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  Flo approached the widow, who graciously extended a slim hand, her fingers as long and graceful as a classical pianist’s, which, Flo learned, she had once been. A Bach score lay open on a grand piano in the adjoining music room.

  “My condolences,” Flo said. “And I apologize for intruding.” Formal phrases she’d used far too often before, phrases that never lost their power and meaning for her.

  She and the widow sat together on the couch. Golden Bobby and the deceased’s mother-in-law positioned themselves in opposite armchairs, the witch-eyed older woman exuding an air of glum command. The room grew still to the point of etherized.

  “It’s so cold out there,” Flo said. “Winter could come early this year.”

  “Winter kills,” Mother-in-Law said, her voice without preface, the voice of judgment day. “We’re going back down to the islands for the holidays. We got a place on Mustique. I’m from Trinidad. And I never could take winters up here, not at all.” She issued her declarations in a melodic lilt from the islands turned unseasonably sour.

  “We’re leaving right after the funeral,” the widow said. Unlike her mother, her tones were all New York money, recently acquired perhaps, but confidently enunciated.

  Flo had the feeling both women hadn’t yet fully realized the enormity of the great change that just occurred in their lives. Or perhaps they felt the change wouldn’t be so great, or unwelcome, after all. One had lost a philandering husband, the other relieved of a scandalous but rich son-in-law. All that was left was the Brooklyn mansion they lived in, and the winter retreat on Mustique, and the summer spread in the Hamptons, and perhaps a luxury loft condo fifteen blocks away. All this in addition to somewhere in the neighborhood of three hundred million in cash, securities, and assorted business investments. Their lawyer, Golden Bobby, would know the exact dollar details of the victim’s estate.

  Flo said, “What sort of relationship did you and your husband have?”

  Christine Smith looked at the detective in amazement, as if she’d been expecting all along that a homicide detective lieutenant would drop by only to discuss harsh climate, winter getaways, a sun-kissed Caribbean.

  “An excellent relationship,” the widow said. “We’ve been married since I graduated Juilliard and Owen graduated Pace business school. He was a highly educated man, he had an MBA and could’ve been a CPA. But he wanted to really be somebody special. Which he is…or was. We have three lovely, very bright children, and on their own the children helped us keep our marriage together. All three children go to Saint Ann’s Academy, one of the best schools in the country. Owen was as proud of them as I am.”

  “And were you and Mr. Smith still happy together?”

  “Over time, you get used to each other.” A sage judgment, and the deceased’s mother-in-law momentarily lost her look of disapproval and nodded appreciatively. “Over time,” the widow said, “you adapt and you learn to overlook each other’s faults. An eternally happy marriage? Really, Lieutenant, do you truly believe in such a thing? Ours was trouble-free, at least I can say that much. A lot better than some marriages. Just look at our new president and hers. And even they made something out of it. Well, so did we. Our marriage was trouble-free, up until this happened. Neither of us ever even considered divorce.”

  “Were you well informed about your husband’s business affairs?”

  Golden Bobby sat upright at this question.

  “Barely,” the widow said calmly. “And I’ve no regrets about that either. I never interfered in my husband’s business affairs.”

  “Did you share the same tastes in music?”

  Christine Smith allowed herself a small smile. “Lieutenant, nobody ever got especially rich playing Bach. Not even Johann Sebastian. Owen worked very hard, he was up all hours with his business, year after year. He gave us a very good life. We’ve no complaints. Except one. He’s gone from us.”

  “Did you get to meet many of your husband’s business associates?”

  The widow looked over at Golden Bobby, who nodded, as if to say, It’s okay, you can answer this one, too.

  “I met more people than I can remember,” she said. “But I’m not much of a night owl. I didn’t go clubbing, and that was an important part of my husband’s business. Beside the record and clothing companies, he owned interests in some clubs, too. I have my own friends and I have our children. I’m active in the school parents’ association. And in our church, of course.”

  “And what church is that?”

  “Ethical Culture. It’s the closest church to here, almost right around the corner, across from the park side.”

  In other words, Ballz Busta kept his wife and children and mother-in-law on another planet, several light-years removed from the moneymaking machines and the bimbos, the posses and guns, the leather-thonged man on the neon cross, and the bikini-clad babes down on all fours. And the Bible with a gun in it? Flo had to wonder what kind of weapons he kept in the same home where he housed his family.

  Flo said, “I know how hard it is for you now, Mrs. Smith. But have you had a chance to think about any enemies he might have had, anyone who might’ve hated him so much that—”

  “Someone crazy,” she said. For the first time, Christine Smith’s eyes flashed anger. “You got to be crazy to kill a man with Owen’s power. And I don’t know any madmen.”

  “Did he receive any threats? Was he ever attacked?”

  “Owen didn’t provoke people. Owen was a generous man. He complimented competitors, he didn’t have to put them down. He knew his own worth, he was a confident man. There was room for everybody with talent, he always said that.”

  The dead man’s mother-in-law intervened. “Would you like some coffee, Lieutenant?” She rang a small silver bell on an end table. A maid appeared, in a black dress and white apron. “Juanita,” the mother-in-law said, “coffee, please, and some of those fresh butter cookies.”

  Flo waited with the next question, until Juanita the Filipina maid served the coffee and fresh butter cookies.

  “Mrs. Smith, did you know about your husband’s relationships with other women?”

  Christine Smith held Flo’s gaze and replied without hesitation. “Do I look like a dummy? I’m nobody’s fool. And of course I’ve known about that particular woman, too…she’s living only steps from where he was killed. But as I think I’ve indicated, we had a deep understanding, Owen and I.”

  “Have you ever met Celestina Lo Belle?”

  “There was no reason to. He had a taste for women like that. It was entirely his business. And I imagine she’s that kind.”

  “And do you have any men friends?”

  “Wait a second,” Golden Bobby said. “That’s irrelevant.”

  Flo shook her head. “Bobby, we’re not in court. And you know what I’m driving at.”

  “But I don’t,” Mrs. Smith said. “And I don’t think that question has anything to do with—”

  “I do. Or I wouldn’t have asked.”

  “You think I had a man on the side, Lieutenant? Someone who was jealous of Owen? Absurd. Bobby, do we have to continue like this?”

  Golden Bobby looked at Flo and raised his eyebrows questioningly.

  “Okay,” Flo said. “I guess we can say that’s it for today. You’ve all been very cooperative, thank you. But of course I may have to return. And that’s just the way it is, as your lawyer can tell you. We’ll learn more and there’ll be more questions. And that’s our job here. To identify and arrest your husband’s killer.”

  Other Women

  4:46 P.M.

  Flo Ott left the Smith family mansion on Montgomery Place.

  The sky was darkening and it was starting to drizzle.

  The contours of truth, to her constant assessor’s mind, were barely beginning to take shape.

  In an unmarked car, discreetly parked around the corner, detective Sergeant Frank Murphy sat waiting for her.

  “Ballz Busta was a busy guy,” Frank said as they rode downto
wn. “Already Marty’s found two more women. In Manhattan.”

  Sergeant Marty Keane was the third-ranking member of their unit.

  “Where’s Cecil?” Flo said, preventing a killing still her first concern.

  “He left his apartment building in one of our cars. He’s back at his office. Waiting for the new DA. And us.”

  “New DA already? God-awful timing.”

  “Like we got control? The mayor’s just announced it. Jimmy Padino, one of his city hall deputies, hooked the brass ring.”

  “I’ve never met him. What’s he done?”

  “Cultural affairs, all harmless stuff. The arts-and-crafts department. He and the mayor are old college buddies from Georgetown. They say he’s a drunk. And so they put him in culture. A natural fit, no risk of embarrassment there.”

  “And what did we do to deserve him?”

  “He’s from Brooklyn. Lives on the other side of the park.”

  New DA

  5:02 P.M.

  The detectives entered the senator-elect’s office.

  Cecil King smiled at them, but there was little trace of joy in his smile, only two rows of teeth slightly bared, and a scarcely concealed dislike of the man sitting next to him.

  “This is Jimmy Padino,” Cecil King said. “My successor.”

  Jimmy Padino smirked, nodded, gave a little wave but didn’t bother to stand up and shake hands. He’d reached his new post by clever career moves, more recently filling in for the mayor at cultural events, where there’d be few if any big-bucks contributors to the mayor’s campaigns but always overflow crowds of artsy-fartsy types—the book writers, not the check writers—chatterers, spongers, more than a few of them at home in the company of a boozer like Jimmy Padino. He was the sort who realized it was fatal to offend your superiors, refuse an order, miss a chance to wipe a bottom higher up, and who never really learned it could be just as disastrous to step on underlings, like police detectives who might one day discover an opportunity to pay you back for your thoughtless favors.

  Cecil King raised his hands an inch or two and let them fall flat down on the table again. “Well, Jimmy, we don’t have to tell you how genuinely pleased we are that you’re taking over right from the get-go. You’re the luckiest man I know. We got that high-profile murder and it’ll need everything a DA can give. The victim was such a giant in the world of culture. Your world, not mine. So we’re delighted you’re our main man now. Me, I’m history.”

  Cecil glanced at Flo and Frank, neither of whom appeared in the least bit delighted at this prospect.

  The new DA looked quizzical. “A high-profile murder…”

  “High as it gets,” Cecil said. “In Brooklyn anyway. Welcome home, Jimmy.”

  “You mean Ballz Busta?” said Jimmy Padino.

  “A.k.a. Owen Smith,” said Cecil.

  “The rap guy.”

  “Mister Music himself. Our modern Mozart, our own Brooklyn Beethoven is your first celebrity murder victim. I envy you, Jimmy, it’ll be a hell of a scalp on your belt when you convict his killer. You’ll be famous coast to coast. From now on, everybody but everybody will be watching Jimmy Padino. Real close. Sure as God made little green apples, they’ll make an HBO movie about you…after you nail the perp. But first there’s a district attorney’s press conference scheduled bright and early tomorrow morning. I was going to do it, but now it’s all yours, my friend.”

  Jimmy Padino lost his smirk. “Who’ll brief me?”

  “The officers in charge.” Cecil nodded at both homicide detectives.

  They in turn eyed the new district attorney with stone-cold stares.

  “They’re keeping me alive,” Cecil said.

  An assignment for which Flo viewed the new DA in pretty much the same light as she did his patron, the mayor, as more obstacle than ally. Padino belonged in that dark closet full of people to be avoided whenever possible.

  6:01 P.M.

  The private dining room at the Montauk Club, a late-nineteenth-century members-only establishment, looked out over a panoramic vista of the Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Memorial Arch in Grand Army Plaza, the crowning glory of the northwest corner of Prospect Park, towering in the middle of a circle of steady traffic converging from three avenues.

  But Senator-elect Cecil King, a club member, and his supper guests, Flo Ott and Frank Murphy, couldn’t enjoy the view or hear the traffic, seated as they were—by their own choice—in the corner farthest away from the windows.

  A safe spot in its prime location, the Montauk Club was a ten-minute walk from Cecil’s family apartment on Eastern Parkway.

  Twenty minutes from Flo’s house.

  Twenty-two minutes from Ballz Busta’s cobblestone courtyard murder scene.

  And a short stroll from the Smith family mansion on Montgomery Place.

  “My jogging days are over,” Cecil said. “At least for a while. My dog’s not happy about this. But my kids think it’s cool having a cop at the door. Even if our neighbors are less than enthusiastic. As soon as we move to Washington, they’ll all be throwing a big party in our building. You can join them.”

  He smiled at his guests and tucked into his crab Louis salad.

  Flo was having the house Cobb salad and Frank went for the pumpkin-and-ricotta ravioli. “These are terrific” was gourmand Frank’s judgment. “Almost as good as Ann-Marie’s homemade.”

  “Then they’re wonderful,” Flo said. “You’ve got to try his wife’s cooking, Senator, it’s Brooklyn’s best.”

  “That’s saying something. I’d love to try, if I get the invite. But I promise at least one thing’s sure, no restaurants between now and New Year’s. Which has an upside, if I lose weight.” He patted a slight paunch and returned to his creamy crab Louis salad.

  “Look at the Double-A track record,” Flo said. “They don’t always hit in enclosed public spaces. They prefer outdoors, when the target is on the way to or from a public place. They got the congressman in bed. The three professors were hit in their labs. Radio-controlled bombs within minutes of each other. Harvard, Yale, Princeton. And four grad students killed along with their professors, plus seven more injured.”

  “That’s incredible coordination.” The senator-elect wiped a bit of mayonnaise from the corner of his mouth. “What’s the likelihood of bombs again?”

  “It’s always there,” Frank said. “But we’re sweeping every public place where you appear. Any private place is too much work from their side. Places like in here for instance. They can’t run the risk of trying to get inside.”

  Cecil cast a glance around the Victorian-era club’s dining room. “And what about that congressman in his hotel bed? A bed is a pretty private place.”

  “The Tabard Inn, where he got hit, is a funky little hotel. No elevators, no guards. The front door was locked, as it is every night, so the management says. But the shooter slipped in the back by the kitchen. That’s where the target’s room was, the cheapest room in the hotel near the kitchen. The congressman was a regular and he always took the same room. He’d bring his dates in there.”

  “He was with someone?”

  “No,” Frank said. “The guy had left, he was seen leaving out the back door, like all the other dates the victim brought in. And this guy was never found.”

  “So far,” Flo said. “The Double-A has used a range of killing methods, but the long-range rifle, a scope, a silencer, this seems like their favorite combination. A long-range rifle is an outdoor weapon. That’s how they hit all the Planned Parenthood doctors and the president of the ACLU. She was walking out of NYU law school after a lecture, and they got her right in Washington Square on her way back to her apartment. And then they just disappeared. They don’t blow themselves up. They vanish. They’re well trained and probably educated.”

  “Like that mad mathematician?” Cecil said. “The guy who sent bombs through the mail. He did it for years before he got caught. And I think he was a Harvard grad. Or maybe MIT.”

  “They
haven’t resorted to the mails yet. They’re well financed. They’ve got resources. And they must have some kind of base somewhere. Even if it’s virtual.”

  Cecil pushed his plate away and shook his head.

  “Haven’t they ever struck out?”

  “If they have,” said Flo, “we don’t know about it.”

  “Well, bottom line here is I can’t hide for two months. That’s unacceptable. I have to be in public, it’s my job. People have to see me. And I have to see them. Also, what if these threats are fake? A ploy just to tie me down, put me out of the game.”

  “I understand that risk,” Flo said. “But it’s a high-stakes game, if the threats are real. And we’ve no reason to doubt them. All the Double-A hallmarks are there. Frank and I accepted this job, and Senator you’ll just have to put up with us.”

  “So you’re sticking with me like white on rice, if you’ll pardon the expression.” Cecil grinned and called the server over to order a round of coffee. “Okay, you’ll both know everything I’m doing from now to New Year’s. Every last thing…”

  Thursday

  Media

  8:30 A.M.

  Homicide detective Lieutenant Florence Ott arrived downtown for the new Brooklyn district attorney Jimmy Padino’s first press conference.

  Frank Murphy took up his post with Cecil King at the senator-elect’s family apartment on Eastern Parkway.

  The detectives’ double assignment was well under way. Impossible to say which job would be more demanding, keeping the senator-elect alive—discreetly—or finding Owen Smith/Ballz Busta’s killer, a dilemma the press was panting to resolve.