Cemetery Dance

Chapter 4

Caitlyn Kidd sat in the driver's seat of her RAV4, balancing a breakfast sandwich from Subway in one hand and a large black coffee in the other. Her nose was buried in the issue ofVanity Fair that lay propped against the steering wheel. Outside, the morning rush — hour traffic on West 79th Street hooted and blared in an uncomfortable ostinato.

A police radio set into the dashboard crackled to life, and Caitlyn glanced down at it immediately.

"…Headquarters to 2527, respond to a 10–50 at corner of One Eighteenth and Third…"

As quickly as it had flared up, her interest vanished again. She took another bite of her sandwich, flipped the pages of the magazine with a free fingertip.

As a reporter covering Manhattan's crime beat, Caitlyn found herself spending a lot of her time hanging out in her car. Crimes often occurred in out — of — the — way corners of the island, and if you knew your way around, your own car beat the hell out of riding the subway or hailing a cab. It was a business where the scoop was everything, where minutes counted. And the police — band radio helped make sure she stayed on top of the most interesting stories. One big scoop — that's what she was hoping for. One really big scoop.

On the passenger seat, her cell phone blared. She picked it up and snugged it between chin and shoulder, performing a complex three — way juggle involving sandwich, phone, and coffee. "Kidd."

"Caitlyn. Where are you?"

She recognized the voice: Larry Bassington, an obituary writer with the West Sider, the daily throwaway tabloid where they both worked. He was always hitting on her. She'd agreed to let him buy her lunch, mostly because money was short and payday wasn't until the end of the week.

"In the field," said Kidd.

"This early?"

"I get my best calls around dawn. That's when they find the stiffs."

"I don't know why you bother — the

West Sider

ain't exactly the

Daily News.

Hey, don't forget—"

"Hold a sec." Once again, Kidd turned her attention to the police radio.

"…Headquarters to 3133, reports of a 10–53 at 1579 Broadway, please respond."

"3133 to Headquarters, 10–4…"

She tuned it out, went back to the phone. "Sorry. You were saying?"

"I was saying, don't forget about our date."

"It's not a date. It's lunch."

"Allow me my dreams, okay? Where do you want to go?"

"You're buying, you tell me."

A pause. "How about that Vietnamese place on Thirty — second?"

"Um, no thanks. Ate there yesterday, regretted it all afternoon."

"Okay, what about Alfredo's?"

But once again, Kidd was listening to the police radio.

"…Dispatch, dispatch, this is 7477, on that 10–29 homicide, note that victim Smithback, William, is at present en route M.E.'s office for processing. Supervisor leaving the scene."

"10–4, 7477…"

She almost dropped her coffee. "Holy shit! Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

"It just came over the car — to — car channel. There's been a murder. And I know the victim — Bill Smithback. He's that guy who writes for theTimes — I met him at that journalism conference at Columbia last month."

"How do you know it's the same guy?"

"How many people you know with a name like Smithback? Look, Larry, gotta go."

"Gee, how awful for him. Now about lunch—"

"Screw lunch." She nudged the phone closed with her chin, let it drop to her lap, and fired up the engine. Lettuce, tomato, green peppers, and scrambled egg went flying as she popped the clutch and scooted out into traffic.

It was the work of five minutes to get to West End Avenue and 92nd. Caitlyn was an expert at urban driving, and her Toyota had just enough dings and scrapes to warn off anyone who might think that one more wouldn't matter. She nudged the car into a spot in front of a fire hydrant — with any luck, she'd get her story and be gone before a traffic cop spotted the infraction. And if not, well, screw it, she owed more in tickets on the car than it was worth.

She walked quickly down the block, pulling a digital recorder from her pocket. A bunch of vehicles were double — parked outside 666 West End Avenue: two patrol cars, an unmarked Crown Vic, and an ambulance. A morgue wagon was just pulling away. Two uniformed cops were standing on the top step of the building's entrance, limiting access to residents only, but a knot of people huddled below on the sidewalk, talking in tense whispers. Their faces were uniformly pinched and drawn, almost — Kidd observed wryly — as if they'd all seen a ghost.

With practiced efficiency, she inserted herself into the restless, muttering group, listening to half a dozen conversations at once, deftly filtering out extraneous chatter and homing in on those who seemed to know something. She turned to one, a bald, heavyset man with a face the color of pomegranate skin. Despite the fall chill in the air, he was sweating profusely.

"Pardon me," she said, coming up to him. "Caitlyn Kidd, press. Is it true William Smithback was killed?"

He nodded.

"The reporter?"

The man nodded again. "Tragedy. He was a nice guy, used to bring me free newspapers. You a colleague?"

"I work the crime desk for the

West Sider.

So you knew him well?"

"Lived down the hall. I saw him just yesterday." He shook his head.

This was just what she needed. "What happened, exactly?"

"It was late last night. Guy with a knife cut him up real bad. I heard the whole thing. Awful."

"And the murderer?"

"Saw him, recognized him, guy who lives in the building. Colin Fearing." "Colin Fearing." Kidd repeated it slowly, for the recorder.

The man's expression changed to something she couldn't readily identify. "See, there's a problem there, though."

Kidd leapt at this. "Yes?"

"It seems Fearing died almost two weeks ago."

"Oh yeah?

How so?"

"Found his body floating up near Spuyten Duyvil. Identified, autopsied, everything."

"You sure about this?"

"The police told the doorman all about it. Then he told us."

"I don't understand," Kidd said.

The man shook his head. "Neither do I."

"But you're sure the man you saw last night was also Colin Fearing?"

"Not a doubt in my mind. Ask Heidi here, she recognized him as well." And the man gestured at a bookish, frightened — looking woman standing beside him. "The doorman, he saw him, too. Struggled with him. There he is now, coming out of the building." And he gestured toward the door where a short, dapper Hispanic man was emerging.

Quickly, Caitlyn got their names and a few other relevant details. She could only imagine what the headline guy back at the

West Sider

would do with this one.

Other reporters were arriving now, descending like buzzards, arguing with the cops who had roused themselves and were beginning to shoo the residents back into the building. Reaching her car, she found a ticket tucked under one wiper.

She couldn't have cared less. She had her big scoop.