Impact

50

When she was going to Prince ton, Abbey had made several trips to New York City with her friends, but they had never strayed from Manhattan. As she stood at the edge of Monsignor McGolrick Park in Brooklyn, rain dripping from the rim of her umbrella, she realized this was a New York she had never seen, a real working-class neighborhood of modest apartment buildings, vinyl-sided row houses, keys-made-here shops, dry cleaners, and neighborhood eateries.

"Number eighty-seven Driggs Avenue," Abbey said, consulting a damp street map. "Must be that street across the park."

"Let's go."

Two days before, Abbey's calls to ex-NPF employees had hit paydirt with a technician named Mark Corso. Posing as a journalist doing an expose on unfair personnel practices at NPF, she had really gotten him going. Not only was he pissed off about being fired, but he was eager to spill NPF's darkest secrets--or so he claimed. And he hinted at having some really hot information that would "blow NPF out of the water."

They headed across the park and crossed the street toward one house in an identical row, streaked with damp, curtains drawn. They walked up the steps and Ford rang the doorbell. Abbey could hear it ringing forlornly within. A long wait. He rang again.

"You sure he said four o'clock?"

"Positive," said Abbey.

"He might have had second thoughts."

Abbey dipped in her pocket for the cell phone Ford had given her, and dialed Corso's cell.

"You hear that?" She could hear at the edge of audibility a sound of music inside the house.

Ford leaned toward the door. "Hang up and call again," he said.

She did so.

The music stopped, then a moment later it started again.

"It's got to be his," said Abbey. "Only a NASA engineer would have the theme of Serenity as his ringtone."

There was no way to see in; the drapes were firmly pulled--even the ones on the second floor. The house looked shut up tight. The door had three little windows, arranged diagonally, but they were of rippled, opaque colored glass.

Ford knelt and examined the doorjamb and lock. "No sign of a break-in."

"What do we do?"

"Call the police anonymously," he said, "and watch."

They cut across the park to an old phone booth sitting on the corner. Ford lifted the receiver with a handkerchief and dialed 911. "Eighty-seven Driggs Avenue," he said, in a rough voice. "Emergency. Go there. Now." He hung up. As he came out, Abbey was alarmed by the grim look on Ford's craggy face. She had been going to say something funny but decided against it.

Ford drifted back into the park, hands shoved into his pockets, Abbey at his side. They took shelter from the drizzle in a pseudo-classical outdoor pavilion and waited for the police to arrive. Within a few minutes two cop cars came cruising down Driggs Avenue, lights flashing but sirens off. They stopped. A pair of officers from the first vehicle went up the stairs and knocked on the front door. No answer.

"Let's get a little closer," Ford said, drifting over. Three police officers were now at the door, knocking persistently, while a fourth remained in the squad car, talking into the radio. One of the cops fetched a wrecking bar out of his car and poked it through a door window. He picked out the glass, reached in, and unlatched the door.

The two cops disappeared into the house, one with a handheld radio.

Ford quickly crossed the street and leaned in the window of the second squad car. "There a problem?"

"Routine check," said the cop, waving them along.

All of a sudden his radio burst to life. "We have a ten-twenty-nine double homicide at Eighty-seven Driggs; two squad cars on scene, sealing the premises." Then another burst, "Two ambulances and CS team dispatched and en route; ten-thirteen homicide division . . ." The radio went on in this fashion and almost immediately sirens could be heard approaching. From her vantage point across the street Abbey could just see through the door into the interior of the parlor: a wall, with a starburst of blood on it, and below a woman's bare foot.