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  “Did he—” Safir began.

  “If you will excuse me, gentlemen,” she said, “I’d like to be alone now. Although I admit I wasn’t close to Reuben, we were colleagues and this is very upsetting. Perhaps we could talk later.”

  “No problem,” Safir said. “A Detective Dillon is going to come by the crisis center later today.You can talk to him.”

  “That would be fine,” the woman said.

  On the way out, Safir said, “Woof. I wouldn’t kick her out of bed.”

  “That bitch?” Wise said. “I wouldn’t fuck her with your dick. She’d be nothing but trouble. I know women.”

  Blake called Dave early to ask him to fill in at the morning press conference at One Police Plaza on Reuben Silver’s death. “I’ll be tied up at the medical examiner’s,” he said.

  Dave looked at the pictures of the dead on the wall. The cat worked his ankles, eager for breakfast. “Me and Mancuso?”

  “Brief him. Answer any questions he throws you,” Blake said. “And be nice.”

  Dillon set out for police headquarters resentfully. Mancuso? Dillon hated the sound of the man’s name. But there was no use stewing about that.This morning had a spring snap to it: people going to work in the warm and sugary air, the clouds above the spires riding in puffy purity, the mirror-like windows of the shiny buildings reflecting the city’s buzzing life.The weather was improving.The crisis center was a possible angle. Maybe things were pointing up.

  Then he saw Chief of Detectives Richard Mancuso. Mancuso once had been a handsome man; Dave had seen pictures from his father’s day. Years of politicking and plotting had worn grooves into Mancuso’s noble Roman face. And into his immortal soul, as well. Time’s cruel gravity had pulled the edges of his mouth downward in a permanent frown. Dave could hear Wise’s taunt, safely delivered far from the chief’s paranoid ears: “Big Dick Mancuso.”

  “Tell me what I don’t know, Dillon,” Mancuso said.

  Dave meticulously covered every facet of the investigation into Reuben Silver’s death. “And we think the link is the West Side Crisis Center,” he concluded. “A lot of legwork needs to be done, though.”

  “Blake thinks or you think?” Mancuso asked nastily.

  “I think, chief. And Lt. Blake thinks it’s worth examining.”

  Mancuso swallowed, perhaps a dram of bile. “And this Silver is a man.”

  “That’s right, chief. He was a man.” Dave hoped he didn’t sound too sarcastic.

  “But the rest of the victims have been women.”

  “That’s right. We think Silver may have stumbled onto the killer by accident. The site is a residential neighborhood, not the typical deserted places the perp prefers.”

  “And how,” Mancuso almost snarled, “can you be sure this isn’t a copycat killer?”

  “As I indicated before,” Dave said, holding the anger by a straining leash, “Silver was shot in the right eye.That information never has been released. No copycat could know that.”

  “Unless he’s a copycat who got lucky.”

  “It’s the same type of bullet, shot from the same distance, by a shooter who is expert at this. Someone who can pull a .45 up real quick and get one off before the victim can turn her — or in this case, his— head.”

  “Is that your theory?”

  “Lt. Blake will back that up, chief,” Dave said.

  Chief Mancuso sighed. Dave followed him and his entourage into the elevator for the trip to the press conference.

  “I hate these people — reporters,” Mancuso said as the floors ticked by. “They’re nothing but whores. Out to sell newspapers.They undermine citizens’ faith in society. They want to destroy everything good— the family, religion, law and order, free enterprise. If it wasn’t for them, we could just treat this shit like all the rest.There are 1,500 murders a year in this city, for God’s sake. Now they are out needlessly scaring people.”

  The group rode in shoe-contemplating silence.

  “They’re all Jews, you know,” Mancuso said.

  The press conference was crowded. Hot TV lights baked the police officers as they filed in. Dave spotted Jimmy Conlon in the front row.

  Dave half expected the press to start screaming and hyperventilating, as they did in the movies. Instead, after listening quietly to Mancuso’s opening remarks, the reporters took turns asking calm, matter-of-fact questions.

  Finally, Jimmy Conlon asked one: “Chief, I hear that the victims all are shot in the right eye, decimating that side of their skulls. Is that true?”

  “I can’t guess where you get your information, mister,” Mancuso retorted. “But you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Dave flinched.Where could Jimmy have learned that?

  “Is that a denial, chief?” Jimmy pressed on politely.

  “Don’t badger me. Are you running this investigation or is the police department?”

  “I simply asked you a question, chief,” Jimmy said, still keeping his tone steady.

  “I’ve had my fill of your shit for today,” Mancuso said. “You people figure you are better than anyone else.Well, I have a responsibility to the taxpayers of this city, who work for an honest living, not to you parasites.”

  Mancuso huffed off, followed by his retainers and Dave.

  In the elevator, Mancuso angrily asked, “Who was that little kike in the front row, the one who is trying to tell me how to do my job?”

  “For what it’s worth,” Dave said, “his name is Jimmy Conlon.And he’s Irish.”

  “You a friend of his, Dillon?” Mancuso pounced, almost delighted to hear this. “Is that how he knew about the right eye?”

  “No, chief. I disclosed nothing to Jimmy or anyone else.”

  “Sure, Dillon.” Mancuso dripped sarcasm. “And if I ever find out you did, your ass is grass. And I’m the lawnmower.”

  • • •

  The layer of dirt over Times Square, invisible in the gaudy neon night, was palpable in stark daylight. Ace kicked through it and talked to the sidewalk: “I’ll show her — the bitch —”

  He almost bumped into Martino and Blitzer.

  “Talking to yourself is a sure sign of insanity, Ace,” Martino said. Ace never understood why women became cops.This one was a

  diesel dyke straight from the truck stop. “What?” Ace stammered.The two cops had Finesse and Falstaff up against the wall, their arms and legs spread.

  “Let’s go, Ace,” Blitzer, the kid, said. Even the newest cops were cocky. “You know the drill.”

  Martino grabbed Ace by the collar and shoved him next to the other two. He reluctantly assumed the position. “What’s this about?” he asked as Martino frisked him.

  “It seems,” said Falstaff, a fat ex-hippie with long, gray hair and an even grayer beard who had dedicated his life to the pursuit of cheap wine, “that there’s been another murder.”

  “I can account for every second of my whereabouts,” Finesse whined. “This is harassment.”

  “So,” Ace said tauntingly over his shoulder while Martino worked her hands up his thighs, “I guess this means you assholes don’t know shit about these murders.”

  The cop spun him around roughly and flattened him against the wall. “And I suppose you know shit, wise guy?” she said.

  “Maybe I do.”

  “Christ, get a shower, Ace,” Martino said. “You smell almost as bad as Falstaff here.”

  “Maybe I do know about the murders,” Ace persisted.

  “Maybe you’re the one we’re looking for, huh?” Blitzer the kid said.

  “Maybe I am.”

  “Ace,” Martino broke in, “you hustle tourists.You pick pockets. You roll bag ladies who can’t fight back. You’re scum, Ace. Not big scum.You’re just scum.”

  She finished patting down the other two. “Now, listen up,” she said. “All of you. If you hear anything on the street, anything at all, let us know.We’ll be coming down hard on you till we get this sucker. So it’s in your
best interest to cooperate.”

  The men listened expressionlessly.The two cops strolled away.

  Falstaff, the old wino, made a courtly bow to them. “Ladies, gentlemen.”

  Once the cops were out of earshot, Ace said, “Like hell. I’ll tell them shit.”

  “Yeah,” Finesse said, straightening the lapels of his green suit. “Police can suck my dick.”

  “You already suck their dicks, Finesse,” Ace said. “How much they give you for snitching?”

  “What you talkin’ about?” Finesse said indignantly. “Watch your nasty mouth, boy. Don’t go dissin’ the man who buys you drinks.”

  Finesse minced away with all the dignity he could muster.

  “A drink?” Falstaff said, brightening. “Sounds lovely.”

  Ace slunk after Falstaff as the wino retrieved a nearly empty bottle of Thunderbird from a recess beneath a loose grating. He followed him to a doorway where Falstaff upended the dirty bottle into his mouth.

  “Fuck the police, huh?” Ace said excitedly. “Fuck them. I’ll fix them.”

  “Absolutely,” the wino said. “You’ll fix them, Ace, my friend.You surely did throw a fright into them this time.”

  Instantly furious, Ace shoved Falstaff against the door.The bottle smashed to the pavement. Ace grabbed it and held the jagged glass to the derelict’s fur-matted throat.

  “Please — Ace, please,” the wino begged, terrified.

  Ace smirked, satisfied. He threw the broken bottle to the sidewalk, where it shattered into a hundred pieces. “You’ll see. Some day, I’ll surprise you.You’ll see.”

  He sauntered toward the Deuce, remembering the night before. Plotting how to take advantage.

  SEVEN

  Dave Dillon stepped through the open doorway of the West Side Crisis Center into the ill-lit waiting room to hell. Tormented spirits, their minds short-circuited by alcohol, drugs, or grief, wandered about, apparently waiting to see the staff.A very old, very upset, black man sat near the door having mild hysterics. At his side, almost lost in the shadows, a striking-looking, dark-haired woman listened quietly.

  “He was my brother,” the old man moaned. “It’s a bitter thing for a man to lose his brother.”

  “Why don’t we start from the beginning?” the attentive woman said, calmly, totally in control.

  Dave was reluctant to interrupt. He ventured farther into the lobby.

  A young Rastafarian walked past with a clothespin in his nose, singing reggae: “Kill the white man. After he buy me record.”

  A seedy, wild-eyed white man rushed up to Dave. “Where,” he cried urgently. “Where? Where?”

  “Uh, excuse me?” Dave tried to disengage but the man stayed close, peering into Dave’s face.

  “Where? Where are you from?”

  Dave reached for his badge but hesitated. “Well, I represent—”

  “Where? Where are you from? Where?”

  The man was getting more and more agitated. “I’m sorry.Where do I live?” Dave tried.

  “Where are you from? Where? What planet?”

  Two middle-aged women, linked arm in arm, stepped quickly back and forth, careening into people, including the seeker after extra-terrestrial life, who ignored them and stayed in close proximity to Dave’s face.

  “Where? Where?”

  An extraordinarily pretty, slightly disheveled young woman hurried up to Dave and touched his arm. “You must be from the police.”

  Dave pulled away, suspicious but fascinated, not knowing what to expect.

  “It’s okay,” she gave a ragged laugh and pushed back an errant lock of strawberry blonde hair. “I work here.”

  “Detective Dave Dillon,” he told her, hoping desperately that he hadn’t offended her. “Could you direct me to Dr. Solomon?”

  “Megan Morrison. Come this way.” She led him across the lobby, pausing only to look back at the dark-haired staff person Dave had passed on the way in.

  Dave turned and looked, too.The dark-haired woman, as if sensing their eyes on her, turned her attention from the old man and stared back.

  “That’s Nita Bergstrom,” the young woman said simply. “She’s the best we have.” Nita turned back to her client.

  The seedy man had followed Dave and pushed his face close to his again. “There’s no life on Uranus, you know.”

  Dave caught Megan’s eyes and they both laughed. Miffed, the old man turned away.

  “What about you?” Dave asked her, quietly. “What planet are you from?”

  Megan held his eyes for a moment as the confusion of the lobby swirled around them. Then she squared her shoulders and turned away.

  “You’re here about Reuben. Dr. Solomon is waiting.”

  He could see that her eyes had filled with tears. She led him past a glassed-in admitting desk, kindly but firmly fending off the clients. “Good morning, Howie. No, this is a visitor. This is not your breakfast.”

  Megan smiled and Dave gave a brief laugh as they passed the large, disappointed man who rubbed his enormous belly. Megan glanced at Dave. He was watching her with interest. She reached up again to smooth her hair.

  As they neared the stairs, Nita joined them. Megan introduced them and Dave shook her slim, cool hand.

  “Today is more difficult than usual,” Nita said. “They don’t know what to make of Reuben’s death. They’re used to us being there for them. It’s hard for them to grasp that we can have a crisis too.”

  Megan drew back automatically and let Nita take the lead.

  Dave smiled back at her before turning his attention to Nita. “I’m sorry to be taking up your time,” he said. “We need to develop some leads to find Mr. Silver’s killer.You were working with him last night?”

  “Yes. Reuben and I were on the hotline.”

  Megan sat anxiously checking out the reactions of the staff as they sat around the staff lounge. Grief and bewilderment held sway. Rose was sobbing softly. Tim looked scared. The other aides and part-time counselors were numb or nervous. Nita alone had not let the shocking news get to her. Megan admired her efforts this morning to soothe the clients and keep the center operating. She stood by the door, alert and vigilant, and, as always, coolly beautiful.

  Dr. Solomon, more dazed than usual, had been saying, “Oh, dear,” all morning to everyone. The good-looking detective was waiting for him to open the meeting.

  Finally, Dave spoke himself. He went over the bare facts of Reuben’s murder, at first relating no more than had been released to the media.

  Then, when he had registered all their reactions, he leaned forward. “Mr. Silver’s murder follows the pattern known as the Ladykiller slayings. His death may be one of a random series. However, we have a hunch.This is merely a hunch, but worth pursuing. It may be that the other four victims are linked to the crisis center, however remotely. If so, chances are the killer is too.”

  He paused to let that sink in, looking from face to face around the room.

  “You know,” Megan said tentatively, “it’s funny, but Reuben sort of suggested the same thing. It was a joke really. He said we should start a counseling group for murders. Call it Assassins Anonymous or something. He had a whole routine.”

  After a moment of silence, Tim hooted with laughter, which he stifled in embarrassment. Dave seemed very thoughtful.

  “Reuben had a highly developed sense of humor,” Nita said. “But he often went too far.”

  “Reuben was a great kidder,” Tim agreed. “He could beat a dead joke into the ground.” He guffawed, then realized this was a tactless remark.

  “Any observations about either Reuben or those he treated are helpful to us,” Dave told Tim.

  Megan noted with approval how Dave had deftly defused Tim’s awkward comment. The detective was so broad-shouldered, strong, and sure of himself, yet with a rare warmth and kindness she didn’t think possible in someone this physical.

  “People come to you with their problems,” Dave continued. “Addicts, crazies,
victims of various forms of abuse. You’re the experts, but I suspect sometimes it must be hard to tell whether someone is just a little unbalanced or whether he’s seriously psychotic.”

  The staff glanced at one another, and Dave continued. “Dr. Solomon has told me a little about how each of you work here. Each of you leads one or more therapeutic groups for people with one type of problem or another.You also counsel people on the hotline phones. I’d like to show you some pictures of the other murder victims and have you —”

  “We read the papers, Detective Dillon,” Nita said mildly. “Don’t you think that if our clients were being killed, we’d have noticed and come forward?”

  “I don’t know,”Tim said. “Anything around here that reduces the caseload —” He failed to contain a hysterical giggle.

  “Detective Dillon has asked us to cooperate and I’m asking all of you to help,” Dr. Solomon said. “He’ll be around here for several days looking at our files and —”

  A storm of protest swept through the room. Amid the shouting, Dr. Solomon gestured ineffectually to restore order.

  “We can’t allow that,” Rose insisted. “Our work here is confidential. Our clients can’t be compromised.”

  “He can’t do this,” Tim whined. “We promise them that our records are strictly private. It’s outrageous.”

  Megan had her mouth open to speak, but couldn’t find the words.

  “If necessary,” Dave’s voice carried over the melee, “I can get a court order. I’d rather do this with your help.”

  Nita strode into the center of the room and spoke quietly but with immense authority. Everyone fell silent at once.

  “Perhaps if one of us goes through the records with him,” Nita said, “we can help sift for whatever he needs without compromising our responsibilities.”

  “Yes,” Dr. Solomon said gratefully. “Thank you, Nita. Detective Dillon, would that arrangement suit you?”

  “Yes, doctor,” Dave said. “Thanks.”

  “Nita,” Dr. Solomon said, “I’d like you and Megan both to assist Detective Dillon in his examination of the files.”

  Megan felt a blush spreading involuntarily across her face. She turned to Nita, who watched her with narrowed eyes, unsmiling.