Lightning

7

From where he sat in the stands watching Darcy Welles, he knew at once that she had the right stuff. Even more so than the other two. He could tell just by the way she moved during the warmup.

It was another clear bright October day, and the sky over the university track was virtually cloudless and as piercingly blue as heat lightning. Beyond the track, he could see the huge bulk of the football stadium, and still beyond that the stone tower that dominated the school quadrangle. It was not a bad campus for a city as large as this one, where you couldn’t really expect wide areas of lawn or tree-shaded quadrangles. He had walked through it on Saturday, getting the feel of the place, making himself at home here, wanting to feel entirely at ease when he approached the girl later on. He always felt comfortable with women, anyway. Women took to him. They thought he was very offbeat, perhaps a little eccentric, but they were fond of him. Men gave him trouble. Men wouldn’t put up with his little idiosyncracies. Abruptly walking out of a restaurant when he’d had enough to eat and was feeling tired. Frequently breaking appointments. Refusing to share in ridiculous innuendoes about their sexual exploits. Men gave him a pain in the ass. He liked women.

He watched the girl.

The season was still several months away — January if she’d be competing in any indoor events, March for the beginning of the major outdoor races — but of course a runner trained all year round, had to if he or she hoped to stay in condition. Just as important for a woman as for a man, maybe more so. She had already taken three laps around the track — wearing the school’s track suit, maroon with a dark blue “C” over the left breast and the university name across the back of the jacket — taking the first lap very slowly (he’d timed her at three minutes), gradually increasing her speed until she’d done the third lap in two minutes. She was on the fourth lap now, jogging the first fifty yards, running the next fifty, coming all the way around and doing the last fifty at top speed. She rested for several moments, sucking in great gulps of air, and then she began doing arm swings, thirty seconds for each arm, rotating the arm from her shoulder in a full circle, her fist clenched. Trunk bends now — she knew the warm-up routine, this girl — and now hand bounces and hula hoops, a minute of wood choppers, another minute of side winders. She lay on the grass beside the track, on her back, put her hands under her hips and did thirty seconds or so of air-bicycling, and then leg overs and leg lifts and leg spreads, making the simple exercises seem somehow graceful. She was going to be one hell of a sprinter, this girl.

Another girl was coming over to her now. Possibly a member of the team, possibly just a friend who had come to watch her work out. The other girl wasn’t wearing a track suit. Plaid skirt and kneesocks, blue cardigan sweater. He hoped she would not hang around when he approached Darcy. Today was a Wednesday, the third day of a normal workout week. On Monday, she’d undoubtedly practiced short sprints from the blocks, sixty yards, a hundred and twenty yards, something like that, it varied in different training programs. Yesterday, she’d probably done nine runs halfway around the track, walking back for recovery after each of the first two 220-yard sprints, walking the full length of the track after the third, sixth, and ninth runs. In most programs, the training got more exacting as you moved deeper into the week, peaking on Friday, tapering off on Saturday with weight lifting, and then allowing a day of rest on Sunday (even God rested on Sunday) before the cycle resumed again on Monday. None of the pre-season training was as severe or as concentrated as when the competitive season began, of course. Darcy Welles was just getting back into running trim again after a summer and early fall of off-season training. He visualized her running along country roads back in Ohio, where she made her home. The newspaper accounts of her ability had been very encouraging. Her best high school time for the hundred-yard dash had been twelve-three, which wasn’t at all bad when you considered that Evelyn Ashford’s recent record was ten seventy-nine. “I wasn’t thinking about anything, I just ran,” Ashford said at Colorado Springs. “I didn’t seem to wake up until the last twenty meters. When I crossed the line, I thought ‘That was nothing special. Maybe eleven-one.’” Ten seventy-nine! When they told her the time, she said, “I’m stunned. Just stunned. Stunned.” Well, your Evelyn Ashfords were few and far between. Even someone like Jeanette Bolden, when she was in high school her personal best was eleven sixty-eight, whittled that down to eleven-eighteen when she ran second to Ashford at Pepsi. That eleven-second barrier, that was the thing. You could thank Wilma Rudolph for that. But Darcy Welles was still young, a freshman here at Converse, and she had the right stuff. Olympics caliber, Darcy Welles was. It was a shame he had to kill her.

She was obviously impatient talking to the other girl, eager to get back to the workout. The other girl went on for what seemed like forever, and then smiled and waved and walked off. A visible look of relief crossed Darcy’s face. She took off the warm-up suit and folded it neatly on the bench bordering the track. She was wearing track jersey and pants, no number on the jersey, the shorts slit partially up the side to allow easier movement of her muscular legs and thighs. She stood at the starting line for a moment, surveying the track, and then she placed her left foot just behind the line, stooped over it, right foot and left arm back, right arm up, took a deep breath, and was off from a standing start.

He clicked his stopwatch again, timing her as she went through her longer third-day sprints, adding to yesterday’s distance by half now, running 330 yards in forty-five seconds, walking for five minutes after each of the three runs. She was beginning to sweat through her jersey and pants. He watched her carefully as she zippered open her carry bag, took out her blocks, and placed the lead block some fifteen inches behind the starting line. She measured the distance for the rear block, adjusting both blocks carefully. She stood up, sniffed of the brisk autumn air, put her hands on her hips, hesitated a moment, and then knelt into the blocks. She was such a pretty girl, black-haired and blue-eyed, nineteen years old — it was a pity she had to die.

Her form was excellent.

Some coach back there in Ohio had taught her well.

He could almost hear the silent command in her head: On your marks!

Left leg reaching back for the rear block. Right leg moving back to touch the front block with her toes. Hands behind the line now, not quite touching it, thumbs pointing inward. Weight on the left knee, the right foot, and both hands. Head level. Eyes looking out some three feet ahead of the line.

Set!

Hips rising. Body rocking forward to move the shoulders ahead of the line. Soles of both feet pressed hard against the blocks. Eyes still fixed on that imaginary spot three feet ahead. A spring tensed for sudden release.

Bang!

The sound of an imaginary gun in her head and in his, and her arms were suddenly pumping, the right arm pistoning forward, the left arm thrusting back, the legs pushing simultaneously at both blocks, left leg reaching out to take that first long important step, right leg thrusting hard against the block, and she was off!

God, what a glorious runner!

He timed her at nine seconds, give or take, for each of the half-dozen 60-yard sprints, watching as she walked back for recovery after each one. She was drenched with sweat when finally she came back to the bench to take a towel from her carry bag and to wipe her face and arms with it. She put on the jacket of her warm-up suit. There was a chill on the late afternoon air.

He smiled, and put the stopwatch back into his pocket.

She was walking away from the track, head bent in seeming thought, even her jacket soaked through with perspiration, a high sheen of sweat on her long legs, when he approached her.

“Miss Welles?” he said.

She stopped, looked up in surprise. Her blue eyes searched his face.

“Corey McIntyre,” he said. “Sports USA.”

She kept studying him.

“You’re putting me on,” she said.

“No, no,” he said, and smiled, and reached into his pocket for his wallet. From the wallet, he took a small Lucite-enclosed card. He handed it to her. She looked at it.

“Gee,” she said, and handed the card back to him.

“You are Darcy Welles, aren’t you?” he asked.

“Uh-huh,” she said, and nodded.

She was, he guessed, five-feet-eight or-nine inches tall. Her eyes were almost level with his. She was studying him, waiting.

“We’re preparing an article for our February issue,” he said.

“I’ll bet,” she said. She was still skeptical. He was still holding the card in his hands. He was tempted to show it to her again. Instead, he put it back in his wallet.

“On young female athletes,” he said. “We won’t be concentrating exclusively on track stars, of course...”

“Oh, sure, stars,” she said, and rolled her eyes.

“Well, you have attracted some attention, Miss Welles.”

“That’s news to me,” she said.

“I have your complete file. Your record in Ohio was an impressive one.”

“It was okay, I guess,” Darcy said.

She was glowing from the workout. Her skin looked fresh, her eyes sparkling. There was that about athletes. All of them, men or women, all looked so goddamn healthy. He envied her youth. He envied her daily regimen.

“Much more than just okay,” he said.

“Right now, if I can break twelve, I’ll go dancing in the streets.”

“You looked good out there today.”

“You were watching, huh?”

“Timed those last sprints at about nine seconds each.”

“Sixty yards at nine isn’t worth much.”

“For practice, it’s not bad.”

“If I’m going to do the hundred in twelve, I’ve got to shave that down to seven.”

“Is that what you’re aiming for? Twelve?”

“Eleven would be better, huh?” she said, and grinned. “But this isn’t the Olympics.”

“Not yet,” he said, and returned the smile.

“Oh, sure. Maybe not ever,” she said.

“Your personal best in Ohio was twelve-three, am I right?”

“Yeah,” she said, and pulled a face. “Pretty shitty, huh?”

“No, pretty good. You should see some of the high school records.”

“I’ve seen them. Last year, a girl in California ran it in eleven-eight.”

“Eloise Blair.”

“That’s right.”

“We’ll be interviewing her as well. She’s at U.C.L.A. now.”

“What do you mean, interviewing?” Darcy said.

“I thought I mentioned...”

“Yeah, but what do you mean?”

“Well, we’d like to do an interview with you.”

“What do you mean? For Sports USA?”

“For Sports USA, yes.”

“Come on,” she said, and pulled a face that made her look twelve years old. “Me? In Sports USA? Come on.”

“Well, not you alone. But we’ll be concentrating on female athletes...”

“College athletes?”

“Not all of them. And not all of them track stars.”

“Here we go with the stars again,” she said, and again rolled her eyes.

“We’ll be covering swimming, basketball, gymnastics... well, we’re trying to make it as comprehensive as we can. And forgive me if I use the word again, but we’re trying to zero in on the young American women of today who may very well become the stars of tomorrow.”

“Twelve-three for the hundred-yard dash is a star of tomorrow, huh?” Darcy said.

“At Sports USA,” he said solemnly, “we’re not entirely unaware of what’s happening in the sports world.”

She studied his face again, nodding, digesting all that he’d told her. “I wish you hadn’t seen me today,” she said at last. “I was really rotten today.”

“I thought you had great style.”

“Yeah, some style. Sixty yards in nine seconds, that’s really terrific style.”

“Did you do much running this summer?”

“Every day. Well, not Sundays.”

“What sort of a routine did you follow?”

“You really interested in this?” she asked.

“I am. In fact... if I could have a little of your time later this evening, perhaps we can go into it at greater length. I’m primarily interested in your goals and aspirations, but anything you can tell me about your early interest in running, or your training habits...”

“Listen, are you for real?” she said.

“I beg your pardon.”

“I mean, is this Candid Camera or something?”

She looked around suddenly, as though searching for a hidden camera. They were standing quite alone on the edge of the track. She studied an oak in the near distance as a possible place for Allen Funt to be hiding. She shrugged, shook her head, and turned back to him again.

“This isn’t Candid Camera,” he said, and smiled. “This is Corey McIntyre of Sports USA, and I’m interviewing young female athletes for an article we plan to run in our February issue. We’ll be concentrating somewhat heavily on track in order to take advantage of the season’s start, but we’ll also be covering...”

“Okay, okay, I believe you,” she said, and shook her head again, and grinned. “Sheeesh,” she said, “I can’t believe it.”

“Believe it.”

“Okay,” she said. “So you want to interview me, okay, I believe it.”

“Do you think you can spare some time tonight?”

“I’ve got a heavy test coming up in Psych tomorrow.”

“Oh, that’s too bad,” he said. “How about...?”

“But I think I know the stuff already,” she said. “Tonight’ll be fine, provided I get to bed early.”

“Why don’t we have dinner together?” he suggested. “I’m pretty sure I can do the interview in one meeting, and then — if you don’t mind, that is — I’d like to set up a convenient time for a photographer to...”

“A photographer, sheesh,” she said, grinning.

“If that’s all right with you.”

“Yeah, sure,” she said. “I can’t believe this, I’ve got to tell you.”

“Would eight o’clock be all right?” he asked.

“Yeah, fine. Boy.”

“If you can start thinking about some of the things I mentioned...”

“Yeah, aspirations and goals, right.”

“Early interest in...”

“Right.”

“Training habits...”

“Okay, sure, that’s easy.”

“Any anecdotes about running... well, we’ll cover all that tonight. Where shall I pick you up? Or would you rather meet me?”

“Well, can you stop by the dorm?”

“I had in mind a midtown restaurant. It might be easier if you took a taxi.”

“Sure, whatever you say.”

“Get a receipt. Sports USA’ll pick up the tab.”

“Okay. Where?” she said.

“Marino’s on Ulster and South Haley. Eight o’clock sharp.”

“Corey McIntyre,” she said. “Sports USA. Wow.”

In the stillness of Nancy Annunziato’s bedroom, her mother and grandmother silently moving around the house outside the closed door, Carella and Hawes went through the dead girl’s belongings. There had been no need to call in the lab technicians; this room could not possibly have been the scene of the crime. And yet, they went through her personal effects as delicately as if they were preserving evidence for later admission at a trial. Neither of the men mentioned the Deaf Man. If the Deaf Man had been responsible for Nancy Annunziato’s death, if he had slain both her and Marcia Schaffer, then they were dealing with a wild card in a stacked deck. They preferred, for now, to believe that there was a reasonably human motive for the murders, that the crimes had not been concocted in the Deaf Man’s computerized brain.

Hawes was now reading the girl’s training diary.

Carella was looking through her appointment calendar.

Nancy had been killed on October 13. The medical examiner’s report on the postmortem interval — premised on body temperature, lividity, degree of decomposition, and rigor mortis — had estimated the time of death as approximately 11:00 P.M. The lab had come up negative for any fingerprints on the wallet found at the scene; the killer, though conveniently providing identification of the girl, had nonetheless wiped the wallet clean before dropping it at her feet. They now had only her personal record of events to help them reconstruct where she’d been and what she’d been doing on the day of her murder.

Her training diary revealed that on Thursday, October 13, Nancy Annunziato had awakened at 7:30 A.M. She had recorded her early morning pulse rate as fifty-eight. She had gone to bed the night before at 11:00 P.M. (A flip back through the pages revealed that this was her usual bedtime; yet on the night of her murder, she had been abroad in the city someplace at that hour.) Her body weight at awakening had been 120 pounds. She had recorded the place of her daily workout as “Outdoor track, CPC,” and had described the running surface as “Synthetic.” She had recorded the day’s temperature (at the time of her workout) as sixty-four degrees, and had described the day as fair, with low humidity and no wind. She had begun her workout at 3:30 P.M.

She had detailed the workout that day as “usual warm-up,” followed by four 80-yard sprints from blocks, with walkbacks for recovery and a full-track walk after the last sprint; four 150-yard sprints around the turn from running starts, with walkbacks for recovery; and six 60-yard sprints from blocks, again with walkbacks after each sprint. She had listed the total distance run as 1,280 yards, her weight before the workout as a hundred and twenty-one pounds and after it as a hundred and nineteen pounds. Under the words “Fatigue Index,” she had scribbled the number “5,” which Hawes assumed was midway on a scale of 1 to 10. She had ended her workout at 4:15 P.M.

Her mother had already told them that she’d arrived home after practice that day at 6:00 P.M. Calm’s Point College was only fifteen minutes by subway from the Annunziato house. That left an hour and a half of unaccountable time. There was nothing in the dead girl’s appointment calendar that gave any clue as to how she had spent that hour and a half. Presumably, she had showered at school and changed back into street clothes. That narrowed the gap to an hour. Had she gone to the school library? Had she stopped to chat with friends? Or had she encountered the man who’d later killed her?

Her appointment calendar for Thursday, October 13, read:

“What’s this?” Carella asked. “A magazine?”

Hawes looked at the page.

“Yeah,” he said. “She’s got a stack of them there on the dresser.”

“Probably went on the stands that day,” Carella said.

“Reminder to pick it up, huh?”

“Maybe. See if she’s got the issue that came out last week, will you?”

Hawes walked to where a pile of some dozen magazines were scattered over the dresser top.

“Sports Illustrated,” he said. “Runners World. Yeah, here it is. Sports USA. The October seventeenth issue. Would that be it?”

“I guess so. They usually date them a week ahead, don’t they?”

“I think so.”

“Anything special in it?”

“Like what?”

“Who knows? Tips on how to run a mile in thirty-eight seconds.”

Hawes began leafing through the magazine.

“They really work hard, don’t they?” he said idly.

“Can you imagine doing that kind of exercise?” Carella said, shaking his head.

“Give me a heart attack,” Hawes said.

“Anything?” Carella asked.

“Mostly football.”

He was still leafing through the magazine.

“Nice looking lady here,” he said, and showed Carella a picture of a young woman in a wet tank suit. “Little broad in the beam, but nice.”

He started flipping backward through the magazine.

“Hey,” he said.

“What?”

He showed Carella the page he had turned to, and indicated the masthead.

“Why’d she circle that particular name?” Carella said.

“Maybe her mother knows,” Hawes said.

Mrs. Annunziato did not know.

“Corey McIntyre?” she said. “No, I don’t know the name.”

“Your daughter never mentioned him to you?”

“Mai. Never.”

“Or this magazine? Sports USA?”

“She gets this magazine all the time. The others too. Anything about sports or runners, she gets.”

“But none of the other copies of this magazine have this name circled,” Carella said. “It’s only in this issue. The October seventeenth issue.”

“I don’t know,” Mrs. Annunziato said.

She seemed pained not to be able to supply the detectives with the information they needed. She had still not told her husband that their daughter was dead. The funeral had taken place three days ago, but he did not yet know that she was dead. And now she could not help the detectives with what they wanted to know about this name that was circled in one of her daughter’s magazines.

“This man wouldn’t have called the house or anything, would he?” Carella asked.

“No, I don’t remember. No, not that name.”

“Mrs. Annunziato, you told us your daughter got home at six o’clock on the day she was killed.”

“Yes. Six o’clock.” She did not want to talk about the day her daughter had been killed. She had still not told her husband that she was dead.

“Can you tell us again what she was wearing?”

“School clothes. A skirt, a blouse. A jacket, I think.”

“But that’s not what she was wearing when she was found.”

“No?”

“She was wearing a green dress and green shoes.”

“Yes.”

“Because she changed after she got home, isn’t that what you told us?”

“Yes.”

“Into more dressy clothes.”

“Yes.”

“Because she was going out, you said.”

“Yes, she told me she was going out.”

“But she didn’t say where she was going.”

“She never told me,” Mrs. Annunziato said. “Young girls today...” She shook her head.

“Didn’t mention where she was going or whether she was meeting someone.”

“No.”

“You told us she left the house around seven. A little after seven.”

“Yes.”

“Does she have a car?”

“No. A taxi came for her.”

“She called a taxi?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know what taxi company she called?”

“No. It was a yellow taxicab that came.”

“But she didn’t tell you where she was going.”

“No.”

“Mrs. Annunziato, your daughter usually went to bed at eleven o’clock, didn’t she?”

“Yes. She had to be at school early.”

“Were you here at home on the night she was killed?”

“No, I was at the hospital. That was the day my husband had his heart attack. I was at the hospital with him. He was in Intensive Care. It was nine o’clock he had the accident. On his way home.”

“From work?”

“No, no, his club. He belongs to this club. It’s old friends of his, bricklayers like him. They have a club, they meet once a month.”

“Your husband is a bricklayer?” Hawes said.

“Yes. A bricklayer. A union bricklayer,” she said, as though wishing to give the job more stature.

“And he suffered his heart attack at nine o’clock that night.”

“That’s when the hospital called me. I went right over.”

“This was after your daughter had left the house.”

“Yes.”

“Then she didn’t know your husband was in the hospital.”

“No, how could she know?”

“You went directly to the hospital after they called you...”

“Yes.”

“What time did you get home again? From the hospital?”

“I was there all night.”

“You stayed there all night?”

“He was in Intensive Care,” she said again, in explanation.

“What time did you get home the next morning?”

“A little after nine.”

“Then you didn’t know your daughter hadn’t been home at all that night, is that right?”

“I didn’t know.”

“Was your mother home on the night your daughter was killed?”

“Yes.”

“Did she mention anything to you — when you got home the next morning — about your daughter being out all night?”

“She sometimes did that.”

“Your daughter? Stayed out all night sometimes?”

“Young girls today,” Mrs. Annunziato said, and shook her head. “When I was a girl... my father would have killed me,” she said. “But today...” She shook her head again.

“So it wasn’t unusual for your daughter to sometimes stay away from home for the entire night.”

“Not a lot. But sometimes. She says... she told us it was with a girlfriend, she would be staying at a girlfriend’s house. So who knows, a girlfriend or a boyfriend, who knows? It’s better not to ask. Today, it’s better not to ask, not to know. She was a good girl, it’s better not to know.”

“And you don’t know who this man Corey McIntyre might be? Your daughter never mentioned him to you.”

“Never.”

A call to Sports USA at their offices on the Avenue of the Americas in New York City advised Carella that there was indeed a man named Corey McIntyre who worked for them as a writer-reporter. But Mr. McIntyre lived in Los Angeles, and he was usually assigned to cover events in southern California, working as their special correspondent there. Carella told the man on the other end of the line that he was investigating a murder, and would appreciate having Mr. McIntyre’s address and phone number. The man told him to wait. He came back a few minutes later and said he guessed it would be all right, and then gave Carella what he wanted.

Los Angeles, Carella thought. Terrific. What do we do now? Let’s say McIntyre is our man. Let’s say he was here in the city on October sixth when somebody killed Marcia Schaffer, and again on October thirteenth when somebody, presumably the same person, killed Nancy Annunziato. Let’s say I call him and ask him where he was on those nights, and he hangs up, and runs for Mexico or wherever. Great. He leafed through his personal telephone directory, found a listing for the L.A.P.D., dialed the number, and asked for the Detective Division. A man came on the line.

“Branigan,” he said.

“Detective Carella in Isola,” Carella said. “I’ve got a problem.”

“Let’s hear it,” Branigan said.

Carella told him about the murders. He told him about the name circled in Nancy Annunziato’s copy of Sports USA. He told him that the man lived in L.A. He told him that he was afraid a phone call might spook him, if indeed he was the killer. Branigan listened.

“So what is it?” he said at last. “You want somebody to drop in on him, is that it?”

“I was thinking...”

“First of all,” Branigan said, “suppose we go there, okay, first of all? And suppose the guy says he was out bowling those nights, and we say ‘Thank you very much, sir, can you tell us who you were bowling with?’ and he gives us the names of three other guys, okay, that’s first of all. Then suppose we leave the house to go check on those three other guys who maybe don’t exist, so what does our man do meanwhile? If our man’s the killer, he runs to China. He does just what you’re afraid he’ll do, anyway, so what’s the use of wasting time out here? If he’s the killer, he ain’t about to tell us he was Back East there doing the number on those girls, is he? Especially when he’s probably smart enough to know we ain’t got jurisdiction to arrest him without specific charges pending on your end.”

“I thought if you really questioned him...”

“You got Miranda-Escobedo back there, or are you working in Russia? You’re saying we go to his house, right, this is in the second place. And he doesn’t have anything that looks good for where he was those two nights, or maybe he even tells us he was there on those nights, Back East there, which I don’t think he’d be stupid enough to do if he’s the killer and there are two cops standing on his doorstep. But let’s say he sounds maybe not like real meat but at least a hamburger medium rare and we say, ‘Sir, would you mind accompanying us downtown because there are a few more questions we’d like to ask you?’ So he puts on his hat, and we take him here and we sit him down and read him Miranda because this ain’t a field investigation anymore, Carella, this is now a situation where an investigation is focusing on a man, and he is technically in police custody, and we cannot ask him any questions until he knows his rights. So suppose he says he doesn’t want to answer any questions, which is his privilege? Then what? You expect us to charge him with two counts of Murder One on the say-so of a call from the East?”

“No, I certainly wouldn’t...”

“Of course not, because if you were on our end of the deal, and if we called you to go talk to some guy, you’d recognize what kind of trouble you were buying, wouldn’t you? The Supreme Court doesn’t like lengthy interrogations or incommunicado detention, Carella. If this guy clams up, what do we do then? Hold him here till you can hop a plane out? L.A.P.D. would get its ass in a sling so tight we wouldn’t be able to shit for a month.”

“I hear you,” Carella said.

“Look, Carella, I recognize your problem. You call this guy on the phone, you start asking him questions, he thinks right away ‘Uh-oh,’ and he reaches for his hat. But it seems to me you’ve got to take that chance. Anyway, how do you know it’s not somebody Back East just picked the man’s name out of the magazine and used it? This guy out here may be clean as a whistle.”

“I realize that.”

“Carella,” Branigan said, “it’s been nice talking to you, but I got headaches, too.”

There was a click on the line.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained, Carella thought, and looked up at the squadroom clock. Seven-thirty. It was still only 4:30 on the Coast. The night watch had relieved at a quarter to four here. Hawes was busy at his desk, typing up the report on what they’d learned at the Annunziato house. Both detectives had been working the day watch since a quarter to eight this morning. Carella was tired; there was nothing he wanted more than a drink and a hot shower. He looked again at the slip of paper on which he’d written Corey McIntyre’s address and phone number. Okay, here goes nothing, he thought, and dialed the 213 area code and then the number. A woman picked up after the fourth ring.

“Hello?” she said.

“Corey McIntyre, please,” Carella said.

“This is his wife,” the woman said. “May I know who’s calling?”

“Detective Carella of the 87th Squad,” he said. “In Isola.”

“Just a moment,” the woman said.

He could hear voices mumbling in the background. He heard a man say, quite distinctly, “Who?” Carella waited.

“Hello?” the voice on the other end said.

“Mr. McIntyre?”

“Yes?” Puzzlement in the voice. Or was it wariness?

“Corey McIntyre?”

“Yes?”

“Is this the Corey McIntyre who works for Sports USA?”

“Yes?”

“Mr. McIntyre, I’m sorry to bother you this way, but would the name Nancy Annunziato mean anything to you?”

Silence on the other end of the line.

“Mr. McIntyre?”

“I’m thinking,” he said. “Annunziato?”

“Yes. Nancy Annunziato.”

“No, I don’t know her. Who is she?”

“How about Marcia Schaffer?”

“I don’t know her, either. Sir, can you tell me...?”

“Mr. McIntyre, were you in the East on October the thirteenth? That was a Thursday night. Last Thursday night.”

“No, I was right here in L.A. last Thursday night.”

“Can you remember what you were doing?”

“What is this?” McIntyre said. “Diane, what were we doing last Thursday night?”

In the background, Carella heard the woman say, “What?”

“Last Thursday night,” McIntyre called to her. “This guy wants to know what we were... listen,” he said into the phone again, “what’s this in reference to, would you mind telling me?”

“We’re investigating a series of murders...”

“So what’s that got to do with me?”

“I’d appreciate it if...”

“Listen, I’m going to hang up,” McIntyre said.

“No, I wish you wouldn’t,” Carella said.

“Give me a good reason why I shouldn’t.”

Carella took a deep breath.

“Because a copy of Sports USA in the most recent victim’s possession had your name circled in it.”

“My name?”

“Yes, sir. On the page with the masthead. Page four. Your name, sir. Corey McIntyre. Under Writer-Reporters.”

“Who’s this? Is this you, Frank?”

“Is it Frank again?” his wife said in the background.

“This is Detective Stephen Louis Carella of the Eighty-seventh...”

“Frank, if this is another one of your harebrained...”

“Mr. McIntyre, I assure you...”

“What’s your number there?” McIntyre said.

“377-8034,” Carella said.

“In Isola, did you say?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll call you back,” McIntyre said. “Collect,” he added, and hung up.

He called back ten minutes later. The collect person-to-person call went through the switchboard downstairs, and was transferred to the squadroom, where Carella accepted charges.

“Okay,” McIntyre said, “you’re a genuine cop. Now what’s this about my name circled in the magazine?”

“In the dead girl’s room,” Carella said.

“So what’s that supposed to mean?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

“Was she killed last Thursday, is that it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Okay. You want to know where I was last Thursday? Here’s where I...”

“Tell him where we were,” his wife said in the background, loudly and angrily.

“My wife and I were at a dinner party in Brentwood,” McIntyre said. “The party took place at the home of Dr. and Mrs. Joseph Foderman. We got there at a little before eight...”

“Give him the address,” his wife said.

“...and we left at a little after twelve. There were...”

“And the telephone number,” she said.

“There were eight of us there in addition to the host and hostess,” McIntyre said. “I can give you the names of the other guests, if you’d like them.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Carella said.

“Do you want the Fodermans’ address?”

“Just the telephone number, please.”

“You plan to call them?”

“Yes, sir.”

“To tell them I’m a suspect in a murder?”

“No, sir. Just to ascertain that you were in fact there last Thursday night.”

“Do me a favor, will you? Tell them some guy Back East is using my name, will you, please?”

“I’ll do that, sir.”

“And I’d sure like to know who he is,” McIntyre said.

“So would we,” Carella said. “May I have that number, please?”

McIntyre gave him the number, and then said, “I’m sorry I yelled at you.”

“Don’t apologize,” his wife said in the background.

There was a sharp click on the line.

Carella sighed and dialed the number McIntyre had just given him. He spoke to a woman named Phyllis Foderman who told him that her husband was at the hospital just then, but asked if she could be of any assistance. Carella told her who he was and from where he was calling, and then he said they had reason to believe someone here in the city was using Corey McIntyre’s name, and they were trying to ascertain the whereabouts of the real Mr. McIntyre for last Thursday night, October 13. Mrs. Foderman told him at once that Corey McIntyre and his wife Diane had been with them at a small dinner party here in Brentwood, and that six other people besides her and her husband could vouch for that fact. Carella thanked her and hung up.

In this city, any licensed taxicab was required to turn in to the Hack Bureau a record of all calls made that day, listing origin and time of pickup, destination, and time deposited at destination. This because very few taxi passengers ever looked at the name or number of the driver on the card prominently displayed on the dashboard, and often would have to call the bureau to inquire about a parcel or a personal belonging carelessly left behind in a cab. By cross-checking, the bureau could come up with the name and number of the driver, and follow up on the loss. This was almost always an academic exercise; nearly everything left in a taxicab vanished from sight in ten seconds flat. But a side-effect of such scrupulously kept and computerized records was that the police department had access to a minute-by-minute record of pickup locations and destinations.

Carella’s call to the Hack Bureau, on a special twenty-four-hour hot line, was routinely made and routinely answered. He identified himself and told the woman on the other end of the line that he wanted the final destination of a pickup at 207 Laurel Street in Calm’s Point at approximately seven on the night of October 13.

“The computer’s down,” the woman told him.

“When will it be up again?” Carella asked.

“Who knows with computers?” the woman said.

“Can you check the records manually?”

“Everything goes into the computer,” she said.

“I’m investigating a homicide,” Carella said.

“Who isn’t?” the woman said.

“Can you call me at home later tonight? When the computer’s working again?”

“Be happy to,” she said.

Darcy Welles had taken a taxi to Marino’s restaurant on Ulster and South Haley, and had asked the driver for a receipt that she handed across the table the moment she sat down opposite the man she thought was Corey McIntyre of Sports USA. He was, she supposed, somewhere in his late thirties, not bad-looking for someone that old, and really in pretty good condition no matter what age he was. Somehow, he looked familiar. She’d been thinking about that ever since she first met him this afternoon, but she still couldn’t place where she’d seen him before.

“I checked the magazine, you know,” she said, as he signaled the waiter to their table.

“I’m sorry?” he said, tilting his head as if he hadn’t quite heard her. “To see if you were legit,” Darcy said, and smiled. “I looked for your name in the front, where they list all the editors and everything.”

“Oh, I see,” he said, and returned the smile. “And am I legit?”

“Yeah,” she said, and shook her head, embarrassed. “I’m sorry, but... well... it isn’t every day of the week Sports USA comes knocking on my door.”

“Yes, sir, can I help you?” the waiter said. “Something to drink before dinner?”

“Darcy?”

“I’m in training,” she said.

“A glass of wine?”

“Well... I’m really not supposed to.”

“Some white wine for the lady,” he said. “And I’ll have a Dewar’s on the rocks.”

“Yes, sir, a white wine and a Dewar’s on the rocks. Would you like to see menus now? Or would you like to wait a bit?”

“We’ll wait.”

“No hurry, sir,” the waiter said. “Thank you.”

“This is really nice,” Darcy said, looking around the restaurant.

“I hope you like Italian food,” he said.

“Who doesn’t?” she said. “I just have to watch the calories, that’s all.”

“We ran an article once that said an athlete needs something like twice the number of calories a non-athlete requires.”

“Well, I sure like to eat, I’ll tell you that,” Darcy said.

“A daily caloric intake of four thousand calories isn’t unusual for a runner,” he said.

“But who’s counting?” she said, and laughed.

“So,” he said. “Tell me about yourself.”

“You know, it’s funny, but...”

“Would you mind if I used a tape recorder?”

“What? Oh. Gee, I don’t know. I mean, I’ve never...”

He had already placed the pocket-sized recorder on the table between them. “If it makes you uncomfortable,” he said, “I can simply take notes.”

“No, I guess it’ll be all right,” she said, and looked at the recorder. She watched as he pressed several buttons.

“The red light means it’s on, the green light means it’s taping,” he said. “So. You were about to say.”

“Only that is was funny how your questions this afternoon started me thinking. I mean, who can remember how I first got interested in running? You know what my mother said?”

“Your mother?”

“Yeah, when I called her. She said I...”

“You called her in Ohio?”

“Oh, sure. I mean, how often does little Darcy Welles get interviewed by Sports USA?”

“Was she pleased?”

“Oh, my God, she almost wet her pants. Oops, that thing’s going, isn’t it?” she said, and looked at the recorder. “Anyway, she said I probably first started running because my brother chased me a lot.”

“That’s a wonderful anecdote.”

“But I think... I started really thinking about it, you know... and I think the reason I went into running is because of how good it makes me feel, do you know what I mean?”

“Yes,” he said.

“White wine for the lady,” the waiter said, and placed her glass on the table. “And a Dewar’s on the rocks for you, sir.”

“Thank you,” he said.

“Shall I bring the menus now, sir?”

“In a bit,” he said.

“Thank you, sir,” the waiter said, and padded off.

“I don’t mean only physically good... there’s that, you know, your body feels so well-tuned...”

“Yes.”

“But how it makes me feel mentally, too. When I’m running that’s all I can think of, just running, you know?”

“Yes.”

“Nothing else is in there cluttering up my head, do you know what I mean?”

“Yes.”

“I feel... I feel as if everything’s clean and white in my head. I can hear my own breathing, and that’s the only sound in the world...”

“Yes.”

“And all the little problems, all the junky stuff just disappears, you know? It’s as if... as if it’s snowing inside my head, and the snow is covering up all the garbage and all the petty little junk, and it’s leaving everything clean and white and pure. That’s how I feel when I’m running. As if it’s Christmas all year round. With everything white and soft and beautiful.”

“Yes,” he said, “I know.”

Carella called the Hack Bureau again from home that night.

It was 9:30. The twins were asleep, and Teddy was sitting across from him in the living room, looking through the Want Ad sections of both the morning and the afternoon papers, circling ads that seemed of interest. A man answered the phone this time. Carella asked for the woman he’d spoken to earlier.

“She’s gone,” the man said. “She went home at eight. I relieved her at eight.”

“How’s the computer doing?”

“What do you mean, how’s it doing? It’s doing fine. How should it be doing?”

“It was down when I called at seven-thirty.”

“Well, it’s up now.”

“Didn’t she leave a message that I was to be called?” Carella asked. “This is Detective Carella, I’m working a homicide.”

“I don’t see nothing here on the message board,” the man said.

“Okay, I’m trying to trace a call originating at 207 Laurel Street in Calm’s Point...”

“When?” the man asked. Carella visualized him sitting before a computer keyboard, typing.

“October thirteenth,” he said.

“Time?”

“Seven P.M., more or less.”

“207 Laurel Street,” the man repeated. “Calm’s Point.”

“Right.”

“Yeah, here it is.”

“Where’d he take her?” Carella asked.

“1118 South Haley.”

“In Isola?”

“Isola.”

“What time did he drop her off?”

“Quarter to eight.”

“Any indication what that might be? Apartment house? Office building?”

“Just the address.”

“Thank you,” Carella said.

“Anytime,” the man said, and hung up.

Carella thought for a moment, and then looked through his notebook to see if he had a number for the Fire Investigation Bureau. There was no listing on his page of frequently called numbers. He dialed the 87th Precinct. Dave Murchison was the desk sergeant on duty. He told Carella they were having a reasonably quiet night, and then asked to what he owed the pleasure of the call. Carella told him he needed the night number for the Fire Investigation Bureau.

It was twenty minutes to 10:00 when he placed the call.

“F.I.B.,” the man on the other end said.

“This is Detective Carella, Eighty-seventh Squad,” he said. “I’m investigating a homicide.”

“Yep,” the man said.

“I’ve got an address on South Haley, I want to know whether it’s business or residence.”

“South Haley,” the man said. “That’s the Four-One Engine, I think. I’ll give you the number there, they’ll be able to tell you. Just a second.”

Carella waited.

“That’s 914-3700,” the man said. “If Captain Healey’s there, give him my regards.”

“I will, thanks,” Carella said.

It was a quarter to ten when he placed the call to Engine Company Forty-One. The fireman who answered the phone said, “Forty-first Engine, Lehman.”

“This is Detective Carella, 87th Squad,” Carella said.

“How do you do, Carella?” Lehman said.

“I’m working a homicide...”

“Phew,” Lehman said.

“...and I’m trying to zero in on 1118 South Haley. What do you have for it? Is it an apartment building? An office building?”

“I can hardly hear you,” Lehman said. “Will you guys pipe down?” he shouted. Into the phone again, he said, “They’re playing poker. What was that address again?”

“1118 South Haley.”

“Let me check the map. Hold on, okay?”

Carella waited. In the background, someone shouted “Holy shit!” and he wondered who had just turned over his hole card to reveal a royal flush.

“You still with me?” Lehman said.

“Still here.”

“Okay. 1118 South Haley is a six-story building, offices on the upper floors, restaurant at ground level.”

“What’s the name of the restaurant?”

“Marino’s,” Lehman said. “I never ate there, but it’s supposed to be pretty good.”

“Okay, thanks a lot.”

“Guy just had four aces,” Lehman said, and hung up.

Carella looked through the Isola directory for a listing for Marino’s. He dialed the number, identified himself to the man who answered the phone, and then said, “I was wondering if you could check back through your reservations book for the night of October thirteenth, that would have been Thursday last week.”

“Sure, what time?” the man said.

“Eight o’clock, around then.”

“What’s the name.”

“McIntyre. Corey McIntyre.”

He could hear pages being turned on the other end of the line.

“Yes, here it is,” the man said. “McIntyre at eight o’clock.”

“For how many?” Carella asked.

“Two.”

“Would you remember who he was with?”

“No, I’m sorry, we get a lot of customers, I couldn’t possibly... wait a minute. McIntyre, you said?”

“McIntyre, yes.”

“Just a second.”

He could hear the pages turning again.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” the man said.

“What’s that?”

“He’s here tonight.”

“What?”

“Yeah, came in at eight o’clock, reservation for two. Table number four. Just a second, okay?”

Carella waited.

The man came back onto the phone.

“Sorry,” he said. “He left about five minutes ago.”

“Who was he with?”

“The waiter says a young girl.”

“Jesus!” Carella said. “How late are you open?”

“Eleven-thirty, twelve, it depends. Why?”

“Keep the waiter there,” Carella said, and hung up.

The parking garage was two blocks from the restaurant. A sign on the wall advised any interested motorist of the exorbitant fees charged for parking a car here in the heart of the city, and promised that if the car was not delivered within five minutes from the time the claim check was stamped, there would be no charge at all. His claim check had been stamped seven minutes ago. He could hear the shriek of rubber as an attendant better suited for competition in the Grand Prix drove an automobile down around the hairpin turns of the garage ramp, hoping to beat the time limit, and possibly to save his job. He wondered if they’d really let him get away without paying. He was not about to argue over two or three minutes. He did not want anything to delay him tonight.

“You really don’t have to drive me back to the dorm, you know,” Darcy said. “I could take a cab, really.”

“My pleasure,” he said.

“Or the subway,” she said.

“The subways are dangerous,” he said.

“I ride them all the time.”

“You shouldn’t.”

His car came into sight around the last curve in the ramp. The driver, a Puerto Rican in his fifties, got out of the car and said, “Ri’ on d’button. Fi’minutes.”

He did not contradict the driver. He gave him a fifty-cent tip, held the door open for Darcy, closed it behind her, and then went around to the driver’s side. The car was a fifteen-year-old Mercedes-Benz 280 SL. He had bought it when the money was still pouring in. The media ads, the television commercials. That was then. This was now.

“Fasten your seat belt,” he told her.

Hawes was in bed with Annie Rawles when the telephone rang. He looked at the bedside clock. It was ten minutes to 10:00.

“Let it ring,” Annie said.

He looked into her eyes. His eyes said he had to answer it; her eyes acknowledged this sad fact of police work. He rolled off her and lifted the receiver.

“Hawes,” he said.

“Cotton, it’s Steve.”

“Yeah, Steve.”

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

“No, no,” he said, and rolled his eyes at Annie. Annie was naked except for the gold chain and pendant. She toyed with the chain and pendant. He had still not asked her why she never took off the chain and pendant. He had meant to ask her that first night, last week, but he hadn’t. He had meant to ask her tonight, when she’d worn the chain and pendant even in his shower. He had not. “What is it, Steve?” he said.

“Our man just left Marino’s restaurant at 1118 South Haley. Can you get over there and talk to the waiter who served him?”

“What’s the rush?” Hawes asked.

“He had a young girl with him.”

“Shit, I’m on my way,” Hawes said.

“I’ll meet you there,” Carella said. “As soon as I can.”

Both men hung up.

“I have to go,” Hawes said, getting out of bed.

“Shall I wait here for you?” Annie asked.

“I don’t know how long it’ll be. We may have a lead.”

“I’ll wait,” Annie said. She paused. “If I’m asleep, wake me.” She paused again. “You know how,” she said.

“This is really very nice of you,” Darcy said. “Going out of your way like this.”

“Simply my way of thanking you for a wonderful interview,” he said.

They were on the River Highway now, heading eastward toward the university farther uptown. They had just passed under the Hamilton Bridge, the lights on its suspension cables and piers illuminating the dark waters of the River Harb below. Somewhere on the river, a tugboat sounded its horn. On the opposite bank, the adjoining state’s high-rise towers tried boldly and pointlessly to compete with the magnificent skyline they faced. The dashboard clock read 10:07. The traffic was heavier than he thought it would be; usually, you caught your commuters leaving the city between five and six o’clock, your theatergoers heading home at eleven, eleven-thirty. He kept his eyes on the road. He did not want to risk an accident. He did not want to become embroiled in anything that might cause him to lose her. Not when he was so close.

“You think you got everything you need?” she asked.

“It was a very good interview,” he said. “You’re very articulate.”

“Oh, sure,” she said.

“I’m entirely sincere. You have a knack for probing your deepest feelings. That’s very important.”

“You think so?”

“I wouldn’t say so otherwise.”

“Well... you’re very easy to talk to. You make it all... I don’t know. It just sort of flows, talking to you.”

“Thank you.”

“Would you do me a favor?”

“Certainly.”

“This’ll sound stupid.”

“Well, we won’t know until you ask, will we?”

“Could you... could I hear what my voice sounds like?”

“On tape, do you mean?”

“Yeah. That’s stupid, right?”

“No, that’s entirely normal.”

He reached into his jacket pocket and handed the recorder to her.

“See the button marked Rewind?” he said. “Just press it.”

“This one?”

He took his eyes from the road for a moment.

“That’s the one. Well, wait, first flip the On-Off button...”

“Got it.”

“Now rewind it.”

“Okay.”

“And now press the Play button.”

She pressed the button. Her voice came into the car mid-sentence.

“...even think of the Olympics right now, you know what I mean? It seems like a dream to me, the idea of Olympics competition somewhere down the line...”

“God, I sound awful!” she said.

“...I never even consciously think about it. All I’m concerned with right now is becoming the best runner I can possibly be. If I can break twelve, well then, maybe then I can start thinking about...”

“Like a six-year-old,” she said, and pressed the Stop button. “How could you bear listening to all that junk?”

“I found it very informative,” he said.

“You want this back in your pocket, or can I leave it here on the seat?”

“Could you run it forward for me, please?”

“What do I press?”

“Fast Forward. Just until you get to blank tape again.”

She experimented as he drove, running the tape forward, stopping it, and finally getting it past the last of their conversation in the restaurant. “That should do it,” she said. She turned the recorder off completely. “In your pocket? Yes? No?”

“Please,” he said.

“Hey, you’re missing the exit,” she said.

“There’s something I want to show you,” he said. “Do you have a minute?”

The blue sign indicating Hollis Avenue and Converse University flashed by overhead.

“Well, sure,” she said, “I guess so.” She hesitated. “What do you want to show me?”

“A statue,” he said.

“A statue?” She pulled a face. “What kind of statue?”

“Did you know there’s a statue of a runner in this city?”

“No. You’re kidding me. Who’d want to put up a statue of a runner?”

“Ah-ha,” he said. “I thought you’d be surprised.”

“Where is it? A runner?”

“Not far from here. If you have a minute.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she said. She hesitated again, and then said, “You’re fun, you know that? You’re really a fun guy to be with.”

There was no siren on Carella’s private car. Driving as fast as he could, running as many red lights as he possibly could without smashing into any pedestrians or cars, it nonetheless took him half an hour to get to the restaurant. By that time, Hawes had already talked to the waiter, and was talking to the maitre d’ who’d taken McIntyre’s reservation on the phone. The moment Carella came in, Hawes said, “Excuse me,” and walked over to him. Carella seemed out of breath, as if he’d trotted all the way from Riverhead.

“What’ve we got?” he asked.

“A little,” Hawes said. “Guy who made the phone reservation said he was Corey McIntyre...”

“Who’s in Los Angeles,” Carella said.

“Right, but who was here last week, too, the guy who’s calling himself Corey McIntyre. The maitre d’ confirmed that, but he checked back through his book, and there’s nothing for a McIntyre before then, the guy who’s calling himself McIntyre.”

“What’s he look like?”

“Just this side of forty, the waiter said. About five-ten or eleven, hundred and seventy pounds, brown hair and brown eyes, mustache, no visible scars or tattoos. Wearing a dark brown suit, tan tie, brown shoes. No overcoat, according to the lady in the checkroom.”

“How’d he pay for dinner?”

“No luck there, Steve. Cash.”

“What about the girl?”

“The waiter says she looked about eighteen, nineteen. Slender... well, wiry was the word he used. I thought only men were wiry,” Hawes said and shrugged. “Anyway, wiry. About five-eight or five-nine, tall girl, the waiter said. Black hair, blue eyes.”

“Did the waiter catch her name?”

“Darcy. When he asked them if they wanted drinks before dinner, the guy said, ‘Darcy?’ The girl said she wasn’t supposed to. She told him she was in training.”

“Another athlete?” Carella said. “Jesus!”

“Another runner, Steve.”

“How do you know?”

“The waiter heard them talking about running. About how good running made her feel. This was when he was bringing their drinks to the table. The girl had white wine, the guy had Dewar’s on the rocks.”

“Reliable witness?” Carella asked.

“Sharp as a tack. Memory like an elephant.”

“What else?”

“The guy was taping her,” Hawes said. “Put a recorder on the table, taped every word she said. Well, he turned it off while they were eating, but he started taping again when they were on coffee.

The waiter said he kept asking her questions, as if it was an interview or something.”

“He didn’t happen to catch her last name, did he?”

“You expect miracles?”

“What was she wearing?”

“Red dress and red high-heeled shoes. Red barrette in her hair. The hair was pulled back. Not a ponytail, but pulled back and fastened with the barrette.”

“We ought to hire the waiter,” Carella said. “How’d they leave?”

“Doorman outside asked if they needed a taxi, our guy told him no.”

“So did they walk away, or what? Did he see them get into a car?”

“They walked.”

“Which way?”

“North. Toward Jefferson.”

“They may still be walking,” Carella said. “What precinct is this? Midtown South, isn’t it?”

“To Hall Avenue. Then it’s North.”

“Let’s get it on the radio to both precincts. If they’re walking, one of the cars may spot them.”

“You know how many garages there are in the side streets around here? Suppose the guy was driving?”

“That’s our job,” Carella said.

He had turned off the parkway just before the tollbooth that separated Isola from Riverhead, and was driving southward now toward the Diamondback River and the park bordering its northern bank. The statue, he had told her, was in the park. He doubted that anyone else in the city knew the statue even existed; that’s what he had told her. She seemed keen on seeing the statue, but he could tell that the streets through which they now drove were making her a little nervous. The old Maurice Avenue fish market was on their right, its windows shattered by vandals, its once-white walls adorned with spray-painted graffiti. Just beyond that was the century-old building that housed the 84th Precinct, green globes flanking the front steps. He had taken this street deliberately, hoping the sight of a police station would reassure her. He drove past the several police cars angled into the curb out front. A uniformed cop was just coming down the front steps.

“Good to know they’re around, isn’t it?” he said.

“You said it. This is some neighborhood.”

It had, at one time, been a fine neighborhood indeed, but the Bridge Street Section, as it was called, had deteriorated over the years until it resembled all too many other rundown areas of the city, its streets potholed, its buildings crumbling, many of them in fact abandoned. Years ago, when the police department chose Bridge Street as the location for one of its precincts, the street had been a lively thoroughfare brimming with merchant shops, the nucleus of which was the huge fish market close to the River Harb, where — back then — the clear waters had made possible a daily harvest of fresh fish. Now the river was polluted and the neighborhood scarcely habitable. He could not understand why it was called Bridge Street. The nearest bridges were to the east and west — the Hamilton Bridge that spanned the River Harb and connected two states; and the shorter bridge running over Devil’s Bight to join Riverhead with Isola. Nor was there any bridge at either end of the park bordering the Diamondback River, at which point Bridge Street ended in a perpendicular fusing with Turret Road. There were no turrets in evidence, either, though perhaps there had been when the Dutch or the British were here. Turret Road certainly sounded British. In any case, Bridge Street ran directly into it, and ended, and the Bridge Street Park began on the other side of Turret Road.

“Here we are,” he said.

The dashboard clock read 10:37.

“Spooky around here,” Darcy said.

“It’s well-patrolled,” he said.

He was lying. He had scouted the park on three separate nighttime occasions, and he hadn’t seen a single policeman on its paths, despite the park’s proximity to the police station. Moreover, the park was known to be dangerous at night, and a pedestrian abroad in it after 9:00 was a rare sight. He had seen only two people in the park on his previous nocturnal outings: a sailor and a girl who looked like a hooker on her knees before him in the bushes.

He parked the car some distance from the nearest streetlamp, came around to the passenger side at the curb, and opened the door for her. As she stepped out of the car, he reached into his pocket and snapped on the recorder.

“Will we be able to see this statue?” she asked. “It looks dark in there.”

“Oh, there are lights,” he said.

There were, in fact, lampposts inside the park. The old-fashioned vertical sort, a single post supporting a globe-enclosed light bulb at the top of the pole. No arms arcing out over the path. He considered this a drawback. This time, he would have preferred hanging her right where he killed her, in a deserted park in another precinct.

The park was bordered by a low stone wall on the Turret Road side and a cyclone fence on the far side near the Diamondback River. He had no intention of taking her that deep into the park. He planned to do this at once, as soon as they had cleared the entrance. The entrance was an opening in the wall defined by two higher stone pillars flanking it. A globe-enclosed light bulb topped each of the pillars, but the lamps were out just now; he had shattered both of them two nights ago. The sidewalk and the park path beyond were in almost complete darkness.

“Should have brought a flashlight,” Darcy said.

“Vandals,” he said. “But there’s a lamppost just a little ways in.”

They entered the park.

“Who’s this a statue of, anyway?” she asked.

“Jesse Owens,” he said.

He was lying again. The only statue in the park was an equestrian statue of an obscure colonel who, according to the bronze plaque at its base, had fought bravely in the Battle of Gettysburg.

“Really? Here? I thought he was from Cleveland.”

“You know the name, do you?”

“Well, sure. He ran the socks off everybody in the world... when was it?”

“1936. The Berlin Olympics.”

“Made a fool of Hitler and all his Aryan theories.”

“Ten-six for the hundred meter,” he said, nodding. “Broke the world record at twenty-point-seven for the two-hundred, and also won the four-hundred meter relay.”

“Not to mention the broad jump,” Darcy said.

“You do know him then,” he said, smiling, pleased.

“Of course I know him, I’m a runner,” she said, and that was when he made his move.

He intended to do this as swiftly and as easily as he had with the other two. A modified arm drag, designed neither to take her down nor to bend her over at the waist but instead to force her body weight over to her left foot, exposing her side. With her left arm extended, he would move up under her armpit, and before she could turn her head, would clamp his hand at the back of her neck in a half nelson. Swinging around behind her, he would move his other hand up under her right armpit and clasp it at the back of her neck to complete a full nelson. Then he would press her head straight downward, forcing her chin onto her chest and, by exerting pressure, cracking her spine.

The full nelson, because it was so dangerous, could be used by wrestlers only in international competition, and then provided that it was applied at a ninety-degree angle to the spinal column. Once the hands were locked behind an opponent’s head, a body shift to the right or left was mandatory to create the legal angle before applying pressure. He was not concerned with legal angles. He was concerned only with dispatching her effectively, soundlessly, and as quickly as possible. His experience with the other two had taught him that he could apply the hold and the necessary pressure to break her neck in twenty seconds. But this time, the girl wasn’t having any of it.

The instant he locked his hand around her wrist, she shouted, “Hey!” and immediately took a step away from him, trying to free herself. Pulling her into him again, he tried to maneuver his arm up under hers to apply the first half of the nelson, but she jabbed her free elbow into his ribs and then, her back still partially to him, stamped on the insole of his foot with her high-heeled shoe.

The pain in his foot was excruciating, but he would not release his hold on her wrist. They struggled fiercely and soundlessly, their dancing feet rasping over the light cover of fallen leaves underfoot, their bodies intercepting light from the lamppost ahead and casting fitful shadows on the path. She would not allow him to get under her arm. She kept trying to free her wrist, pulling away, attacking whenever he tried to get under that arm to apply his hold. As she came at him again, her right hand clawing at his face, he punched her. His closed left fist caught her in the center of her chest, between her compact athlete’s breasts, knocking the wind out of her. He hit her again, in the face this time, and he kept punching her in anger at the difficulty she was causing, her refusal to cooperate in her own demise. A short sharp jab broke her nose. Blood spilled onto his fist and stained the front of her red dress a darker crimson. She was gasping for breath now, her blue eyes wide in fright. He punched her in the mouth, shattering her front teeth, and as she started to fall toward him, he quickly maneuvered his arm up under hers, applied the hold at the back of her neck, and then moved completely behind her, his groin tight against her buttocks. Supporting her, looping his free arm under her armpit, and over the back of her head, he locked the fingers of both hands behind her neck, spread his legs wide to distribute his weight, and swiftly applied pressure.

He heard the cracking snap of her spine.

It sounded like a rifle shot on the still October air.

The girl collapsed against him.

He looked swiftly ahead on the path, and then picked her up in his arms and turned toward the park entrance.

A man was standing in the opening flanked by the shattered light globes. Illumination from the lamppost up the street cast his angled shadow between the two stone pillars.

The man took one look and ran like hell.