door. A plastic-encased Crime Scene notice has already been tacked to the front door. At twenty past eight on this oppressive Thursday evening, the uniformed cops look very earnest and serious, perspiring in their blues as they work.

"Super noticed the broken lock on her way up to the roof," Manzetti says. "Evening, boys."

"Sir," the cop with the roll of tape in his hands says, at the shield pinned to Manzetti's jacket pocket. The other cop almost salutes.

"When was this?" Emma asks.

"She goes up the roof to feed her pigeons every afternoon around three-thirty, four o'clock," Manzetti says. "Saw the busted lock, called Nine-One-One, told them it's the apartment of somebody got killed this morning. Funny thing is, she had the lock changed just a few days ago."

"Who?" Morgan asks. "The super?"

"No. The Frese girl. So now somebody breaks in. That's some kind of coincidence, don't you think?"

Emma wonders if it's some kind of coincidence.

Manzetti is pulling on white cotton gloves. He grasps the doorknob, twists it, eases the door open. A rush of contained heat spills into the corridor.

This is where the vic lived, Emma thinks.

Mind the vic, she thinks.

Leo Gephardt was in his fifties when Emma earned the gold shield and got assigned to the detective squad he commanded at the Three-Two. He'd never had a woman working for him before, didn't know what to do with her at first. Finally decided the experience might be educational for both of them. Used to turn over the squad's shittiest squeals to her. She figured this was favoritism; he was, after all, her mentor.

Mind the vic, he used to say.

Limped around the squadroom like a broken sparrow. Got shot in the leg when he was still a patrolman trying to talk a hostage-taker out of dropping a six-year-old kid out the window. Some cops felt a rookie cop had no business negotiating with a hostage-taker in the first place. Some cops even felt Leo deserved to get shot. Leo told them, "Hey, if you can't take a joke, go fuck yourself."

He used to call Emma "The Girl from Downstairs," referring to the days she'd spent walking a precinct beat. The Three-Two Squad investigated every kind of trouble, they called it euphemistically, from street gangs to dope dealers to holdups, lots of those, to burglaries, even more of those, to your parking-lot shootouts at the local Mickey D's, to your more exotic and extraordinary occurrences like the ninety-year-old lady they found naked and moldering in her own bathtub after she'd poisoned herself and her six cats.

Mind the vic, Leo used to say.

Meaning pay attention to the vic, learn all there is to know about the vic — and you'll get the perp. Mind the vic, find the vic, find the perp.

She follows Manzetti into the apartment.

At first, it looks like rage.

It takes Emma several moments to realize it was merely haste.

Whoever destroyed the front-door lock and came charging in here was in one hell of a hurry. Wanted to get in and out fast, find whatever he was looking for, leave the premises. The apartment is a bleak studio with a bathroom the size of an upright coffin, a kitchen not much larger, and a single window opening on a brick airshaft. There are dirty plastic containers in the sink, the remnants of a dinner from some neighborhood takee-outee joint. Several empty Diet Iced Tea bottles are on the kitchen counter top. A glance into the fridge reveals a slab of butter that looks rancid, several wilted celery stalks, a container of something growing mold, a carton of milk with an off-sale date that expired a week ago, and several hard rolls wrapped in plastic. Whatever the intruder was looking for, he didn't hope to find it in the kitchen. None of the cabinet doors are ajar, none of the small drawers under the counter are open.

The bedroom portion of the apartment is another story.

There is a sofa-bed in the room, and it is open. Onto this bed, the intruder has thrown what appears to be every piece of clothing in the apartment. Jackets and slacks still on closet hangers have been hurled onto the bed together with an overcoat and a windbreaker, a parka, a shawl. Dresses and skirts have been thrown helter-skelter across each other, on top of each other. There is also a dresser in the room, a white wooden piece that looks as if it may have come from Ikea. Its drawers have been pulled free of the body and overturned onto the bed, white cotton panties from Bloomie's flung onto lace-edged silk panties from La Perla, starched and folded white cotton blouses tossed haphazardly onto long-sleeved nylon shirts with French cuffs, tube tops and tunics, sweaters, T-shirts and tanks. Blue, knee-high socks are strewn on the pillows, pantyhose in rainbow colors trail onto the floor, red garter belts and open-crotch panties mingle with full white cotton slips and black nylon half-slips slit to the thigh. Strappy sandals with stiletto heels, Beanie-Baby beaded mules, mid-heel slides, flat black patent Mary Janes, blue suede toe-ring thongs, all are thrown everywhere, anywhere, on the bed, on the floor.

The clutter in the room is a medley of fashions and styles, a bedlam of sophistication and naiveté, the seeming confusion of someone new to the big city and searching for a way to define herself, urgently seeking a way to become someone here, become anyone here. Cathy Frese's tiny space seems to have housed a female in flux, a young girl on the way to becoming a grown woman. But she was twenty-six years old.

On a covered radiator in the minuscule bathroom, they find a shoe-box. In that box, there are photographs of friends, or perhaps relatives, in some green wooded place. In that box, there are letters from relatives, or perhaps friends, in a town named Driggs, in the state of Idaho. In that box, there is an address book containing the names and addresses of people who live very far from this city and the life Cathy Frese led here. A Forever bracelet made of string is buried somewhere at the bottom of the box.

"What the hell was he looking for?" Morgan asks.

Emma looks at the jumble of clothing on the open sofa-bed.

What was Cathy looking for? she wonders.

And again thinks Mind the vic.

It is a little before nine when they return to the hotel. The information Emma requested is waiting at the front desk.

Emma's partner has also faxed them three pages listing departures for Los Angeles from Newark, La Guardia, and Kennedy, forty-one flights in all, divided among Continental, United, and American. The earliest flight left at 6:10 this morning, an American Airlines flight scheduled to arrive in L.A. at 11:13 a.m. The last flight tonight is scheduled to leave from JFK at 9:10 p.m. — ten minutes from now.

Over coffee in the hotel lounge—

"We ought to start paying rent here," Morgan suggests.

— they discuss their next move.

"There were eight flights leaving between eight and nine a.m.," Emma says. "He could've caught any one of them."

"If he left," Morgan says.

"Well, look at this list of calls," Emma says. "He phoned home at five-thirty-three a.m., an hour before he checked out. Probably to say what flight he'd be on."

"Or he may still be in the city," Morgan says. "Let's try some of these numbers."

The first call they make is to the number listed for a Charles Harris in Princeton, New Jersey. A little girl answers the phone.

"This is the Harris residence," she says.

"May I talk to your father, please?" Emma asks.

"Who's calling, please?" the kid says.

"Detective Emma Boyle."

"Who?"

"Detective Emma Boyle," she says again. "Could you please get him for me?"

"He's not here. I'll get Mommy."

Emma covers the mouthpiece. "A kid," she explains to Morgan.

"Still up at this hour?" Morgan says sourly.

Emma waits. At last, a woman's voice comes on the line. She sounds very frightened.

"Hello?" she says. "Did my daughter say you're a detective?"

"Yes, ma'am," Emma says. "Who am I speaking to, please?

"This is Margaret Harris. Is something wrong? Oh God, I know what it is. Something's happened to my father!"

"Your father?"

"He's in the city. Has there been an accident?"

"What's your father's name, Mrs Harris?"

"Benjamin Thorpe. Has something happened to him?"

Emma hesitates for a moment. Morgan looks at her, puzzled.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," she says, "I must have the wrong number."

And breaks the connection at once.

"What?" Morgan says.

"His daughter."

Morgan says nothing. His look says he does not like the way she handled this. She almost expects another one of his little lectures. Couple of things, Emma. Instead, he merely sighs heavily and says, "Let's try the next one."

At twelve minutes past nine that night, two minutes after the last plane to Los Angeles takes off, two blues from the One-Nine Precinct arrest a man molesting a twelve-year-old girl on her way home from the movie theater on Seventy-second and Third. Because news of the rape-murder has spread throughout the precinct, the arresting officers immediately alert the detectives upstairs, who in turn call Homicide crosstown. Manzetti and his partner, Danny Harmon, arrive at the precinct at a quarter to ten. Just about then, Morgan and Emma are entering the traffic on the East River Drive, on their way to East Seventeenth Street.

"Let's talk about your NYSID, okay?" Manzetti says.

He is holding in his right hand the New York State arrest record of the man who sits on the other side of the table in the One-Nine's interrogation room. The man's name is Edward Nelson. His police record shows his height as five-feet-eleven, his weight as one-eighty-five. But his last arrest was eight years ago, and he appears to be a little heavier now. His eyes are brown, his hair brown. He has no identifying scars or tattoos. He could indeed be the person described by the two witnesses this morning.

Danny Harmon is sitting beside Nelson; he has been working homicides since he was twenty-six years old when he made a spectacular arrest on the Park Slope Strangler case in Brooklyn. He is now forty-seven, a burly Irishman with smoldering brown eyes and a ruddy complexion, very black hair. Manzetti is standing, facing them both. Occasionally, he paces. He is beginning to smell blood here. He is beginning to think that maybe they just got lucky. Sometimes, though not too often, you get lucky in this business.

"You've been a busy little boy," Manzetti says.

The man says nothing. He is an experienced felon, but he has not yet asked for an attorney. Manzetti figures he's waiting to see how this preliminary interrogation goes. The minute it gets rough, Nelson will start spouting his rights and asking for a telephone. They all know their rights better than any lawyer does.

"Your first arrest was twenty years ago for Attempted Rape, a Class-C felony," Manzetti says, reading from the yellow sheet. "You did seven and a half at Ossining for that one. Soon as you got out, you were arrested again for Promoting Prostitution, judge took pity on you, I see, you only got probation. Ten years ago, you were busted for Public Lewdness, conditional discharge, you're a very lucky fellow, Eddie. Well, maybe not so lucky. Year after that, they got you on Carnal Abuse of a Child, another sett'e mezz at Sing Sing, nice work, Eddie. You just got out and you go after a twelve-year-old, very nice."

Nelson says nothing.

"Where were you this morning at around four o'clock?" Manzetti asks.

"Sleeping," Nelson says.

"Where's that? Where do you sleep, Eddie?"

"In Brooklyn. I live in Brooklyn."

"But you cruise Manhattan, huh?"

No answer.

"Know anybody named Cathy Frese?" Manzetti asks.

"No. Who's that?"

"Heidi? Know a girl named Heidi?"

"No."

"Ever visit a massage parlor on Seventy-fourth and Third?"

"I don't go to massage parlors."

"I'll bet you don't. How many girls of your own did you run, Eddie?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"When you were pimping. Back at the beginning of your illustrious career. How many girls?"

"I took the fall, I done the time," Nelson says. "You got no right questioning me about ancient history."

"Ancient history, huh? How about this morning? Is that ancient history, too?"

"I don't know what the fuck you're talking about, this morning."

"Were you anywhere near Seventy-fourth and Third at four this morning? Little after four this morning?"

"No."

"Somebody thinks he may have seen you getting out of a cab around that time. Approaching a blonde waiting there."

"He's mistaken."

"Maybe so. We'll get him in here later, run a little lineup, how about that, Eddie?"

"You gonna run a line-up, I want a lawyer."

"We got another witness thinks she saw you a little later, on the corner of Seventieth and Second, getting funny with the same blonde. We'll invite her to the lineup, too. Did you get funny with a blonde this morning, Eddie?"

"I was sleeping this morning."

"How about tonight? Were you sleeping tonight, too?"

"I was in the movies tonight."

"Oh? Are you a movie star, Eddie?"

"I went to the movies."

"How about after the movie, Eddie? Were you sleeping, or did you try to feel up a twelve-year-old girl waiting for a bus?"

"I never take busses."

"Did you approach a twelve…?"

"I only take the subway."

"… year-old girl named Naomi Kramer…"

"I take the Number Five train from Fifty-ninth Street to Brooklyn."

"So what were you doing on Seventy-second Street, Eddie?"

"I told you. I went to see a movie."

"The arresting officers caught you with your hand practically in the cookie jar, how about that, Eddie?"

"I want to talk to a lawyer."

"Fine."

"Now."

"Fine. You got your own lawyer, or you want us to get one for you?"

"I got one," Nelson says.

Big surprise, Manzetti thinks.

Heather Epstein is five-feet-seven or — eight inches tall, a wide-shouldered, big-breasted girl with long blond hair and blue eyes. She is wearing at ten o'clock that night a green mini skirt, lime-colored pantyhose, a matching blouse with tiny brown buttons, and platform shoes that add another two inches to her height. Emma guesses she is in her early twenties. Her one-bedroom apartment is furnished with the casual abandon of a college dorm, a computer on a desk in the corner, unpainted bookcases against the walls, a stereo setup, mismatching furniture. There are framed photographs of herself and what appears to be her extended family on every flat surface but the floor. She looks like she would be right at home in Florida or Arizona — but her accent immediately betrays her as a native New Yorker. She asks them if they'd care for a cup of coffee or anything—

"I wouldn't mind," Morgan says at once.

"None for me, thanks," Emma says.

— apologizes for it being only instant, and goes into a small kitchen just off the entrance door, leaving the two detectives alone to wander the living room. Morgan picks up a framed photo on one of the bookcases.

"Older sister," he says aloud.

"Or mother," Emma says.

"Dead ringers."

"Pretty girl"

Morgan nods. Heather is coming out of the kitchen with a coffee cup, a container of skim milk, and a small bowl containing packets of brown sugar, Equal, and Sweet 'n Low.

"Thanks very much," Morgan says. He still has the framed photo in his hand. "Your sister or your mother?" he asks.

"What?" Heather says. "Oh. My sister, actually."

"Strong resemblance," he says and puts the picture back on the bookcase. He sits beside Heather on the sofa, reaches for a packet of brown sugar, tears it open, and pours it into the coffee cup. "Nothing for you?" he asks Heather, and smiles. This is turning into a social visit, Emma thinks. Dead girl in an alley this morning, killer maybe roaming loose in L.A., Morgan's having a demitasse at the Waldorf.

"I'm all coffee-ed out, thanks," Heather says, and smiles. It occurs to Emma that she might be flirting with him. It further occurs to her that he might be flirting, too. Well, he's single, she thinks. Yeah, but twice her age. Hey, I'm not her mother, she thinks.

"Miss Epstein," she says, "we have a list of phone calls a man named Benjamin Thorpe made…"

Heather is already nodding.

"… from his hotel room last night…"

She keeps nodding.

"… and it shows three calls made to you, one at seven-forty p.m. last night, another at eleven-thirty, and a third one early this morning. Do you remember any of those calls?"

"Yes, I do," she says and nods and smiles somewhat hesitantly, and then — surprisingly — blushes like a little girl. In her lifetime, Emma has questioned enough people to know when a person is concealing something. Morgan detects something here as well. He nods pleasantly, and smiles, and then says, "What'd you talk about, Heather?"

"Oh, this and that," she says, and blushes more furiously. "You told me on the phone…"

"How do you happen to know him?" Emma asks.

"He was, um, giving a lecture at school," Heather says. "Cooper Union. I'm a student there. I'm studying architecture there."

"When was this?"

"Last April. Did he do something?"

"What makes you think that?"

"Well, on the phone you said you were looking for him…"

"Few questions we'd like to ask him, yes."

"So did he do something?"

"How well did you know him, Heather?" Morgan asks.

"Not too well at all."

"How'd he happen to call you?"

"I guess he wanted to talk."

"What about?"

"Gee, I don't know. We only talked for a few minutes."

"Can you tell us what you talked about?"

"Well, actually, he wanted to go out with me," she says, and pulls a face. "The first time, anyway. I told him I was busy. Actually, I was on my way to a party."

"What sort of relationship did you have with him?" Morgan asks, and sips at his coffee, watching her.

"We were friends, I guess you'd say."

"What kind of friends?"

"He called me every now and then, that's all."

"From Los Angeles, do you mean?"

"Yes."

"How often?"

"Well, every now and then."

"Once a month?"

"Well, more than that, actually."

"Twice a month?"

"I guess. Though he hasn't called me for a while. I mean, before last night. I can't remember the last time he called. He thinks he can just call, you know, and I'll jump."

"Ever go out with him?"

"Once."

"Did you know he was married?"

"Well, yes. But we only went out together once. Actually, we didn't even go out. He came here, that's all."

"When was this?"

"Last April. I told you."

"And he's been calling you since, is that it?"

"Every once in a while."

"Why does he call?"

"Well, to talk," she says, and giggles. "Why do you think?"

"What do you talk about?"

"Well."

"Yes?"

"Am I in any sort of trouble here?"

"No, Heather."

"Because… if I am… I think I'd like to call my father, you know? He's a lawyer."

"Does your father know Benjamin Thorpe?"

"Of course not! But if Ben did something and you're trying to get me involved, then maybe I ought to…"

"Miss Epstein," Emma says, "a young girl was killed early this morning…"

"Oh my God!" Heather says.

"And we think Benjamin Thorpe…"

"It wasn't Lo, was it?"

"Who's Lo?"

"My friend who was here last night. He didn't follow her home or anything, did he?"

"What makes you think he'd do something like that?"

"Well, he sounded sort of… well, desperate. I mean, he doesn't usually sound so… I don't know… desperate."

"Why'd he call you a second time last night, Heather?"

This from Morgan. He has put his cup down on the coffee table and is leaning toward her now. She sits beside him on the couch, her legs tucked under her, her shoes off. She has begun chewing the lipstick off her mouth. She doesn't answer him for a moment. She looks at him as if wondering whether she can trust him or not. He nods subtle encouragement. He's either an excellent cop or he's coming on to her. Or maybe both. Either way, he seems to be getting results.

"Heather?" he says. "Tell us why he called you again around eleven-thirty last night."

"Well," Heather says, and begins chewing her lip. "I guess he wanted to come over."

"Here?"

"Yes."

"Did he come here?"

"No, I wouldn't let him. Lo thought it was a riot. Him wanting to come here."

"Why was that, Heather?"

"That Lo thought it was funny? Well, he's a man in his forties, you know. So here he is suggesting…"

"I meant why'd he want to come here?"

"Why? Well… you know."

"Tell us."

"You know," she says, and again blushes. "He… wanted to be with us, I guess."

"Be with you?"

"Well… have sex with us. Me and Lo."

"Did he say that?"

"He did, yes."

"But you said no."

"I said no. He really sounded desperate. I was a little scared, to tell the truth."

"Desperate how?"

"Well, the way he kept insisting."

On what?"

"Coming over. And wanting to, well, I told you, have sex with me and Lo."

"Did you ever have sex with him?" Morgan asks.

Point blank, Emma thinks.

"Well, just that once," Heather says.

"Which once?"

"The time he gave the lecture. And came here afterward. But that was just the two of us."

"What about these phone calls from L.A.?" Morgan asks.

They're phone fucks, Emma thinks. She looks at Morgan. He is thinking the same thing. They are in the same business, after all, more or less. Her guys are merely his guys who've lost complete control. That's the only difference. Heather said Thorpe sounded "sort of desperate" last night, but how desperate is "sort of desperate?" Emma wonders. She feels pretty certain she knows what kind of man they're dealing with here, but engaging in phone sex — or even visiting a massage parlor — is something quite different from raping and strangling a young girl, tearing out her hair, savagely biting her. Quite different. But it's possible. Listen, it could be possible. Guy on the town suddenly loses it, that's possible. Nothing's ever what it seems, she thinks.

"All we did was talk," Heather says.

"What about?" Morgan asks.

"Things."

"What things?

"Just things."

"Sex?"

"Sometimes."

"Heather… did you have phone sex with him?"

His voice is soft, his eyes are intent on her face. He looks like he's hypnotizing her. Emma remains silent. Let him run with it, she thinks.

"Well, yes," Heather says. "Sometimes."

Her voice is a whisper. She and Morgan could be alone together here. She could be sitting in the darkness of a confessional. He could be on the other side of the screen, listening in the dark.

"Did he want to have phone sex last night?" Morgan asks.

"Yes."

"With you alone? Or with both of you?"

"Me alone."

"And did you, Heather?"

"No. Actually, he didn't ask me. He said he wanted to take me out. But I knew he wanted to. He only calls when he wants to… you know… do it on the phone. He thinks all he has to do is call me any time of the day or night."

"Do you have phone sex with him every time he calls?"

"Yes."

Her voice so low Emma can hardly…

"Heather?"

"Yes. Every time."

"But not last night."

"No."

Morgan nods.

"When he spoke to you that second time," Emma says, "did he mention where he might be going?"

"No, he just wanted to come here, that's all."

"Why'd he call a third time?"

"I don't know."

"Well, he called at a quarter to five this morning…"

"I know."

"Well, what'd he want?"

"I don't know. I hung up."

Emma sighs heavily. "Thanks a lot, Miss Epstein," she says. "We appreciate your time."

Heather swings her legs off the couch and slips into her shoes. "I hope you get him," she says. "If he did it."

"If he did it, we'll get him," Emma says.

"Thank you, Heather," Morgan says, and shakes her hand. "We appreciate your help. Just be careful in the future, okay?" he says. "You and your friend both. Lo? Is that her name?"

"Well, Lois, actually," Heather says, and opens the front door for them. "Lois Ford."

In the hallway outside, Morgan says, "He's beginning to fit the profile all the way down the line, isn't he? Calls Heather here in the middle of the night, and three minutes later he's on the phone with her girlfriend. For all we know, he's out there looking for another vic right this fuckin minute. These guys are obsessed, you know, They try to stop themselves, but they can't, they're obsessed. They think about sex every minute of the day, they can't stop thinking about it. Right now, right this minute, he's thinking about sex, I'll bet a million dollars on it. Running girls through his mind, memories of every girl he ever knew or hoped to know, turning them over in his mind. I know these creeps, believe me, I've been with Vice for almost a hundred years now. We better catch this guy soon, before he—"

Emma's cell phone rings. She flips open the lid, and hits the SEND key. It's Manzetti.

"We got a guy here who looks ripe," he says. "We're picking up the two witnesses from this morning, going to run a little line-up in twenty minutes or so. You and Jimmy up for it?"

Chapter eleven

Every time Emma walks into this big white building with its red trim and blue windows, she feels as if she's stepping into an American flag. Squatting solidly on the corner of 133rd and Broadway, the structure is home to Homicide, Special Victims, the Department of Housing Preservation and Development, the Child Welfare Organizing Project, the Harlem Bay Network Mental Health Association, and a dozen other profit and nonprofit organizations that share offices in the virtual shadow of the elevated train tracks running past outside. Emma's office is on the sixth floor; Manzetti's is on the fourth.

As they take the elevator up, she calls the XS Salon and asks to speak to Cindy Mayes. It is now almost eleven o'clock, five hours since she had her last conversation with the girl. When she comes on the line, her voice is clear and crisp, a trifle edgy. She sounds intelligent and young and beautiful. Even on the phone, she sounds beautiful.

"This is Cindy," she says.

"This is Detective Boyle," Emma says. "I…"

"Yes, what is it?" Cindy asks.

The elevator doors open. Morgan steps out into the fourth-floor corridor, and Emma follows him. Signaling for him to go on ahead to Manzetti's office, she walks to the windows, phone to her ear, and looks out at Broadway. In the dark, an elevated train rumbles by on the tracks outside.

"Cathy's apartment was broken into this afternoon…"

"I don't know anything about that."

"Her super says she just had the lock changed on her door. Would you know…?"

"I'm sorry, we're very busy up here just now."

"Would you know why Cathy had her lock changed?"

"No, I'm sorry, I don't."

"Did she ever mention changing…?"

"Look, I really don't have time for you just now."

"Make time," Emma says.

"I can't, really. I have to go. I don't want to get in trouble here. I have to go."

"Cindy…" Emma starts, but there is a click on the line.

She looks at the phone.

Shit, she thinks.

There is only one suspect, and Manzetti is reluctant to load the stage with too many police officers. These days, you make one false move, the case gets kicked out later on. He can look into the future and visualize Nelson's lawyer jumping up and asking the judge to exclude a positive ID merely because out of six possible choices, five of them were cops.

The lawyer's name is Rabinowitz. He has defended Nelson before, and apparently done a very good job of it since the punk walked on two occasions. On the other hand, Nelson spent seven-and-a-half in the slammer on each of two other occasions, so maybe a five-oh batting average ain't so terrific, after all. Rabinowitz spends at least fifteen minutes arguing that under the Miranda ruling, his client is not obliged to leave a bite mark in the apple Manzetti offers to him. Manzetti knows the ruling the way he knows his own name. But it takes four calls to the D.A.'s Office downtown to convince Rabinowitz that asking Nelson to bite into the apple is the same as asking him to put his finger to his nose or take off his hat. At last, Manzetti gets a bite impression he can compare against the bite mark on Cathy Frese's cheek.

While they sit in Manzetti's office, trying to decide what they can do here to balance the Eddie Nelson lineup scales a bit, Morgan asks one of the Homicide dicks to fax the L.A.P.D. for a routine check on a Benjamin Thorpe out there in Topanga Canyon. Manzetti suggests they can maybe transport some other felons from the holding pen at the Two-Six, but then their attorneys would start squawking about God knows what technicality endangering their rights to a fair trial. It's not as if they have three or four suspects here. All they have is Nelson, who claims he was home asleep while someone was raping and strangling Cathy Frese.

This is now twenty minutes past eleven, and Rabinowitz is beginning to squawk already about holding his client too long without charging him. He was earlier protesting that under the Miranda rules they couldn't run a line-up on Nelson without a court order, which they know, and he also knows, is complete and total bullshit. They realize, however, that they better get this thing rolling soon, or Rabinowitz will find a genuine technical reason to spring his man out of here.

There aren't too many civil-service people working in the building at this hour, just your usual cop grunts and your cleaning people, so they put Nelson up on the stage with a uniformed cop they pull off patrol in the Two-Six, two Homicide detectives from right here on the fourth floor, and two guys who a minute ago were scrubbing sinks and toilet bowls. One of the cleaning men is black. One of the Homicide dicks is black, too. This means there are two blacks, three whites, and Nelson — who is also white — up on the stage.

Morgan suggests that maybe he ought to join the group of usual suspects, give it a heavier tilt toward the white side since the two witnesses described the guy they saw this morning as white, and it might be nice if they were presented with a reasonable choice. Manzetti thinks this might be a good idea, but then they'd run into the initial problem of loading the stage with too many law-enforcement types. If Morgan stepped out there with the others, that'd be four cops, three of them white, two civilians, and Nelson, who is also a civilian — of sorts. He opts for the original six. Actually, it's a good mix.

The black detective is about six-feet tall and weighs about a buck-ninety. In contrast, the black cleaning man is about five-eight, Emma guesses, a slight slender balding man with a thin mustache over his lip. The white detective is about the size and weight the two witnesses described. So is the uniformed cop, who is now wearing a lightweight trenchcoat over blue jeans and a cotton sweater. Three of the six men are wearing trenchcoats. The other three are wearing suits or sports jackets. Manzetti explains to the two witnesses that if they want the suspects to do anything for them, take off a coat, for example, or walk across the stage, or even say anything in particular, that's perfectly all right within the Miranda guidelines.

The two witnesses are sitting in the front row of chairs in what looks like a small theater, with three rows of chairs arranged before a raised platform behind a thick pane of glass. One of them is the white bartender who saw someone getting out of a cab to join a blonde outside the XS Salon at four this morning. The other is the black cleaning woman who saw a man "beating on a blonde" on the corner of Seventieth and Second about fifteen minutes later. Manzetti, Harmon, Morgan, and Emma are all sitting in the very back row of chairs, the idea being that no one can later say they influenced the witnesses in any way, either by hand signal or voice prompt. Rabinowitz is sitting in the middle row, his legs crossed. He is what Emma's father would call a "dapper little man." Someone in the room behind the glass panel throws a switch and the stage is filled with bright light.

The six men walk, out in single file and take positions in front of the big black number markers on the white wall — one, two, three, four, and so on. There are also height markers painted in black on the white wall behind the stage. In smaller numbers, they sprout vertically, five feet, five-feet-one, five-feet-two, and on up to six-six. Nelson enters first, walks stage left, takes a position in front of the number 6 marker, and then turns to face the glass. The black detective is next, number 5, then the white detective, 4, and so on, the black cleaning man, the white officer, and lastly the white cleaning man, all of them taking positions in front of the number markers. The black female witness intently studies each man as he crosses the stage and occupies his numbered position. Emma thinks they all look as if they could easily have slain their own mothers in their beds this morning.

It would be nice if you could have a line-up for the participants in a divorce, she thinks. It would be nice if you could parade the disputing parties before an objective witness, have that person say "Yes, he is the guilty one, she is the guilty one," pick from the pair up there the one who is responsible for the dissolution of the marriage. Although in her case it would be an academic exercise, wouldn't it? We all know why this marriage is ending in divorce. It is ending in divorce because Andrew Cullen plays around. That is the long and the short of it, ladies and gentlemen, you need not scrutinize that couple on the stage any longer. Andrew Cullen plays around with other women, and his beloved wife Emma cannot abide such behavior.

But then, of course, and on the other hand, what did Emma contribute to this volatile mix? Was she attentive enough, loving enough, sexy enough, whatever enough? Was she plainly and simply enough! Andrew blamed it on her job. How many times in the throes of hot embrace had Emma been summoned to the squadroom or the hospital to interrogate yet another woman or girl raped or abused by yet another man? How many times? Try a hundred and sixty-five rapes in the borough of Manhattan so far this year, how does that sound for the number of times Emma Boyle Cullen was called out of bed in the middle of the night, try that for size, honey. And how many times had she seen that look of knowledgeable forbearance cross Andrew's face and flash in his eyes when the lady detective was called away to do her duty in the middle of the night, or in the middle of dinner, or in the middle of an afternoon stroll in the park with their two-year-old daughter, how many times had the telephone on the bedside table or in her tote bag summoned her to work? And how often could a man endure coitus interruptus… well, surely you exaggerate, madam, surely there are other rape-squad detectives who share the duty with you, surely you did not answer each and every one of those calls this year, surely you overstate your case.

Okay, shall we divide the number of rapes by — what? Six? Seven? Even ten? How long could a man tolerate such intrusion into his private life before seeking solace and companionship elsewhere, how long? Not long enough, she supposes. Because now they are separated and now a male judge has decided — as apparently Andrew himself previously decided — that being a rape-squad detective is not an occupation compatible with either a seven-year-old marriage or a two-year-old daughter — and yes, by the way, it is a rape squad. Never mind what they're calling it these days. It is a rape squad. Rape is what We deal with here. Women being violated by men. Yes. And believe me, Your Honor, playing around with another woman — a multitude of women, in fact — is rape. I submit, Your Honor, that Emma Boyle Cullen was repeatedly raped by Andrew Cullen during the past two years of her marriage, which are all the years she knows about for sure, ever since her daughter was born, in fact, but God knows how many years before then. Raped. Yes, Your Honor. And you have the gall to take my daughter away from me? You have the fucking balls to do that, Your Honor? To join in the fucking rape? To join the fucking club?

"You okay?" Morgan whispers.

"Yes, I'm fine," she says.

But she isn't.

"Do either of you recognize the man you saw this morning?" Manzetti asks the witnesses. The male witness turns to see where the voice is coming from, and then looks back at the stage again. The black woman, who earlier studied the supposed offenders as they came onto the stage, one of them possibly the real offender, now studies them with even closer scrutiny.

The room is silent.

On the stage, everyone tries to look nonchalant. Even Edward Nelson, who may or may not have killed Cathy Frese but who most certainly was caught with his hand in a young girl's bloomers, tries to look nonchalant. All six gentlemen up there on the stage could be partners in a respectable law firm. Put Andrew Cullen up there with them, he'd look right at home. But Andrew Cullen is a rapist, did you know that, Your Honor? Andrew Cullen has been raping Emma Boyle Cullen for the past two years, Your Honor, and now he's stolen my daughter and taken her to Westport, Connecticut, where there are no rapists and ergo no need for a rape squad or a rape-squad detective, not in lily-white Westport, Connecticut, oh no indeed.

"See anyone?" Manzetti prompts.

The black woman turns to look at him where he sits in the back row with the other detectives. Cranes her neck at all of them. Squints at them in the dark.

"No, sir, I do not," she says.

"How about you, sir?" Manzetti asks.

"Nobody," the bartender says.

A uniformed cop walks onto the stage to lead the six men out. Nelson isn't going anyplace except downtown for booking. Manzetti thanks the two witnesses and asks another cop to show them downstairs.

They both look offended, as if they should have been paid for their time.

"Thought she was gonna pick you for a minute," Harmon tells Manzetti. "Way she was looking back here."

"They always look to the back row for a clue," Manzetti says. "To them, it's like a television quiz show they wanna win, some kind of freakin game."

Some game, Emma thinks.

"Let's see how we make out with the apple," Manzetti says.

"Who's for a beer?" Harmon asks.

At this hour, the night shift has just been relieved and the tiny bar on 131st and Broadway is packed with uniformed cops and undercovers from the Two-Six, Homicide detectives wearing what they wore to work that afternoon, male and female officers alike gathering to wind down after a day that started at three-forty-five p.m. and did not end until half an hour ago — except for the detectives who were unlucky enough to have caught the Cathy Frese squeal at six this morning.

Emma feels very much at ease in these surroundings. Perhaps it's because she's Irish, or perhaps it's because she's a cop. The bar is very definitely an Irish-looking and Irish-sounding bar, the distinctive accents of Brooklyn and Queens lilting on the air as if these men and women are in County Clare sipping beer on the banks of the Fergus, instead of on Upper Broadway a block from the Hudson. None of these men or women are drinking hard liquor. There are pitchers of beer on the table and sitting on the bartop because these men and women aren't here to get drunk — most of them will be going home to wives or husbands — but merely to talk about the day's work. They are in a dangerous occupation, these men and women, and these nightly confabs are not unlike debriefings after a bombing raid or an incursion into enemy territory. This is CopLand After Dark.

"Was there anything from the Coast?" she asks Harmon.

"Nothing," he says.

"Any record on Thorpe?" Morgan asks.

"Clean as a whistle. Nothing in their files."

"Did they roll by his house?"

"All the lights were on, nobody home."

"What time did they go by?" Manzetti asks.

"Around eight their time. They'll make another run along about eleven. What time is that here?" Harmon asks. He spots a female officer he knows, most likely from the Two-Six, standing at the bar with a couple of Homicide detectives. He waves to her, and she comes on over. She is a delicate Hispanic woman, perhaps five-feet three-inches tall, in her mid-twenties, still in uniform, strapped with a nine bigger than she is, hanging in a black leather holster on her right hip.

"They're three hours behind us," Morgan answers, and looks her over.

"I hear you just took the test for third," Harmon tells the woman. He, too, is giving her the eye. She's really quite pretty. Black curly hair sprouting from under her peaked uniform hat, full hips swelling above the holster belt, good breasts filling her tailored uniform shirt. Emma wonders if they piss in her shoes back at the precinct.

The girl is lingering by the table, not sure whether or not she should join them, four detectives and all. Uniformed cops know immediately who is or who isn't a detective. It's the same sense that allows enlisted men in the military to know who's an officer, even if they're off the base wearing civvies. Harmon has not yet introduced the girl.

Perhaps he senses Morgan's interest and is protecting his own turf. Or perhaps he's just a male chauvinist pig cop who doesn't think women need to be introduced, especially if they're cops. Sometimes Emma gets sick to death of the whole damn thing.

"Who's your rabbi?" Manzetti asks.

The expression is a holdover from the old days, when somebody had to sponsor you for the blue-and-gold shield, and it didn't hurt to have powerful friends in high places. There were hardly any Jewish cops at that time, so the expression was meant to be ironic — or perhaps anti-Semitic. Back in those days, it was a given that nobody had a shot at rising above the rank of captain unless he was Irish. Nowadays, you could be black and get to be police commissioner. Lucky Irish Emma, who is still a Detective/Second after twelve years on the force. How long will it take little Chiquita Banana here to get to be captain?

"I'll see you later, huh, Danny?" the girl tells Harmon, but her eyes dance over Morgan, who immediately says, "Have a seat. We'll teach you some detective tricks."

"Detective tricks, huh?" she says, and slides into the booth alongside Manzetti.

"Emma Boyle," Emma says, and extends her hand across the table.

"Tess Ortega," the girl says, and takes Emma's hand.

The other detectives — all except Harmon, who knows her — belatedly introduce themselves. Morgan holds her hand a trifle too long for comfort, so she eases it back with a roll of her eyes, telling him he's coming on too strong here in the company of other cops, so cool it, amigo, okay? For now, anyway. Morgan catches the clue, big detective that he is, and backs off. Emma figures if anything's going to happen here between them, it'll be after everybody else at the table goes home. From what she guesses, however, a Homicide cop like Harmon isn't about to relinquish the field to a mere Vice cop from the East Side.

Manzetti's married with three kids. He has no time for, and very little interest in, The Dating Game. While Morgan pours a beer from the pitcher for Tess, and Harmon reaches over to the bar for a bowl of pretzels to offer the girl, Manzetti asks Morgan if he thinks this Thorpe character is really their guy.

"On a scale of one to ten?" Morgan says.

"Whatever."

"If he's still here in the city, I'd rate him a solid nine. If he's back in L.A. already, that's another story. Lots of planes left early this morning. He checked out of the Palmer around six-thirty. If he caught any one of those early-morning flights, he'd have been in L.A. by noon or thereabouts."

"So where is he? The cops out there drive by at eight, all the lights are out?"

"Could be out to dinner."

"Unless he's still running on New York time. In which case, he'd be asleep by now."

"We're not," Emma says brightly.

"We didn't fly three thousand miles across the continent."

"Listen," Tess says, "am I supposed to be hearing all this?"

"The question is are you supposed to be listening?" Morgan says.

"Cause if my being here is gonna jeopardize a case or anything…"

"Yes, you're very dangerous to our case," Morgan says.

"You are a very dangerous woman," Harmon says.

"Let's say he's still here," Manzetti says. "In New York."

"Okay."

"Where?"

"This is a rape-murder we're talking about," Morgan explains.

"Really?" Tess says.

"Guy nailed a young hooker on Seventieth Street early this morning," Harmon says. "You familiar with the East Side at all?"

"No," Tess says. "I work over here, and I live in the Bronx."

"There's this massage parlor on Seventy-fourth and Third," Morgan says. "This guy was there last night, caused some trouble. We think he might've gone back after the girl."

"He was after every other girl in the city, why not her?" Harmon says.

"He killed more than one person?" Tess says, her eyes wide.

"No, he made a dozen phone calls is all," Morgan says. "Trying to hook up with somebody."

"Anybody," Harmon says.

"Is that what rapists do?" Tess asks. "Give their victims a phone call first?"

"That's just what bothers me," Emma says.

"Me, too," Manzetti agrees at once.

"What's that?" Morgan asks.

"Rape isn't about sex," Emma says. "It's about power."

"And this guy last night was all about sex," Manzetti says, nodding.

"From minute one," Emma says.

"Let me see that list of calls again."

Emma starts digging in her tote. Morgan lifts the pitcher, and pours beer all around. A male cop in uniform wanders over to the jukebox, giving Tess the eye on the way, and drops in some coins. Britney Spears's "Baby One More Time" fills the smoky air. Across the room, some male and female cops in street clothes begin singing along on the "Baby, all I need is time" refrain. Emma finds the printout of phone numbers Thorpe called from his room, and the corresponding list of names and locations Susan Hawkes faxed to her. She unfolds both pages, hands them to Manzetti. He glances only cursorily at the numbers, and then studies the names.

"Okay," Manzetti says, "his office we know, American Airlines we know, his home we know. Who's Charles Harris?"

"His daughter in Princeton," Emma says.

"His daughter's name is Charles? Tess says, and winks at Morgan to let him know she's just kidding. Morgan winks back. Harmon winks, too, to let them know he's in on the joke and is still in the running. Emma is beginning to wish she'd gone straight home to bed, all this winking and blinking.

"Heather Epstein, you already went to see," Manzetti says.

"He has phone sex with her on a regular basis," Morgan explains to Tess.

"But not last night," Emma says.

"No, last night he was out killing a young hooker," Harmon says.

"Who's Arthur Davies?"

"No idea," Emma says.

"Called him around eight."

"Or her. It could be the guy's daughter he was reaching out to."

"Or his wife," Morgan says.

"You married?" Harmon asks Tess.

"Not anymore."

"Another call to his own house at ten-thirty, then little Heather again at eleven-thirty…"

"Getting desperate around then," Morgan says.

"How do you know?"

"Little Heather told us."

"What's B&R Enterprises in Baltimore?"

"Phone sex line," Morgan says.

"How do you know?"

"Vice sees all, knows all."

"Seriously."

"We have a list."

"Here's the XS Salon," Manzetti says.

"Eleven-fifty-seven."

"The night is young," Harmon says, and winks at Tess.

"Back to the hotel and another call to Heather…"

"Who hung up on him," Emma says.

"And then Lois Ford three minutes later."

"Busy, busy fellow," Harmon says.

"Any idea who this Ford girl is?"

"Little Heather's girlfriend," Morgan says. "He wanted to do a three-way with them."

"This is getting entirely too sexy for me," Tess says, trying to look scandalized.

"Here's the final call to the old homestead," Manzetti says.

"Say hello to the wife and kiddies," Morgan says.

"Are you married?" Tess asks him.

"Not the last time I looked."

"When was that?"

"When I left the house this morning."

"Where's that?"

"I live downtown. In SoHo."

Tess looks him over. Emma is beginning to wonder which of the two detectives has the edge here. This is like watching animals in the wild, the way they're doing their little mating dance for the pretty little cop in the tailor-made blouse. Morgan feigns disinterest, pours himself another glass of beer.

"Think he could be in Jersey?" Manzetti asks. "With the daughter?"

"He wasn't there when I called. In fact, she was worried something might have happened to him."

"So where the fuck is he?" Manzetti says, "Excuse me. If he's here, I mean."

"I know."

"In the city, I mean."

"I know."

"Be two in the morning here by the time the L.A. cops roll by again," Harmon says.

"He could be raping somebody else by then," Morgan says.

"Killing somebody else," Harmon says, nodding.

They're trying to impress little Officer Ortega here, Emma realizes, letting her in on the big time world of murder and rape, never mind your traffic violations or domestic disputes. We are big macho detectives here, they are saying. Which one of us would you prefer for the night, Officer? Or how about both?

Manzetti sighs heavily, washing both hands over his face. He gets up, yanks his trouser belt higher on his waist, and then reaches for his glass, and finishes his beer.

"I'm bushed," he says. "Let's pick it up again in the morning, okay?"

"Sure," Emma says.

Pick it up where? she wonders.

Chapter twelve

She takes a taxi over to the East Side.

The streets are still packed with pedestrians. Hot nights in New York do that. People come out. If every night was a hot night, there'd be no crime in the city of New York. Too many people on the street. On a hot night, even your burglars don't like to carry television sets or microwaves. She wonders if there are any statistics on that. The number of burglaries committed on hot nights. She knows the loonies come out when the moon is full, that's a fact. All kinds of bedbugs come out of the woodwork when there's a full moon.

On Second Avenue, she begins walking downtown.

She doesn't realize she's heading for the scene of the crime until she's approaching the corner where the cleaning woman saw a man assaulting a blonde. She turns the corner. Walks up the street past First Avenue. A couple is sitting on the stoop in front of a building two doors down from where Cathy Frese was murdered. They look at her as she walks past. She stops in front of the alleyway between the sushi joint and the shoe repair shop. She tries to visualize the struggle on the street corner, Benjamin Thorpe, or whoever, dragging Cathy up the street and into the alley, where he strangled her. Tries to imagine his hands around her throat, his hands tightening around her throat until she went limp. Did he rape her before he killed her or afterward?

She keeps looking into the alley for a long while.

The couple on the stoop watch her as she walks past them again. Under the street lamp on the corner, she reaches into her tote for the list of telephone numbers she showed Manzetti earlier. She looks at her watch. It is almost a quarter to one in the morning.

Fuck it, she thinks, a girl was killed.

And dials Lois Ford's number.

The girl lives in a walkup between York Avenue and the East River Drive, just a few doors up from a Department of Sanitation garage. Huge white DSC garbage trucks are parked all up and down the street as Emma turns into it from York. On the Drive, at the end of the street, cars flash by in the early-morning hours, their headlights streaking the black river beyond. There are two private parking garages on the street as well, their entrance maws spilling light onto the sidewalk. But the street beyond, where Lois's red-brick building stands, is dark and forbidding, and there are only two lights burning in its face.

Maybe it's just her line of business, but Emma always feels she's being followed. She knows that only a very small percentage of rapes are committed by guys who jump out of the bushes and hold a knife to your throat, she knows that. Your so-called gentleman rapist — there are no gentleman rapists — is the one who climbs in your bedroom window after watching you undress and then tries to persuade you that you're really having a good time with him. "It's too bad we had to meet this way," he'll say. Suggesting that, gee, since you're having multiple orgasms here, we could be on a cruise ship to the Bahamas instead. Maybe one day we could even get married. Maybe I'll come back to see you again next week, would you like that? I know you would cause I can see you're smiling, aren't you?

Women learn to smile.

Stare at any woman for longer than ten seconds, she'll smile at you. This goes back to the Dark Ages, when rape wasn't called rape, it was called courtship. You smiled because you were begging for mercy. Please, sir, I'm a nice girl, I'm smiling. Please don't court me, sir.

Emma hates rapists.

And maybe because she'd put away so many of them, she's fearful of reprisal. Terrified that a gang of them will attack her. The East Side Rapists Association. Get the lady cop who's trying to make things hard for us, no pun intended. She always listens for phantom footsteps behind her. She listens for them now. There was a time in this city when you had to watch your perimeter all the time, day or night. This was maybe five, six years ago. You couldn't get too involved in a conversation you were having, you couldn't get too interested in a store window you were passing. You had to be aware all the time of what was happening in your immediate vicinity. You had to cover your own back. Emma supposes it's a lot better now, but she isn't sure how comfortable she'd feel here in this neighborhood at one o'clock in the morning if she didn't have a thirty-eight in her tote bag.

New York is a city on the make. The males here are predatory, the females receptive. Rapists use the status quo as an excuse. They'll tell you the victim wouldn't have been dressed that way if she wasn't asking for it. They'll tell you they're just like any other guy in this city, cruising the singles bars, reading the signals, reacting to the nightly tits-and-ass show. They'll always tell you the sex was consensual. Always. That's a word they learned when they were twelve, consensual. There's not a victim in the world who didn't give her consent beforehand. The second line out of any rapist's mouth is "It was consensual." The first line is "You've got the wrong man."

There is a dim light burning in the vestibule of Lois's building. Why any young girl would choose to live here where anyone can walk up from the Drive and into a building without a doorman and with fire escapes hanging up and down its face is beyond Emma. She checks the periphery, glancing first toward the Drive where the cars whiz past as if there is no speed limit in this city, and next toward York Avenue, where a pizzeria on the corner is still open. The street is deserted. She climbs the three flat steps to the front entrance door, tries the knob, and is not surprised when it opens to her touch.

The inner door is locked.

She looks for the name Ford in the row of bells set in the jamb to the right of the door, finds one for Ford, L. Going to fool a lot of would-be rapists, that initial for a first name. Going to make them think it's Louis Ford living here, or Lawrence Ford. Great protection for a girl living alone, that first initial. Ford, L, apartment 4C. She presses the white button, grips the knob on the inner door, looks over her shoulder, checking again. She knows how many rapes are committed in dimly lighted vestibules where a woman is fumbling to unlock the inner door. A buzz sounds, startling her. She shoves the door open, closes it behind her, begins climbing a steep flight of steps to the fourth floor. The hallways are dim. She would not live in this building for "all the tea in China," as her father is fond of saying. She is somewhat out of breath when she reaches the fourth-floor landing. She waits for a moment, her hand on the banister, breathing hard, before walking down the hall to 4C. She raps gently on the door; it's one in the morning.

"Who is it?" a voice asks.

The same voice she heard on the phone when she called earlier. Young, Somewhat breathy.

"Detective Boyle," she says.

"Just a minute, please."

She hears tumblers turning. Two locks, small wonder. Hears the bar of a Fox lock being dropped to the floor. Smart girl inside there. The door opens a crack, held by a safety chain, even smarter.

"Let me see your badge, please."

Somebody taught her well.

Emma flashes the tin.

The girl studies it. The chain comes off.

"Come in, please," she says.

This is what would be called a studio apartment if it weren't in a tenement. It is essentially one large room with double-hung windows at only one end of it, a bathroom to the left of the entrance door, a tiny kitchen just past that. There is a sofa-bed against one wall of the room that serves as bedroom, living room, and dining room combined, a television set on a stand opposite it. A small table and two chairs are set against the windows overlooking the street. Emma can see a fire escape beyond the windows. Access here would be like falling off Pier 8. On the street below, she can hear the warning beep-beep-beep of sanitation trucks backing up, maneuvering.

"Sorry to bother you so late at night," she says. The apartment is still, the building is still, she almost feels like whispering. "We're investigating a murder."

"Yes, you told me on the phone. It's Mr Thorpe, isn't it? Isn't that why you're here?"

"Yes," Emma says, surprised.

"Heather called me just after you did. You caught me just as I came in. I was out dancing."

She is still wearing what she wore earlier tonight, a beige cap-sleeve metallic-looking blouse over a brown nylon, cheetah-print skirt, ruffle-flounced at the hem. The skirt is short, the blouse scooped low over abundant breasts. Dark brown, ankle-strapped high-heeled sandals match her brown eyes and the brown hair falling straight and sleek to her shoulders and cut in bangs on her forehead. She is not a pretty girl, but she looks sexy and trendy, with just enough eye shadow, just enough blush, just enough lipstick on her pouty mouth. A rapist will tell you she shouldn't dress this way. He will tell you he's only human. He will tell you she's asking for it. He will tell you it was her fault. The victim's fault. I'm just a normal red-blooded American male, he will tell you. It was her fault. Besides, you've got the wrong man. And also, it was consensual.

"She said you think he may have killed someone."

"Well, we're investigating every possibility," Emma says. "Miss Ford, we have a record of calls…"

She is already nodding.

"… Benjamin Thorpe made from his hotel room…"

"Yes," Lois says.

"… yesterday morning. Our list indicates…"

"Yes, he called me."

"At four-forty-eight a.m., is that right?"

"Yes."

"Can you tell me what the call was about?"

"Yes. He wanted to apologize."

Emma looks at her.

"He was crying," Lois says. "He called to apologize for his earlier behavior. He said he was a decent man. He said he didn't want me to get the wrong impression of him. He said he didn't know what Heather told me — he'd called earlier, you see…"

"Yes, I know."

"Heather, I mean. While I was there. This was around eleven, eleven-thirty. He was afraid Heather might have given me the wrong impression of him. So he wanted to apologize. He was crying very hard. I've never heard a man cry that hard."

"He didn't ask if he could come here, did he?"

"No, he didn't," Lois says.

She looks somewhat disappointed that he didn't. Now that Emma has mentioned it, she seems to be wondering why he didn't.

"Did he say where he might be going? When he checked out? Did he say he was going back to California?"

"No, he didn't. I mean, he didn't mention California or anyplace else. He just said he was terribly sorry if he'd offended me in any way, and he wanted to apologize. I told him it was okay. I mean, guys come on that way all the time. You really think he killed someone?"

"He might have," Emma says. She reaches into her tote, takes her wallet from it, pulls a business card from behind her Metrocard. "Here's where you can reach me," she says. "In case he calls back."

"Gee, do you think he might?" Lois asks.

"He may still be in the city, we don't know. I'll give you my home number, too," she says, and writes it on the back of the card. "Call me at any time of the day or night."

"Okay," Lois says, and studies first the printed side of the card, and then the number Emma scrawled on the back of it. "Is this a seven?" she asks. "Eight-one-oh-seven?"

"Yes."

"Okay," she says again, and nods, and suddenly looks up. "You don't think I'm in any danger, do you?" she asks.

"I'm sure you're not," Emma says.

But she isn't sure at all.

Harry Davis is not at all happy to see her.

This is one-forty in the morning, their busiest time, he tells her, and he does not need a snoopy female in a grungy suit she's been wearing all day, sniffing around scaring the customers and embarrassing the girls. Emma suggests that the girls might feel a little less embarrassed if she called for a paddy wagon and carted the whole fucking lot of them over to the One-Nine, where she can question them each and separately in the privacy of a detective squadroom, would Harry prefer that?

"Just what is it you're looking for, Miss Boyle?" he asks. The use of the "Miss" form of address is an attempt to diminish her status as a detective. She has had this pulled on her before. It is telling her all over again that she is merely a snoopy female in a grungy suit — God, how those words rankle! Eight hundred dollars at Saks Fifth!

"Mr Davis," she says, "Cindy Mayes tells me she saw Cathy waiting downstairs here when she left at four yesterday morning. We have a witness who saw a man get out of a taxi at that same time, and walk over to where a blonde was standing just outside your front door. I want to know who got out of that cab."

"Was he a black man?"

"No, he was white."

"Then, thank God, he wasn't me," Davis says, and grins.

"Is Cindy still here?"

"She is."

"I'd like to talk to her, please."

"She's busy just now."

"I'll wait."

She waits in Davis's office.

There is a sense of busyness outside the closed door to the office, telephones ringing, voices echoing, high heels clicking past. There is a sense of business as well, a crisp energetic commerce of the night, money changing hands, transactions negotiated and executed.

Emma waits.

Like an old Irish woman riding a subway to the Bronx, she sits with her hands resting on top of her tote bag.

Cindy does not come into the office until seven minutes past two. She is wearing a flimsy black wrapper over red bra and panties, a red garter belt, black nylons, black ankle-strapped sandals with stiletto heels. She lights a cigarette, sits opposite Emma, crosses her stockinged legs. She looks superbly whorish and eminently at home, an exceptional slut in a kingdom of ordinary tarts. In her blatant presence, it is Emma who somehow feels dowdy and cheap in her grungy suit — the son of a bitch!

"What is it now?" Cindy asks.

Blows out smoke. Jiggles her foot.

"The Rule of Three," Emma says.

"What the hell's that, the Rule of Three?"

"Leo Gephardt. Always ask the same question three times. If you don't get the answer the first two times, you'll get it the third time around. The Rule of Three."

"Who's Leo Gephardt?"

"Captain I once had. He's dead now."

"Shows how good his rule was."

"Third time around, Cindy. You ready?"

"You know how busy we are out there?"

"Who was she waiting for?"

"Who are we talking about now?"

"Cindy, I'm tired."

"So am I. Did you suck a dozen cocks tonight?"

"No, but you make ten times what I do."

"Is that supposed to be sarcastic?"

"Who was she waiting for?"

"That's the fourth time. And I still don't know."

"Why'd she change the lock on her door?"

"I have no idea."

"Who was she afraid of?"

"These are new questions, aren't they?"

"Who are you afraid of?"

"Does the Rule of Three start all over again?"

"Cindy, I'm really very very tired."

"Then whyn't you go home to sleep? Nice girl like you needs her beauty rest."

"Cindy, in just about thirty seconds, I am going to bust your ass from here to Canarsie."

"I don't think so."

"I think so."

The women look at each other.

"You're impeding the progress of an investigation," Emma says reasonably. |

"Not if I really don't have the answers you want," Cindy says reasonably.

"A homicide investigation, no less."

"But I don't know anything about who killed Cathy."

"It's called Obstructing Governmental Administration," Emma says.

Cindy seems to be thinking it over.

"Section 195.05. A Class-A misdemeanor."

"I've never been arrested in my life."

"You can go to jail for a year."

The room is utterly still. From somewhere in the boundless corridors outside the closed office door, Emma hears someone calling "Time!"

"Who was waiting for her?" she asks softly.

"I don't know."

"Cindy…"

"Him, I guess."

"Him? Who's him?"

"The guy who always waited for her. Listen, I don't want to get in trouble here."

"Always waited for her?"

"I don't know. Maybe not."

"Always? Is this a steady boyfriend or something?"

"I don't know what he is. He's just some kind of weirdo, that's all."

"Who? Who is he?"

"I don't know. I only know what she told me."

"What'd she tell you?"

"He fell for the Heidi act."

"What do you mean?"

"Treated her like she was half her age. She's twenty-six years old, she's been around the block a hundred times, he treats her like a teeny-bopper. Meets her after work, walks her home, is afraid something's gonna happen to her, somebody's gonna rape her or something, right? She's twenty-six, for Christ's sake, she's only been hooking forever! Dresses her in little pleated plaid skirts, white cotton panties, the whole fuckin Short Eyes trip. She told me she was sick of it but she didn't know how to get out of it. She was afraid to get out of it. She told me she was thinking of changing the lock on her door. She didn't know what to do."

"He had a key to her apartment?"

"Yes."

"Told you she was going to change the lock?"

"Yes. She was scared to death of him, but she didn't know how to get out of it."

"When did she tell you all this?"

"Three, four nights ago."

"About the lock…"

"Yes."

"About being afraid of him…"

"Yes."

"Wanting to end it?"

"Yes."

"But she was waiting for him again this morning."

"I guess. I didn't see him."

"You said she was waiting for him.⁵

"Well, she was waiting for somebody. I don't know if it was him."

"Don't change your fucking story on me, Cindy!"

"I don't know if it was him! I didn't see him!"

"Did you ever see him?"

"No."

"Did she ever mention his name?"

"Never."

"And you never met him, is that right?"

"Never."

"Never saw him, is that right?"

"Never," Cindy says again.

The Rule of Three, Emma thinks.

But no cigar this time.

The lights outside the Chelsea brownstone are on a timer. When Emma gets home at two-forty-seven that Friday morning, all the floods are on, illuminating the twelve broad wide steps that lead to the front door and bathing the street level courtyard in light.

She and Andrew lived in this house together from when he was made a partner in the firm six years ago until shortly before last Christmas when Emma found a wrapped gift labeled to someone named Felicia whom she hadn't known existed until that shocking instant. Emma wonders if she will now lose custody of the house, the way she seems to be losing custody of her own child. Everyone says the woman always gets the house. Maybe not when your husband is a full partner in a law firm that handles divorces for hotshot celebrities and real-estate moguls, neither of which Emma is, or hopes to be. She always felt Andrew was embarrassed by her chosen profession. At dinner parties on the legal circuit, women sporting Vidal Sassoon coiffes and Valentino frocks would ask, "And what do you do, Emma?" I'm a cop, she would say.

"Oh, really," they would say, "I've never met a cop before."

The Supreme Court judge who handed Jackie over to her mother-in-law had apparently never met a cop before, either.

The house is across the street from a public elementary school, which makes it noisy during the day when the kids are screaming around the playground — but then again, no one was ever here during the day. Except Jackie and her nanny, when she was living here with them. The nanny split the minute Emma filed for divorce. Which might have accounted for the judge's decision to place Jackie in "more constant circumstances," his Solomon-like reasoning being that a string of quote unstable and unreliable baby sitters and temporary nannies did not constitute a stable environment for a child in her formative years unquote. After all, what kind of home life could there be for a two-year-old whose father is a busy legal bomber and whose mother is out chasing rapists day and night?

Emma often wonders if her husband was dallying with the nanny as well, a girl from Sweden who was merely blond and beautiful and buxom and named Ingrid after Ingrid Bergman whom her grandmother once met on a yacht at the seaside resort of Sandhamn, according to a story she reverently repeated over and again while sharing the dinner table with them. Not quite a Nanny from Hell, this girl, except for the covetous glances she beamed in Andrew's direction whenever they tucked little Jackie in for the night. Andrew was bedding everything else in sight, Emma later learned, so why not someone under his own roof? Why not a little tiptoe down the hall while Emma was out "chasing rapists day and night," as the judge actually put it when granting Grandma Sylvia's "order to show cause," as it was called in the trade, to which was attached a petition for permanent and temporary custody of the child, so granted. Why not indeed?

There is a Schlage dead bolt lock on the front door. She unlocks it, lets herself in, and hits the light switch in the entry foyer. An overhead imitation Tiffany globe fills the foyer with color. She used to love coming home. The house is built on three levels — well, four if you count the ground floor which is entered from a door off the courtyard and which leads to the kitchen and pantry and a little garden in the back. The entry level is on the floor containing what Andrew used to call "the public rooms," a rather large living room fronting the street, and a smaller dining room and serving area toward the back of the house. There is actually a working dumb waiter in the house, coming up from the kitchen to the serving area. Emma's father thinks the dumb waiter is a very classy touch.

The third level consists of the master bedroom, Jackie's bedroom, and an adjacent room for the nanny, when there was a nanny. The very top floor of the house has a skylighted room Andrew used as a home office when he was living here. Emma never goes up there anymore.

The red light on the bedside answering machine is blinking. She walks to it, sits on the edge of the bed, hits the button that switches from the time…

2:51 AM…

… to the number of calls…

3.

She hits the PLAY button.

"Emma, where are you?"

Her father's voice.

"This is Dad…"

No kidding.

"I've been trying to reach you all day long. This is unusual even for you, Emma. Are you all right? Give me a call no matter what time, I'm worried half to death."

The little Japanese lady inside the machine announces the time of the call as "Thursday, eleven-thirty p.m."

"Em, this is Andrew, it's a quarter to twelve. I asked my mother about this weekend, and she said she didn't think it would be a good idea. Incidentally, if you're wondering why the judge granted her motion, maybe it's because it's almost midnight and you still aren't home. Think about it."

You prick, she thinks.

"Thursday, eleven-forty-seven," the Japanese lady says.

"Emma, this is Tony. The report from the night dispatcher was waiting here at the office when I checked in before going home. It's a quarter past one, I'll be here another ten minutes if you get home by then or you can call me at home at the number I gave you yesterday morning — Jesus, is the case already that old? Incidentally, you ought to get a new phone company. I tried your cell-phone number three times and kept getting a dead zone. Call me."

The recorded voice tells Emma that Manzetti called at one-seventeen a.m. on Friday morning.

"End of messages," the voice says.

Emma hits the rewind button.

She searches in her notebook for the card Manzetti gave her yesterday morning…

Yes, Virginia, the case is that old already.

… finds his home number where he wrote it on the back of the card, and dials it. The phone rings once, twice, three times…

"Manzetti," his voice says.

"Tony, it's me."

"Hey, hi. Just a minute, let me find my notes."

She waits. Beyond the bedroom windows, she can see an early morning fog swirling into the garden. Just like yesterday when they found the dead girl in that alleyway. Tendrils of gray curling and twisting among the leaves of the fruit trees already losing their bloom.

"Emma?"

"Yes."

"ARS is the name of the fleet," he says. "The trip originated at Broadway and West Third, all the way downtown. Pickup was at three-forty-five a.m. yesterday morning, drop off on Seventy-fourth and Third at four-oh-seven."

"Sounds about right, that hour of the morning."

"Doesn't help us, though, until we find somebody to parade. How're you making out?"

"I went to see the Ford girl after I left you…"

"Oh?"

"Yeah. She told me the reason Thorpe called her in the middle of the night was to apologize. Does that sound like somebody who'd just killed a girl?"

"Why not? Who knows with these guys? What time is it out there, anyway?"

"L.A.?" Emma looks at the LED on her answering machine. "Almost midnight," she says.

"I'm gonna give the L.A.P.D. another call. Ask them to run by his house again."

"I also talked to a girl named Cindy Mayes. She works up at the salon, says Cathy was involved with some guy who digs little girls."

"What do you mean involved?"

"In a bad relationship with him."

"The changed lock," Manzetti says at once.

"Could be, don't you think?"

"Likes little girls, huh?"

"Dressed her up like a school kid."

"That explains the cotton panties and starched white blouses."

"All the other kiddie clothes, too."

"Does she know who this guy is?"

"She isn't saying."

"But does she know?"

"Maybe."

"Doesn't much sound like Thorpe anymore, does it?"

"Still be nice to know where he is. Let me know what L.A. has to say. I'll be up a while."

"Yeah, me too," he says. "Talk to you," and hangs up.

The moment Emma gets another dial tone, she dials her father's number. His answering machine picks up after the fourth ring.

"Hello, this is Bryan Boyle, please leave a message of any length at the beep."

She tells him she called at five past three, and hangs up.

Now it's her turn to worry about him.

The upstairs bedroom is so located that none of the adjacent brownstones can look down into it. Neither is there any danger of anyone standing below and peering up into the windows; an eight-foot-high wooden fence encloses the garden.

Tonight, the fog seems to add an additional layer of security. It is as if a gray curtain has been drawn outside, offering further privacy and seclusion. And yet, standing at the French windows, looking down at the tendrils of haze that drift among the blooming azaleas and laurel, watching the mist as it rises past the purple lilacs bordering the fence, Emma imagines a figure darting across the yard in the shifting fog, a watcher outside, peering up at her, a rapist. She draws the drapes.

Slipping out of her shoes, she takes off her jacket and carries it to the closet where there's a bag for dry cleaning. Women with good legs take off their skirts before their blouses; she learned this in a course on behavioral patterns at John Jay College. So she guesses she must think she has good legs because she drops the linen skirt and then puts it into the same dry cleaning bag. Or maybe her legs are really lousy — no, they're not — but maybe they are, and it's just more convenient this way. As flat-footed as a ballerina, she stamps across the bedroom and into the bathroom, where the hamper for laundry is standing against the wall alongside the scale. She unbuttons her blouse, unclasps her bra, steps out of pantyhose and panties, drops all the clothing into the hamper, closes the lid—

What was that?

She is suddenly alert.

Was that a sound she heard downstairs?

She steps tentatively out of the bathroom.

"Hello?" she says.

Grabs a robe from the hook on the bathroom door, slips into it, belts it at the waist, stands stock still, silently listening. Her tote bag is across the room, on the bed.

"Hello?" she calls again.

Silence.

She listens, listens…

The sound of the doorbell is ear-shattering.

She is across the room to the bed in three single bounds, her hand dipping into the tote, closing around the butt of the.38 in its clamshell holster, a spring-assisted draw easing the piece into her hand. She whirls from the bed, pads swiftly across the room, hesitates only a moment, listening again, and then starts down the stairs to the entry level, her gun hand leading her.

"Who's there?" she shouts.

"For Christ's sake, Emma…"

What?

"… open the goddamn door!"

She lowers the gun.

"Dad?" she says.

And feels suddenly like a horse's ass.

Her father is wearing a rumpled seersucker suit over what she guesses is a yellow cotton T-shirt from Gap and soft white leather loafers from Gucci. No socks. His thinning white hair is combed with no attempt to disguise encroaching baldness. His pate and his face are sunburned a fiery red from the two weeks he just spent on Block Island with the woman he calls his "significant other," a Jewish lady named Myra Rifkin, who teaches Documentary Film Making at NYU, where he himself teaches Contemporary English Literature. Bryan Cameron Boyle has bright blue eyes he personally refers to as "twinkling" but which do not appear particularly twinkly at the moment.

"Where the hell have you been?" he asks.

"Dad," she says, "I'm a cop."

"Oh, is that a fact?" he says. "Ask me in."

"Come in," she says.

"I didn't get you out of bed, did I?" he asks.

"Almost," she says.

"Didn't you get my message?"

"I called you back."

"Must've been on my way."

"I'm not twelve, Dad."

"Oh, is that a fact, too?" he asks.

She should be flattered — she knows he was concerned about her — but somehow she's annoyed. She's been a cop for twelve years now, she can drop a cheap thief in his tracks at fifty paces from a dead draw, but here's her father worrying about her because she's not asleep in her own bed by midnight.

"I worry," he says, as if reading her mind.

"Worry about Myra," she says, and is immediately sorry.

"I do," he answers. "Are you going to offer me a drink?"

"Sure," she says.

They walk through the entrance hall into what Andrew used to call "the parlor," the large living room with its bay windows fronting the street. Emma is wearing the bulky terry cloth robe she bought the summer she and Andrew rented the house on Fire Island. That was before Jackie was born. That was before Andrew began playing around. As she lowers the shades, she thinks again that she sees a figure outside in the shifting fog, and then the image is gone, and the shades are down, and there is nothing to fear anymore. Besides, her revolver is now on the small round table in front of the bay windows. There is a lamp on the table, which she now turns on, and a lace doily under the lamp, and then the snub-nosed.38 sitting on the doily. She knows what her father drinks. She goes to the cabinet opposite the fireplace, takes from it a bottle of Tullamore Dew and pours a hefty shot of the whiskey into a Manhattan glass.

"Nothing for you?" he asks.

"I'll be working early."

"Always the job," he says.

"You sound like Andrew."

"Perish the thought. Cheers."

"Cheers, Dad."

The room is suddenly silent. Outside in the fog, she hears a car passing. She does not know what to say to her father. She watches him standing in front of the fireplace, sipping his whiskey.

"We had a suspect who was an extra on Saving Private Ryan and The Sixth Sense," she says.

"Did you now?"

Sounding very Irish. She hates when he sounds Irish. He does it mostly for his students, so they'll think he's Barry Fitzgerald. Or for Myra, so she'll think he's a hopeless old romantic, which she often calls him to his face. A hopeless old romantic. As if that's supposed to endear someone to a man.

"Briefly," she says.

"Pardon?"

"The suspect. The extra."

"Oh."

"He was only a suspect for a little while."

"You mean he was a suspect for only a little while, don't you?" he says.

"If you say so, Dad."

"Grammar is grammar," he says. And then, to take the edge off his reproach, he adds, "Just between you and I, anyway."

She pretends not to get it.

He shrugs. He knows she got it because it's a longstanding joke between them. Her patrol captain at the Three-Two used to say "Just between you and I, there's no shittier job than policing," avoiding the correct "you and me" as hopelessly lower-class while stepping into shit an instant later.

Emma wishes she could like or even admire Myra Rifkin, but the fact is her father met the woman only six months after he and Emma's mother separated, and began living together six months after that, which remarkable coincidence — just between you and I — seems a bit far-fetched to Emma, hmm? She fully realizes that it was her mother who wanted the divorce, for reasons known only to herself, and which she has never chosen to share with Emma, but this does not excuse her father's haste, in Emma's eyes at least, in choosing another partner before the funeral meats were cold upon the table, to coin a phrase — not for nothing is Emma the daughter of an academic. Her father is sixty-two years old, and Myra is fifty-eight, but she dresses like thirty, with flirty little velvet hats she picks up in Greenwich Village thrift shops and paisley granny skirts and L.L. Bean boots, Jesus! A Too-Late Hippie, Morgan would call her. A Far Too-Late Hippie. I have to call him, Emma thinks. Tell him what I learned from Lois Ford. Tell him our prime suspect called her to apologize, does that sound like a man who'd just used his bare hands to tear hair from his victim's head? Fill him in on what Cindy said, too. Morgan likes to stay abreast. Morgan gets upset if she acts like a lone wolf. Which she supposes she is nowadays.

"A penny," her father says.

"It would bore you," she says.

"Try me."

"I'm tired, Dad."

"Is that a hint for me to be on my way?"

"If you like. You're welcome to stay."

"Here's your hat, what's your hurry," he says, and drains the glass and puts it onto the doily alongside Emma's pistol. He looks down at the gun. Everything he feels about her profession fleetingly crosses his face as he looks at the gun. He barely restrains a sigh. "Well, be careful," he says, and is starting for the door, when he stops, and turns, and says out of the blue, "I'm a person, too, Emma," and then merely nods and goes out of the room, and out of the house, and into the fog.

She dead-bolts the door behind him.

Stands in the entrance foyer under the imitation Tiffany globe for several moments, and then turns out the light and goes upstairs to the bedroom. The LED display on her answering machine reads 3:44 AM. She pulls back the sheet on the bed, climbs in, and turns out the bedside lamp.

Chapter thirteen

She is dead asleep when the telephone rings.

She looks at the luminous dial of the bedside clock. It is almost four a.m. She picks up the receiver.

"Hello?" she says.

"Lois?"

"Yes?"

"This is Ben," he says.

"Ben?"

"Benjamin Thorpe."

"Oh."

"How are you, Lois?"

"Fine. Wh… what do you want? Why are you calling me?"

"Just to see how you are."

"It's three o'clock in the morning."

"I know."

"Are you in Los Angeles?"

"No. I'm still here in New York."

"She said you might have gone back to Los Angeles."

"Who? Heather?"

"No, the detective. The one who was here."

"A detective came to see you?"

"Said you might have gone back to Los Angeles. Detective Boyle."

"No, I'm here."

She hesitates. Takes a breath. Go ahead, ask him, she thinks.

"Did you kill somebody, Ben?"

"No. What? Did I what?"

"Tell me the truth, Ben."

"Who said I killed somebody?"

"She did. Well, might have. She said you might have killed somebody."

"No. Of course not. No. That's ridiculous."

"I didn't think so. The way you were crying on the phone last night. You sound a lot better now."

"I am a lot better."

"So where are you?"

"I told you. I'm still in New York."

"They're looking for you, you know."

"Do they really think I killed somebody?"

"A young girl."

"No."

"A prostitute. They think you went to a prostitute last night. After you called Heather."

"Why would I do that?"

"Gee, I don't know," she says broadly. "Why do men go to prostitutes?"

"I don't know any prostitutes. I've never been to a prostitute in my life."

"Oh, I'll bet."

"Never."

"Is that why you call Heather all the time? Cause you don't know any prostitutes to call?"

"She's a friend."

"She told me you call her all the time."

"Just sometimes."

"Did you really want to come see us last night?"

"Yes."

"She told me you wanted to come see us."

"I did."

"Both of us, she said."

"That's right."

"It broke my heart, you know. The way you were crying. You didn't have to feel so bad, you know. I wasn't the one who turned you down, you didn't have to call me to apologize. I mean, it was nice of you and all, but I wasn't offended, really. That's a common fallacy, you know. That a girl gets insulted because a man expresses desire for her. If you want my opinion, only ugly girls get insulted. A good-looking girl is flattered by an expression of interest, truly."

"Are you a good-looking girl, Lois?"

"Well, I don't know about that."

"Well, you must know if you're good-looking."

"I don't want to sound conceited."

"What do you look like?"

"I think I'm an attractive woman."

"Are you?"

"I think so."

"Describe yourself."

"That's hard to do. Objectively, I mean."

"Do it subjectively then."

"I don't think I can do that."

"Sure you can. How tall are you, for example?"

"Five-six."

"How much do you weigh?"

"A hundred-and-twenty, but I'd really like to lose a few pounds."

"A hundred-and-twenty is a good weight. For five-six, that's a good weight."

"A hundred-and-fifteen would be better, believe me."

"Maybe, but a hundred-and-twenty isn't fat, Lois."

"I'd like to lose five or six pounds."

"Do you think of yourself as fat?"

"Well, not exactly fat. But…"

"Are you full-figured, is that it?"

"No. No, I wouldn't say full-figured. No. But I could stand to lose a few pounds."

"For example, what are your dimensions, Lois?"

"I really don't know. Only models know their dimensions. I don't know any real girls who know their dimensions."

"Well, for example, what size bra do you wear, for example?"

"I'm a thirty-four B."

"And your panties, for example?"

"Five. I wear a size five panty."

"That's not fat, Lois, I'm sorry."

"I didn't say I was fat, per se. I'd just like to lose five or six pounds."

"What color hair do you have, Lois?"

"Brown. I have long brown hair, bangs on my forehead."

"Brown hair and bangs, huh?"

"I hear that one all the time," she says. "What color is your hair?" she asks.

"Brown. Well, brownish-black. Dark hair. I have dark hair."

"What do you look like? Tell me what you look like, Ben."

"I'm just your average red-blooded American male."

"I'll bet. Calling young girls in the middle of the night."

"How old are you, anyway, Lois?"

"Twenty. I was twenty in April. How old are you?"

"Too old for twenty, that's for sure."

"Come on, tell me. I've dated older men."

"Have you?"

"Sure. Married men, too. It's impossible to live in this city without getting to know an older married man sooner or later."

"Well, I'm in my forties, let's leave it at that."

"Late forties or early forties?"

"Late."

"Brown hair and bangs," she says, and giggles. "I hear that one all the time."

On the table beside the bed, the electric clock is humming. She has set it for seven a.m. because her computer class, starts at nine and she has to go all the way to Brooklyn. The clock now reads four-ten, and she is wide awake. She can hear the DSC trucks maneuvering on the street below. She can hear the rush of traffic on the East River Drive. She can hear Benjamin Thorpe breathing on the other end of the line.

"I'm really sorry Heather wouldn't let us meet last night," he says. "I'm enjoying talking to you."

"Well, Heather's very protective of her turf, you know."

"I didn't realize that about her."

"Oh, sure. Her possessions, too. She once loaned me a pair of earrings — we were going out that night, and I forgot to put on earrings? You'd have thought they were the sacred crown jewels, the way she kept reminding me to return them."

"Are you wearing earrings now, Lois?"

"No. Earrings? I'm in bed."

"I didn't know that."

"Nobody wears earrings to bed."

"I didn't realize you were in bed."

"It's four in the morning. Four-fifteen already, in fact."

"I'm sorry if I woke you."

"Stop being so sorry all the time, Ben. You don't have to apologize for everything you do, you know. It's four in the morning, so what?"

"Four-fifteen."

"Right. So what?"

She can hear his breathing.

"What color are your eyes?" she asks.

"Brown."

"Are you tall?"

"I consider myself tall."

"How tall is considering yourself tall?"

"Five-eleven."

"That's a good height, five-eleven."

"I'm comfortable with it."

She hesitates a moment, and then says, "I told her it might have been fun."

"I'm sorry? Told…?"

"Heather. You coming over. I told her it might have been fun."

"I think it might have."

"I think she didn't want to share you, is what it was."

"Like the earrings."

"Well, not exactly like the earrings, no."

"Come to think of it," he says, "I guess I don't know any women who wear earrings to bed."

"Unless they forget to take them off," she says. "That happens sometimes."

"Yes, but usually…"

"Usually a woman will not wear earrings to bed, that's definitely correct."

"What do you usually wear to bed, Lois?"

"Well, that depends."

"On what?"

"On the time of year, I guess. During the winter, I usually wear a flannel nightgown. In the summertime…"

"How about tonight, for example? What are you wearing tonight?"

"Now?"

"Right now, for example. What do you have on right this minute, Lois?"

She hesitates.

"Lois?" he says. "What are you wearing?"

"A short nightgown and matching panties," she says.

"What color?"

"Blue. I like blue."

"A kind of baby doll nightgown?"

"Not that short."

"How short?"

"Above the knee. But not as short as a baby doll."

"Does it have lace on it?"

"No, it's just this sheer nylon. Blue."

"Are the panties sheer, too?"

"Well, yes."

"Very sheer?"

"Yes."

"Can you see yourself through the panties?"

"I guess I could. If the light was on."

Her heart is suddenly beating very rapidly.

"Ben?" she says. "You didn't really kill someone, did you?"

"I have never killed anyone, ever, in my entire lifetime," he says. "I promise you. Even during the war, I did not kill anyone."

"How do I know you're not lying to me?"

"I'm telling you the truth, Lois. I spent the entire war in Saigon. I never killed anyone. Not then, not now."

"Did you go to bed with prostitutes? In Saigon?"

"Yes. In Saigon."

"You told me before that you'd never been to bed with a prostitute."

"I was lying."

"So how do I know you're not lying now? Because this was a prostitute who got killed, you know."

"Yes, but it wasn't me who killed her."

"Are you telling me the truth now?"

"I swear on my grandmother's eyes."

"Because I have to be able to trust you, you know."

"You can trust me."

"Tell me a secret," she says. She is whispering now. She realizes all at once that she is whispering. "If you want me to trust you."

"I have no secrets."

"Then how can I trust you?"

"Trust me, Lois."

"Tell me what you're wearing," she whispers.

"Just a white T-shirt and slacks."

"What color slacks?"

"Blue."

"Like my nightgown and panties."

"Yes."

"Are you wearing shoes and socks?"

"No. I'm lying in bed."

"Are the lights on?"

"Just a lamp by the bed. Are the lights on there?" he asks.

"No, I'm lying here in the dark."

"Are you covered with a blanket or anything?"

"On a night like this?"

"Or a sheet?"

"No, I'm just lying here."

"Do you have air-conditioning?"

"No."

"Are the windows open?"

"One of them."

"I can hear sirens."

"This city."

They both fall silent, listening to the sirens.

"Ambulance," he says.

"Or police."

"They have a different sound."

"Maybe it's the police coming to get you," she says.

"How? They don't know where I am."

"They'll find you."

"So what? I didn't do anything."

"I hope not."

"I promise. Is it very warm there?"

"Sort of."

"Lois?"

"Yes, Ben?"

"Why don't you take off the nightgown? If you're warm, I mean."

"I'm not too warm."

"Night like tonight," he says.

"I'm really not…"

"Hot night like tonight."

"Well."

"Take it off, Lois."

"Well"

"Go ahead."

"All right."

She puts down the phone, pulls the nightgown over her head, tosses it to the foot of the bed. She lies back against the pillows again, puts the phone to her ear.

"Okay," she says, "it's off."

"What do you look like?"

"I can't see myself. It's dark."

"Turn on a light."

"Okay."

She reaches for the bedside lamp, finds the switch, turns it on. A warm glow suffuses the bed.

"Okay," she says.

"How do you look?"

"Fine."

"Tell me."

"Tell you what?"

"How you look. Describe yourself."

"I'm this raving beauty," she says, and giggles.

"Describe your breasts, for example."

She takes a deep breath.

"You know," she says, "Heather told me what you do with her."

"Did she?"

"Um-huh. What you do on the phone."

"She shouldn't have told you that."

"But she did."

"That was very naughty of her."

"But she told me."

"Telling you our secrets that way."

They are both whispering again.

"Did it excite you?" he asks.

"Sort of."

"Her telling you what she does with me on the phone?"

"Sort of."

"Have you ever done that with anyone on the phone?"

"No."

"Why don't you take off your panties, Lois?"

"Is that what you ask Heather to do?"

"Yes."

"Does Heather take off her panties for you?"

"All the time.'.

"Will you call me from Los Angeles when you get back there? Make me take my panties off, too?"

"Take them off now, Lois."

"Will you call me from Los Angeles? The way you call Heather?"

"All the time."

"Order me to take my panties off?"

"Yes. Take them off, Lois. Now."

She catches her breath.

"I have to put down the phone," she says.

"I'll wait."

"Stay there," she says.

"I'm waiting, Lois."

She puts down the receiver, hooks the waistband of her panties in both thumbs, slides them down over her narrow hips, raises her buttocks, pulls the panties down over her thighs and her knees, kicks them off her ankles and her feet. She lies back again, picks up the phone.

"They're off," she whispers.

The watch Emma wears is a thirty-nine-dollar Timex with a shiny black case and a black plastic strap and a dial that lights up blue when she pushes in the winding stem. She hits the stem now, the moment the telephone rings. It is exactly four minutes to five. In the dark, she picks up the receiver.

"Boyle," she says.

"It's me," Manzetti says. "Are you asleep?"

"Well, yes, I was."

"Sorry. I just heard from the L.A.P.D. They rode by Thorpe's house again, there's still nobody home. It's already two in the morning out there, where the hell is he?"

"Maybe he's still here," Emma says.

"Maybe that's why I can't sleep," Manzetti says.

The telephone rings again a few moments later. Her watch reads five-oh-one a.m.

"Hello?" she says.

Someone is sobbing on the other end of the line.

"Hello?" she says again.

"Detective Boyle?" a girl's voice says.

"Yes, who's this?"

"Lois."

"What's wrong, Lois?" she asks at once.

"I'm so ashamed," Lois says.

"What is it? Tell me."

"I'm so ashamed."

"Tell me what happened," Emma says.

This is what you say to rape victims. Tell me what happened. They want to tell you what happened, but at the same time they are ashamed of what happened, feel that they themselves are somehow responsible for what happened. Was my skirt too short, my heels too high, my blouse too low cut? Was I showing too much leg, breast, ass? Was my lipstick too bright? Did I look like a slut? Technically, Lois Ford is not a rape victim. But as she tells Emma What Benjamin Thorpe made her do on the telephone…

"Was he calling from Los Angeles?" Emma asks.

"No, New York. He's here in New York."

… as she reports in detail the conversation she had with him, a conversation that had started at approximately four a.m. and ended almost forty-five minutes later…

Emma looks at her watch.

It is now five-oh-eight.

"Yes, tell me," she says.

As Lois recites what happened, it becomes clear that she was every bit a rape victim as a woman dragged into the bushes and threatened with a knife. She'd been helpless in the hands of a gentleman rapist on the other end of the line, a friendly persuader, an experienced seducer who had done this many times before and who would do it again and again so long as there were women out there to be had for the plucking. Technically or not, Lois Ford had for damn sure been raped.

"How do you know he wasn't calling from L.A.?" Emma asks.

"He said he was in New York."

"Said he was Benjamin Thorpe?"

"Yes."

"Said he was calling from New York?"

"Yes."

"Did he say from where in New York?"

"No."

"Did you ask him?"

"No."

"Is your phone number listed in the directory?"

"Yes. But not my first name. Just an L."

"Do you have caller ID?"

"No."

"What time did he call, Lois?"

"Around four."

"And what time did the call end?"

"Just before I called you."

"Five, ten minutes ago?"

"Yes."

"You're sure it wasn't longer ago than that?"

"I'm sure."

"It wasn't longer ago than a half-hour, was it?"

"No."

"You're positive?"

"Positive."

"All right, then, listen to me carefully. This is what I want you to do."

She calls Morgan and asks him to meet her for breakfast at a diner on Canal Street, convenient to both the Chelsea brownstone and his apartment in SoHo. The streets are still heavy with fog when he arrives at six-thirty in the morning.

"You'd think it was fuckin London," he says.

He is wearing jeans and a lemon-colored cotton sweater. Loafers without socks. Emma has thrown on a green cotton skirt and matching T. She is barelegged and wearing darker green slides with a low heel. They look as if they're both dressed for a day in the Hamptons, but officially, they're not on the job yet. They are just two off-duty cops meeting for breakfast.

"I was up half the night…" he says.

"Me, too."

"… tryin'a dope this thing out. It's a bitch, ain't it?"

"It is," Emma agrees.

"So what's all. this you have to tell me?" he asks.

He is eating blueberry pancakes. He slices them with his fork, lifts little triangles dripping syrup to his mouth. He hasn't yet shaved this morning; there is a faint beard stubble on his chin and his jowls.

"Thorpe called Lois Ford," she says.

"You're kidding me!"

"He's in New York, Jimmy. He told her he's in New York."

"Where? Jesus, does she know where?"

"No. He called for phone sex…"

Jimmy is nodding.

"Led her down the garden…"

"Naturally, these guys," he says, still nodding.

"I asked her to hit Star 69. I figured if Thorpe got horny, maybe he also got reckless. What you do, you hit the star key on your phone and then the six and the nine…"

"I know."

"… and you get the number of the last person who called. You have to do it within a half-hour after the person hangs up. But it won't work if the caller has a block on his line."

"I know. Zippo," Morgan says, and nods again.

"Zippo," Emma says. "Thorpe called from a blocked phone. But there's something else, Jimmy. This is what's driving me nuts."

He is lifting a wedge of pancake to his mouth. He waits, the fork poised.

"Cathy had a boyfriend."

"What!"

"Some guy who thought she was really Heidi."

"What do you mean?"

"Dressed her like a little girl."

"Who told you this?"

"Cindy."

"You made contact again, huh?"

"Don't get sore. I Would've called you, but…"

"No, that's okay."

"It was late, Jimmy. I went up there two in the morning."

"Up where?"

"The XS."

"Busy at that time, I'll bet."

"Very. She told me this guy waited outside for Cathy after work each night."

"Did she say who?"

"Never met him."

"Did she get a look at him?"

"No. But it can't be Thorpe. He only got here Wednesday."

"Be too much to hope for, anyway."

"Never met him. Never saw him. So she says."

"You think she's lying?"

"I think she's frightened. He's the reason Cathy changed the lock on her door."

"Then he's the one who broke in this afternoon! Shit, Emma, let's go up the XS right this minute!"

"She's long gone, Jimmy."

"See if anybody else up there knows this guy. Jesus, all at once this is coming together!"

"You think?"

"Well, don't you? This is a real lead, Emma, this really gives us something to work with! We find this guy, we wrap it!" He gulps down coffee, wipes his mouth and his chin with a napkin. "Here's what I think," he says.

"Let me hear."

"I think we should go back to the XS, see if Cathy's boyfriend actually exists."

"Okay."

"See if anybody up there actually ever saw the guy."

"Okay."

"What do you say?"

"I say good."

"You wanna go back up there?"

"Yes."

"Ask some questions?"

"Yes."

"Try to zero in on this creep?"

"Yes."

"Nail the son of a bitch?"

"Yes," she says, and nods. "Yes, I do."

They sit there grinning at each other. For the first time since yesterday morning, she feels they're really working together.

"But not now," she says. "Nobody'll be there right now."

He looks at his watch.

"They don't come in till ten," she says.

"Okay, I'll meet you there at ten." He picks up the check, looks at it. "You want to split this or what?" he asks.

"Of course," she says, and reaches into her bag for her wallet.

"Three bucks enough for the tip?" he asks, and shows her the bill. There is suddenly a look of such boyish uncertainty on his face that she wants to hug him.

"Three bucks is fine," she says.

On Emma's cheap Timex, it is ten minutes to eight when she gets to Cathy Frese's building on Lexington Avenue. The fog is still thick, the city seems insulated in gray. Tenants are coming out of the building, into the fog, heading off to work. As Emma climbs to the second floor, tenants coming down the stairs glance curiously at the yellow tapes and the policeman standing outside the door to apartment 22.

She shows the officer her shield and her ID card, tells him she's investigating the murder of the girl who lived here, and asks him to unlock the Medeco for her, please. The officer has just relieved the Graveyard Shift, and this is his first day at the crime scene, so he's not sure whether it's okay to let her in or not. Emma advises him to check with his patrol sergeant, and waits while he steps away from her to phone in. A short stout woman comes lumbering up the steps. She is wearing a gray skirt, a red T-shirt, and black clogs.

"Ah, good," she says when she sees Emma.

The accent is Polish or Hungarian, Yugoslavian perhaps, Middle European certainly. Her face is broad and lined. Out of breath after her climb, she places her hands on ample hips and says, "Forgive, please. You want cleaning?"

"Sorry?" Emma says.

"I super," the woman says. "What to do with dry cleaning?"

Emma still doesn't understand.

"Miss Cathy dry cleaning. You want take? I bring?"

"Oh. Yes. Sure. Bring it up."

The woman nods and turns away, unhappily surveying the steps down. She is heading below again when the patrolman returns.

"I'm sorry, Detective," he says. "I had to check."

"That's okay," Emma says.

He inserts the key in the Medeco, twists it, snaps the lock open, removes it from the hasp.

"You be all right in there alone?" he asks.

"I'll be all right," Emma assures him, and goes into the apartment.

She does not know quite why she came back here, or exactly what she's looking for. The apartment is still. The fog lurks outside the single window in the room, swirls in eddies in the brick shaftway that offers no light on this gloomy morning. She snaps on an overhead bulb covered with a Japanese lantern. There is scarce improvement.

Mind the vic, she thinks. Find the vic.

Find the vic in the clutter of clothing still here on the open sofa-bed, exactly where it was last night when they came here for the first time. Find the vic in the little-girl socks and blouses and panties and shoes and, yes, even the string Forever bracelet. Emma owned a Forever bracelet when she was twelve, wore it day and night, never took it off till it rotted on her wrist.

Or find the vic in the sexy undergarments Cathy Frese might have wished to wear to her place of business, the way Emma sometimes wishes to wear to work something other than the strictly practical outfits the job demands, garter belt and seamed black stockings under a long black skirt, perhaps — surprise, Captain! Wear what the other girls at the XS wore, Cindy in her blatant threads looking like a hooker auditioning for the role of hooker, Julia Roberts pretending she fucks for money, Richard Gere pretending she's a street walker and not a movie star, must be difficult to tell the difference, huh?

Never mind the little white baby doll nightie draped on the body of a twenty-six-year-old woman trying to look thirteen, the shaved pubic area, the tiny breasts and wide innocent eyes, pick me, sir, won't you please pick me? Too bad about the gold tooth in the corner of her mouth. The gold tooth gave away the game. The gold tooth flashed I-Am-a-Whore to the night. The gold tooth signaled wisdom and worldliness, I have been here, I have done this, I am not a naif in Candyland.

Find the vic, Emma thinks, and tries to remember what it was like to wear a Forever bracelet.

What it had meant to her, if anything.

She cannot for the life of her recall that twelve-year-old girl.

"Missis?"

She turns toward the door.

The super is standing there, holding in her right hand a bluish-green garment on a wire hanger covered with plastic wrap.

"Where to put?" she asks.

"I'll take it," Emma says.

"Comes back yesterday," the super says, and shrugs and hands it to Emma.

Emma moves around the sofa-bed…

Carries the garment to the closet…

Hangs it on the rod…

Glances idly through the plastic…

Sees a flash of…

Gold?

Gold embroidery, is it?

Gold and red embroidery?

And leans in closer to the hanging garment.

"Oh dear God," she says.

Chapter fourteen

When he answers the door to his loft, Morgan is wearing the same jeans and yellow cotton sweater he wore to breakfast not three hours ago. He seems mildly surprised to find Manzetti and Emma on his doorstep, but he grins amiably and says, "Hey, I was just about to come meet you."

Emma is carrying a blue, drawstring canvas bag with the words NYPD and EVIDENCE stenciled on it in white. There is a CHAIN OF CUSTODY tag hanging on the bag, with spaces for signatures acknowledging transfer from one person or entity to another, but so far the only one who's signed for possession is Emma herself. Morgan most certainly recognizes this type of bag, and the tag attached to it, but he makes no comment, asks instead if anyone would like coffee.

"Not me," Manzetti says.

"Thanks, no," Emma says.

She is glancing around the place. The loft is in one of those unrenovated buildings that still exist down here in SoHo, a huge space that is sparsely furnished and spotlessly clean. It is already a quarter past nine but the morning fog still hasn't cleared. It presses now against the kitchen windows, where a small round breakfast table and three chairs rest in an angled nook. Morgan catches Emma's eye, beams at her, says, "Nice, huh? My daughter's coming tomorrow, I spruced it up." Framed photographs of a young girl at various ages line the walls of the entire space, including some recent ones that show a plain-looking girl of twelve or thirteen, with long stringy blond hair and pale vacant eyes. "That's Fiona," he says proudly. "Beautiful, huh?" and beams again at Emma.

Emma yanks open the top of the canvas bag, reaches into it, and takes from it a pleated plaid skirt and a blue blazer.

Sewn to the breast pocket of the blazer is a patch embroidered in red and gold.

The patch reads ST MARY'S ON THE MOUNT.

"It's your daughter's," she says. "Her name tag is in it."

Morgan says nothing.

"Cathy Frese sent it out for dry-cleaning. It came back yesterday."

"Uh-huh," he says.

"Let's talk, okay, Jimmy?" Manzetti says.

"Sure," he says. "Sit down. You're positive no coffee?"

They sit at the round table. The fog adds a sense of unreality to the meeting, of secrecy, almost of conspiracy. Morgan is one of their own. This is why they aren't dragging him out of here in handcuffs. This is why, against all odds, they are giving him the benefit of the doubt. Emma almost hopes she's mistaken. But she knows she isn't.

"Why didn't you tell us you knew her?" she asks.

"I did."

"No, you told us…"

"I told you we answered a squeal two, three weeks…"

"June thirtieth," she says. "I called Vice half an hour ago, got the exact date."

"You told Lou about this, huh?"

"No, I talked to someone else up there. And I didn't mention your name, I just…"

"You shouldn't have done that. You have a tendency to be a lone wolf, Emma."

"Jimmy," Manzetti says, "how well did you know this girl?"

"I only saw her that one time. If you're trying to…"

"We've got your daughter's uniform in her apartment."

"I must've left it there. I probably went to talk to her on a follow-up, forgot Fiona's uniform there. That's probably what happened."

"So it wasn't just the one time."

"The one time and a follow-up, probably. This was an assault, you know, the disturbance at the XS. So I probably was doing a follow-up. In fact, I was wondering where that uniform disappeared to."

"You always carry your daughter's uniform with you on police business?" Emma asks.

"I was probably taking it to the tailor's or something."

"Jimmy, you're an experienced cop," Manzetti says. "If you were listening to this, would you buy it?"

"I know it sounds funny. But sometimes truth is…"

"We have you getting into a cab on Broadway and West Third…" Emma says.

"Come on, that was…"

"… three, four blocks from where you live."

"That was Thorpe."

"We've got the cab dropping you off in front of the XS…"

"Thorpe."

"We'll bring the cabbie in, you know," Manzetti says. "He saw you up close, Jimmy. We'll bring back the other witnesses, too, give them a better look this time. We'll get our positive, Jimmy. You know we will."

"Unreliable," he says and turns to Emma and spreads his hands wide, and nods, seeking acknowledgment of a simple police fact: witnesses are notoriously unreliable.

"We'll take a bite impression, too," Manzetti says. "We're allowed to do that, Jimmy."

"Gee, no kidding?"

"We've also got DNA samples from the perp's semen…"

"Scientific experts never agree, ask O.J. about it."

"Point is, we've got a very good case here even without your daughter's clothes in the vic's possession."

"I didn't know you were making a case here. I thought this was just a conversation between fellow officers."

"What was the uniform doing there, Jimmy?" Emma asks.

"I already explained that," he says, and smiles, and starts to rise. "So if this little conversation is ended here…"

"Sit down, Jimmy."

"You giving me orders, Emma? I've been on the job almost twenty years now, who do you think you're ordering around? You know how many arrests I've made? Don't treat me like some fuckin criminal, okay? I told you how that uniform…"

"Were you seeing her, Jimmy?"

"Who?"

"Cathy Frese, who do you think we're talking about here? Were you seeing her?"

"I told you no. Listen, this is turning into an interrogation here, am I right? In which case, maybe you ought to arrest me and read me Miranda."

"You want Miranda? Fine!" Emma says. "You have the right to remain silent…"

"Cool it, Emma," Manzetti says.

"He wants Miranda, I'll give him Miranda. Anything you say may be…"

"Did you call Lois Ford last night?" Manzetti asks.

"No? Who the fuck is Lois Ford?"

"You know who she is. She's Heather Epstein's girlfriend. Did you call her at four in the…?"

"No. I never even met her. Why would I want to…?"

"We'll go to the phone company," Emma says. "Get a list of every phone call you…"

"Okay, I called her, okay? It's okay for you to be a lone wolf, right? But I make one lousy phone call on my own, to a person I believe is a witness…"

"Why didn't you tell me you'd called her?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"At breakfast this morning…"

"I was half asleep…"

"When I told you Thorpe called her…"

"I thought maybe he…"

"Why didn't you contradict me? Why didn't you say No, I'm the one who called her."

"Because I thought maybe he'd called her, too. You know, Emma, there's a logical explanation for everything in this world. There doesn't have to be a rapist behind every bush! Thorpe called a young girl for whatever perverted reasons of his own. I called a witness because I thought she might be able to tell me more about this person who was still a prime suspect in our case. All very logical, Emma. All perfectly under…"

"You always have phone sex with a witness?" Emma says.

"I did not have phone sex with Lois Ford."

"You know a girl named Cindy Mayes?" Emma asks.

"Cindy, Cindy," he says, and rolls his eyes toward the ceiling as if trying to remember. "Cindy Mayes, yes," he says, and taps his temple.

"Did she know you and Cathy were seeing each other?"

"I don't know what she knew or didn't know. And I wasn't seeing Cathy Frese. Except for that night of the disturbance and the follow-up in her apartment that one time. If that constitutes seeing her, then, yes, I was seeing her."

"Did Cindy know this?" Emma asks.

"I met Cindy only once in my entire lifetime, the night of the disturbance. I have no idea what she…"

"Did she spot you waiting for Cathy one night?"

"I never waited for Cathy."

"Recognize you as a Vice cop?"

"No, I really don't think so. Why would I wait for Cathy? I hardly knew her."

"Are you the one she's scared of?"

"Why should she be?"

"Because she knows you're the weirdo who waited downstairs for Cathy."

"Hey, weirdo, that's a strong word, Emma."

"It's her word, not mine."

"Strong word, weirdo."

"Well, how would you describe a man who dresses a whore in his daughter's clothes?"

"Does what?" he says, and actually laughs.

"It's not funny, Jimmy."

"Well, I never dressed anyone in Fiona's clothes."

"Wouldn't you call such a man a weirdo, Jimmy?"

"You know, Tony," he says, turning to him, "I'm just an honest cop here trying to do his job, I really don't have to take this from her. The job's tough enough without this petty bullshit. I may yell every now and then, yes, I may use the word fuck, I may fart, I may belch, I'm a cop, what does she expect from me, sonatas? But I would never use the word weirdo to describe myself. Or any other cop, for that matter."

Emma all but rolls her eyes. Morgan catches this.

"Oh, what is it, Emma?" he says. "Am I disappointing you? Would you like me to say I snatched every strand of hair from Cathy Frese's head, choked her to death, shoved my piece inside her, pulled the fucking trigger? Is that the weirdo Cindy described to you, that cunt? Well, I'm not him, you've got the wrong man here. I got a citation for bravery, you know that? Guy with a sawed-off shotgun, I dropped him in his fucking tracks! So, gee, I'm so terribly sorry I'm not handing you my head on a silver platter, but if you're going to seriously charge me with anything here, you'd better do it now. Otherwise, there's the door."

The room falls silent.

"Is that it, Jimmy?" Emma asks.

"That's it," he says. "No more questions. Find another patsy."

"Jimmy," she says, "what would…?"

"I said no more fuckin questions!"

"What would your daughter think if she knew you were dressing a whore in her clothes?"

"You'd have to prove that."

"Are you going to explain that to her, Jimmy?"

"There's nothing to explain."

"Daddy going to explain that to his little girl?"

"I'm a good father."

"Daddy going to take her on his knee and tell her he let a whore wear her skirt…"

"I didn't."

"… her school blazer…"

"No."

"Her white cotton panties?"

"No, you're…"

"While he made love to her, Jimmy?"

"Hey! Careful!"

"How are you going to explain that to a thirteen-year-old girl?"

"This is my daughter you're talking about here, okay?"

"How are you going to tell Fiona you dressed a whore in her clothes and fucked her?"

The loft goes silent.

"Why'd you dress her in your daughter's clothes, Jimmy?"

He shakes his head.

"Jimmy?"

"I never…"

He stops himself.

"Never what?"

"Nothing."

"Never what, Jimmy!"

"Touched her."

His voice low.

"What?"

"I never did."

A whisper.

"What? I can't hear you."

He buries his face in his hands.

"Never," he says.

Emma waits.

"Never."

And all at once, he is sobbing.

He directs his confession…

But it isn't truly a confession.

… to Emma. He seems to be trying to explain…

No, not explain, actually.

He seems to be… well… apologizing. But it isn't even an apology. It's as if he's just chatting with her over a beer or a cup of coffee, trying to be charming, trying to be engaging, trying to demonstrate through his wit and his obvious qualities that he can't possibly be the kind of man he himself considers a monster. How can he possibly be this terrible person who did such things to a young girl? He is not that kind of person at all. He is James Fulton Morgan, son of an honest bricklayer in the Bronx, veteran of the Vietnamese War, holder of an N.Y.P.D. citation for bravery when he was still a patrolman in the Ninth and broke up a liquor store robbery where the perp was holding a fucking sawed-off shotgun on him!

He cannot help being flirtatious.

He isn't even aware that he's being flirtatious.

He is merely trying to convince the only woman in the room…

He seems to have forgotten Manzetti entirely…

… that he is really a nice guy worth knowing.

"The first time I met her," he says, "she was bleeding from the lip. He'd split her lip. There was a drunk up there who got insulted because… well, you know, Emma. Stanley, the big movie star from Private Ryan and Sixth Sense, I would've killed him if he'd still been there. I offered her my handkerchief. Clean white handkerchief, I always take a clean handkerchief when I leave the house in the morning. She took the handkerchief, dabbed at her lip with it. I gave her my handkerchief, Emma."

"She was… I don't know. Different. I must know, what, a thousand hookers? More. She didn't seem like a hooker. She was wearing this little white nightie, she looked like a kid who'd wandered into a whore house by accident, I wanted to read her a fuckin bedtime story, you know what I'm saying? Stood there dabbing at her lip. That pigeon-toed way of standing they have? Little girls? Fiona still stands that way sometimes. No panties, well, she was a whore, you know, I realized that, this was a whore house, after all, we were responding to a disturbance in a whore house, was what it was. Shaved little pussy. A whore. They have no modesty. Standing there half-naked, dabbing at her lip with my handkerchief, describing the son of a bitch who'd hit her and this other girl, you met her, T.J., we talked to her yesterday. But Cathy didn't look like one, that was the thing of it. She looked like… I don't know. Well, you saw her, Emma, you were at the scene. Did she look like a hooker? I mean, she looked like a teenager, didn't she? Tell me the truth, didn't she?

"I took her aside — Lou was talking to the other girl, T. J. — and I told her if she was afraid the guy who hit her might be waiting downstairs or anything, Stanley, I'd be happy to escort her home. She said Oh, well, yes, gee, that's very nice of you, I am kind of shaken up, Detective, that's very nice of you to make such an offer, all that. You know how girls talk, her hands fluttering, all flushed kind of, just let me change, I'll meet you downstairs, okay?

"That's how it started. I sent Lou on his way, he's oblivious half the time, anyway, doesn't know what the hell's going on. This is now three, three-thirty in the morning, she comes down wearing blue jeans and a white T-shirt, she shoulda had a lollipop, I have to tell you. Cute as could be. Adorable. She took my arm. It was like we were both kids coming home late after a dance or something, I mean it, I felt I was still a kid growing up in the Bronx, she made me feel that way. I was still Jamie back then, in the Bronx, I didn't begin calling myself Jimmy till I joined the force. Jimmy's better for a cop, don't you think? Do you like the name Jimmy?" he asks Emma.

"It's a good name," she says.

"I think so. Lots of cops get brutalized by the job, you know, I'm happy that never happened to me. I wouldn't have been able to appreciate Cathy if that had happened to me. I mean, how many hookers have I met since I moved over to Vice? A thousand? It has to be at least a thousand. And yes, I've been tempted, yes, I'll admit that, I'm a human being, I've been tempted," sounding suddenly rabbinical, "some of these girls are very beautiful, you know. Well, take Cindy, for example, she's really a very beautiful girl, you have to wonder how some of these girls end up prostituting themselves. But, yes, I admit it, Emma, if you're in my line of work, you sometimes sample the sweets, I wouldn't be human if I hadn't been tempted, all those beautiful girls eager to oblige. But I never let the job brutalize me, I've always been Jimmy the Cop, same as when I was walking a beat. That's the thing. That's what made it possible for me to see Cathy as a human being and not some cheap whore peddling her ass."

"We went to bed together that very first night. She lives on Sixty-eighth, just off York, this little dump — well, you saw the apartment, Jesus. She was… I can't tell you what that first time with her was like. I'm divorced, you know — well, I told you all this, Emma, you know my whole life's history, I'm practically an open book. The point is, I've been with other women since the divorce, not only hookers, my life doesn't revolve entirely around hookers, you know, in spite of my occupation, I'm a cop, okay? I'm a Vice cop. My job is to suppress vice in this city. I know my job, and I do my job, believe me. What I'm trying to say, though, is I've known other women — straight women — and none of them compared to what it was like with Cathy. None of them. What Cathy and I knew together…

"Emma, do you remember what it was like when you were a teenager? The first time you fell in love? That's what we had together. It was pure. Innocent. That's the only way I can describe it. Pure. I loved her, Emma. I truly guess I loved her. In fact, I can't think of anyone I ever loved more. Well, my daughter maybe. But aside from her, nobody. Do you understand what I'm saying?

"Last night, when I called Lois… I shouldn't have lied to you about that, Emma, that was stupid. I apologize for that. That showed a lack of respect. Of course you'd find out, did I think I was dealing with a person who didn't know her job? Forgive me for that, Emma. But the reason I called her… with Cathy gone… with no one to… I thought… I tried to… you see. Without Cathy, I was afraid I…

"Did you ever have the feeling something terrible was about to happen? Last night, laying there in bed… I had the feeling that with Cathy gone, something terrible might happen, I didn't know what. This wasn't the first time I called a girl for phone sex. I mean, well… I'm exposed to sex day and night, you know what I mean? So, yes, I've called girls and had sex with them on the phone, yes. Even though that's against the rules. And I admit calling Lois last night. But she wanted it as much as I did, nobody forced her to do what she did. You never have to force any of these young girls on the phone, they know more about sex than we do. You know what I mean?"

Sure, Emma thinks. It was consensual.

"They get younger and younger, the girls cruising the bars. I go to bars all over the city. One of the rules is no hookers, I can get hookers anytime I want, I just stop by and say Who wants me to padlock this place, and there are a dozen girls on their knees in a minute. That's one of my rules, no hookers. Which I broke, of course, the minute I started seeing Cathy. But she didn't look like a hooker, did she? Tell the truth. No phone sex, either, that's another rule. But I broke that one last night because… I don't know why I called her, I honestly don't. I just had the feeling something bad might happen this weekend. With Cathy gone, something terrible might happen."

What rules? Emma wonders.

"I used to meet her after work," he says. "Young girl on the street that hour of the night, hey, it's just not safe. Well, you know this city. I'm afraid myself sometimes, that hour of the night, and I pack a nine. This city is fall of weirdoes, you know, Cindy was right to think it might've been some weirdo waiting downstairs. These girls get all kinds, believe me, they're wise beyond their years, these girls. You should've heard some of the stories Cathy told me, they'd curl your hair, the things men asked her to do. The things she had to do. She was hooking in Idaho, too, you know. Before she came to New York. You think What! Idaho? Hookers in Idaho? Well, there are more hookers in America than there are manicurists, believe me, I've been a Vice cop for a thousand years. That's my first rule. No hookers."

"What rules are you talking about, Jimmy?"

"I have these rules," he says. "No hookers, that's my first rule. No topless bars. No escort services. No phone sex. I have ten rules."

"Where'd you get these rules, Jimmy?"

"I made them up. To keep myself in line. Well, this job, you know. No pornography, no R-rated cable movies, no adult magazines, no singles newspapers — ten rules altogether. This world we live in, you need rules. You read the papers, there are twelve-year-old girls think nothing of giving blowjobs, they're like goodnight kisses to them. Read the newspapers, Emma, I'm not making this up. You see some of these young girls today…"

He shakes his head, lets the sentence trail.

"What, Jimmy?"

"No staring," he says, "that's another rule. I stare sometimes. It's a real problem. No staring is at the bottom of my list, but it's truly a problem. With me, it's a very real problem. These are very tempting times we live in, not that I'm trying to excuse myself. But I find myself staring a lot. At girls on the subway, at girls going home from school. I even stared at you, Emma, I'm sorry about that. Remember when you reached over the seat for your bag yesterday? I stared at you, I looked up your skirt, Emma, I'm sorry about that. But staring at girls is one thing, jerking off Lois Ford on the phone is one thing. Killing Cathy is another.

"I'm trying to tell you I know the kind of person I am, I'm aware of my shortcomings, I'm trying to do something about it. That's why I made up the rules. My mother had a lot of rules, too, when I was growing up. Rules are good for you. She was a gorgeous woman, my mother, red hair and green eyes… well, “Did Your Mother Come from Ireland,” do you know the song? A gorgeous woman, but she had her rules, you know, oh boy, did she have her rules. She wasn't a tall woman by modern-day standards, my mother, but she gave an impression of height, well, what was she, five-six, five-seven, this was tall for women back then, wasn't it? Back then when I was still a little kid? My oldest memory… well, I'm not even sure it was a memory, maybe it was a dream, it sometimes seems like a dream, all of it seems like a fuckin dream."

I don't want to hear this, Emma thinks, and remembers what Morgan said when they were coming back to Manhattan on the Brooklyn Bridge.

Most of them were abused one way or another when they were kids, they got bad memories go back half a century, all of them sex-related.

"She was getting dressed for a party, and I was in her bedroom, watching. She always wore the most beautiful lingerie

I really don't want to hear this, she thinks. I don't care if your mother marched around the house naked, or your father beat you with a stick, or your sister entertained sailors while you watched, I do not care what trauma or traumas caused you to become the fucking rapist and killer you are today, I do not care at all. I do not care what caused Andrew to fuck the Swedish nanny, either, if he was fucking her, I do not care what caused him to fuck Felicia, whoever she was or may still be, I simply do not care what causes men to do the awful, hurtful things they do. So don't tell me about your mother, I do not care, I do not care!

"“I'm going to catch you, Jamie,” she used to say, “catch you, Jamie, catch you”…"

I don't want to know, Emma thinks.

"Tell me what happened," she says.

This is what you say to rape victims, she realizes. Tell me what happened.

"I'm not even sure," he says.

"Then tell me what you think happened."

He shakes his head.

"Tell me, okay?" she says. "Come on, Jimmy. Get it off your chest. Please. Tell me."

She holds her breath. Waits. Waits. Across the table, she can hear Manzetti's shallow breathing. Yellow fog presses in against the window panes. From the walls everywhere in the loft, the framed photographs of Fiona Morgan seem to be watching, listening attentively.

He nods.

She waits.

He keeps nodding.

"I was walking her home," he says. "She had her arm through mine…"

She has her arm through his, everything seems the same as always, nothing different… well, she's wearing a skirt. She usually wears jeans when she leaves work, but tonight — it's four in the morning, but it's still dark, and he considers it the nighttime, a dangerous time — tonight she's wearing a short skirt and a kind of loose blouse, no buttons, not a T-shirt, a tunic? No bra. She has very small breasts, you know. Very small. His daughter is more developed, to tell the truth, and she's only thirteen.

"It was very hot that night, do you remember how hot it was that night? The rain had stopped, a fog was rolling in. We walked through the fog, her arm through mine, everything seemed normal. I wasn't expecting anything out of the ordinary, everything seemed just the way it always was. I guess I asked her… no. I was about to say I asked her if she'd like to come to my place for the weekend, but I couldn't have because I knew Fiona would be there, I knew I had visitation this weekend. So it wasn't that. That wasn't how Fiona got in the conversation. I think what it was, actually, well… what I think happened was she told me straight out she'd changed the lock on her door. Bam. Straight between the eyes. I changed the lock on my door, Jimmy…"

He thinks at first some John is maybe bothering her, following her home from the salon, something like that. He thinks she's asking him to help her with a problem she's having. Why'd you change the lock? he asks her. She tells him she changed the lock because she doesn't want to see him anymore. I don't want you to bother me anymore, she says. Don't come around anymore, she's telling him. I don't want you hanging around anymore. Don't wait for me outside anymore. I don't want you touching me anymore. I'm not your goddamn daughter.

"Well, I'll tell you, I honestly didn't know how Fiona had got in the conversation all of a sudden unless she was suggesting — well, I don't know what she was suggesting. I can tell you that ever since Fiona became a young lady, I've been completely circumspect. We're alone together a lot, and I know how impressionable young girls are, so I'm very careful about that, even though I find it strange that I used to wash her little bottom when she was a baby and now I have to watch my P's and Q's with her — well, they grow up, I guess. What I'm trying to tell you is I couldn't understand why Cathy was saying I don't want you touching me anymore, I'm not your goddamn daughter. What the hell was that supposed to mean? I've never laid a finger on her. Never touched her. Ever.

"This was very threatening, Emma. I don't know why. The idea of being locked out, of being told she didn't want to see me again, I found this very threatening. I'm a man who knows how to take care of himself, I've knocked many a cheap thief on his ass, but when she told me I was being locked out, she didn't want to see me again, didn't want me to touch her again, she wasn't my goddamn daughter, I found all this very threatening. Very upsetting. Because if I couldn't see Cathy anymore, if I didn't have Cathy, then… then… don't you see how threatening that could be? How upsetting? Not having Cathy there to… to…? What would I do?. How would I manage to… to…?"

He shakes his head.

"Go on, Jimmy. Tell me what happened."

"I slapped her."

"Why?"

"I don't know why. She was scaring me. I grabbed her wrist. I said, I don't want to hear any more of that! I don't care what you want, you'll do what I tell you to do! She started screaming. I slapped her again

The fog is swirling everywhere around them as they struggle on the street corner. Someone is approaching, a black woman carrying a shopping bag. She stops dead on the sidewalk. Cathy is still screaming. He slaps her again, starts dragging her up the street. The black woman turns and runs. He drags Cathy by the wrist, tells her they're going home, never mind this shit…

"And no more about my daughter," he says, "you hear me?"

"Let go of me!"

"Keep my daughter out of your filthy mouth! Not another word about her!"

"Fine, just let go of me!"

"You hear me?"

"I hear you, goddamn it! You want to fuck your daughter, go fuck her. Just leave me…"

He smacks her again, harder this time. She begins screaming again as he drags her up the street and pulls her into a narrow alleyway between a sushi joint and a shoe repair shop. He hits her again, harder this time, his fist bunched, and she reels away from him, almost fainting. He grabs her again, by the hair this time, holding her up by the hair, punching her. She falls to her knees on the pavement. He unzips his fly. He grabs her by the hair again, meaning to pull her into his cock, onto his cock, but a clump of hair comes loose in his fist, and she screams again.

He grabs her by the throat.

"Be still," he says.

He does not want to kill her.

He tightens his hands on her neck.

"Be still."

He does not mean to kill her.

The scream in her throat tapers.

He lets her drop to the alleyway floor.

The fog sweeps in around them.

He falls to his knees beside her. He lifts her skirt and rips open her panties. Breathing harshly, sobbing, he throws himself upon her and sinks his teeth into her cheek and buries himself deep inside her.

The loft is utterly still.

Morgan sits staring at his hands on the kitchen table.

"Jimmy?" Emma says.

He looks up at her.

"Let's go now, okay? We have to go now."

"What about my daughter?" he says.

"What?"

"I'm supposed to get her again this weekend," he says.

Chapter fifteen

It is twenty minutes to eleven when she gets back to Chelsea. The fog hasn't yet lifted. She walks home from the subway station through thick layers of mist yellowed by automobile headlights. There are shadows in the mist. Muffled voices. As she lets herself into the house, she feels she is surrounded by restless ghosts.

It seems so still, the house.

These days, it seems so still.

She goes into the kitchen, grinds coffee, measures it into the coffee maker, pours in water enough for three cups. When Andrew used to live here, they made six cups of coffee every morning. She hits a button. A red light comes on..

It is seven minutes to eleven when the coffee is ready. She pours herself a cup. Sits by the kitchen windows, looking out at her shrouded garden. Sipping at her coffee, she thinks about Morgan again, remembers what he said about people like himself.

They think about sex every minute of the day, they can't stop thinking about it. Right now, right this minute, he's thinking about sex, I'll bet a million dollars on it. Running girls through his mind, memories of every girl he ever knew or hoped to know, turning them over in his mind. I know these creeps, believe me, I've been with Vice for almost a hundred years now. We better catch this guy soon, before he—

Before he what? she wonders.

She sips at her coffee, takes from her tote the list of phone numbers Thorpe called from his hotel room. Stares at the list for a long time. Listen, the hell with it, she thinks. He's in L. A., let their mothers worry. But she keeps staring at the list.

She goes to the counter, pours herself another cup of coffee, picks up the list again. Looks at her watch. Too early to call, anyway, she thinks. Well, she thinks, and sighs, and lifts the receiver, and dials the number in Topanga Canyon. The phone rings half a dozen times. She almost hangs up.

"Hello?" a man's voice says.

"Mr Thorpe?" she says.

"Yes?"

"Benjamin Thorpe?"

"Yes."

"We've been trying to reach you."

"Who's this?" he asks.

"Detective Boyle," she says. "N.Y.P.D. Where have you been, Mr Thorpe?"

"Is something wrong?" he asks.

"Nothing's wrong. Where have you been?"

"At the hospital," he says. "My mother-in-law had a heart attack."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Emma says.

"We just got home a few minutes ago." His voice breaks. "She passed away," he says.

"I'm sorry."

"Yes," he says.

She visualizes him nodding. She has heard him described so many times that she feels she actually knows him.

"Mr Thorpe," she says, "I'm calling as a friend."

"What did you say your name was?"

"Boyle. Emma Boyle. Detective/Second Grade Emma Boyle. Special Victims Squad. N.Y.P.D. You were the topic of some concern here in New York," she says.

"I'm not sure I…"

"Your Thursday morning comings and goings were under close scrutiny here," she says.

There is another silence on the line.

"You came close," she says. "Very close, Mr Thorpe."

"I don't know what you mean," he says.

"I think you know what I mean, Mr Thorpe."

There is another silence.

"Get some help," she says.

The silence lengthens.

"Mr Thorpe?"

"Yes?"

"Get some help. Do you hear me?"

He does not answer. She thinks for a moment she's lost him.

"Do you hear me, Mr Thorpe?" she says.

"I hear you," he says at last.

"Good," she says. "I'm sorry to have bothered you so early in the morning."

"No bother," he says, and hangs up.

She puts the receiver back on its cradle, nods, pours the last cup of coffee from the pot. Sipping it, savoring it, she wonders if she really should go up to Connecticut this weekend, shoot her mother-in-law, kidnap her own daughter. Shaking her head, smiling, she looks out at her garden. A fiery red azalea blossom seems to pop out of the mist.

She looks at her watch.

It is exactly eight a.m. in Los Angeles.

The fog is lifting.