Chapter Twenty-one: ’TIL WHEN-NEVER

Two sounds brought me back to the now. One a sound like dragging and the other like a squeaky wheel. I tried to trace its echo in the desolate top level of the garage. My eyes fastened on the rounded concrete corner of the dividing wall, beyond which was the stairwell.

The dragging sound stopped briefly, but the squeaking continued. Then footsteps began, sharp and direct slaps bouncing off the concrete walls of the chamber. Getting closer.

I unpacked my gun, held it in my right hand hanging loose down by my thigh, and waited, watching that corner.

A thick shadow appeared and behind it a man.

“Payton? What the fuck?”

“Hi, Matt. What you doing here?”

I wasn’t trying to be funny, I guess I was just a little punchy, and he sounded so…normal.

“Oh. Trying to clean up your mess.”

“My mess?”

“Yeah, dickhead.”

He came forward, dragging something behind him like a laundry sack, but it wasn’t a sack. It was alive, it was Elena. Duct tape wrapped several times about her mouth, all around her head and hair. Her wrists and ankles were bound the same way. The squeaky sounds I’d heard were just her muted whimpers.

Matt stopped advancing about eight feet away. He dragged Elena up beside him in one pull, his hand wrapped around the back of her blouse.

He said, “I had it all settled so neatly, things were finally fine. Then you start nosing into it. You’re as bad as Owl was.”

I gestured—with my left hand, not the one holding the gun—at the open trunk of the car and Law Addison’s body in its chrysalis of plastic sheeting.

“How did this happen, Matt?”

“I did my job. That’s all. Metro was brought in by the bailsbond agency. We were supposed to keep an eye on Addison, in case he got antsy. Which he did. Unfortunately, he slipped our tail—the assholes I had watching him lost him. Better believe I fired their asses on the spot. Same way I fired you five years ago. Remember?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I remember.”

“So then I had to track this Jethro down. And that’s what I did.

“We didn’t know about the ‘L. Andrew’ apartment down on C, but we did know about the junkie girlfriend. Easiest thing in the fucking world for me to roust her connection and let him know he was looking at a federal beef unless he called me immediately the minute she got in touch. Sure enough, she phoned him up, looking to score a stockpile before going away. And he called me like the good little pusher he was. He told me when and where, I went in his place, and when she got there, instead of her delivery she got me, reading her the riot act.”

“I heard about that,” I said. “From her husband. You bum-rushed her out of the city and got her tucked away in a rehab clinic upstate. Same place you went for your detox treatment, I bet, that place you said your cousin runs.”

“Not bad, Payton. I shouldn’t have let that slip. But you get under a guy’s skin, y’know.”

“De nada,” I said. “But explain this to me. You hid Michael Cassidy away and pumped her for info—fine. She spilled to you where Addison was and you staked out his hidey-hole—fine. But how’s all that end up with him in the trunk and you owning this place?”

“Well, this place is where Addison ran to when he finally made his move,” Matt said. “I was getting ready to bust him—swear to God, I was maybe two hours away from kicking in his door and putting the cuffs on him—when he walked out with three suitcases in tow and jumped in a cab. Of course I followed him, I figured he was making a run for the airport. But instead he came here. Took the elevator up with his luggage. I took the stairs. When I got here, he was over there—”

Matt nodded toward the car behind me, but I didn’t turn and look.

“He was loading his bags into the trunk, getting ready for his big escape. Kept looking at his watch. I guess he was still waiting for his girlfriend to show. It was pathetic what a drop I had on him.

“So I shouted, Hey, Addison! Might as well take ’em out again, you aren’t going anywhere. I was sick of this asshole and all the trouble he’d made for me. All I wanted was to cuff him, deliver him to the cops, go home and take a fucking nap.

“But instead of just takin’ it like a man, he starts in blubbering, begging me to cut a deal. Payton, you don’t know what it was like. This big dopey Jethro on his knees, offering one of his suitcases up, telling me there’s a million dollars inside. A million dollars cash, Payton. And all he wants me to do is give him a head start.

“But I knew it would have been a waste of time—his head start maybe would’ve bought him a day or two but they’d have caught him just the same. And then you’d better believe he’d’ve turned me in—he’d have done any damn thing he could just to save his neck.

“And as I stood there with my gun drawn and the son of a bitch kneeling and whimpering, I realized that the only fucking thing that was keeping me from taking him up on his offer was that he was going to get caught, and that meant I’d get caught, and that meant I’d lose my job, I’d lose my kid, I sure as hell would never see the million bucks.

“But I’m looking down at this poor fuck’s pleading eyes, feeling pity, and I start thinking maybe there is a way it could work. If I coached him every step of the way. Got him out of state and stashed away for a few months until the hunt died down. Got him a new identity, and fucking drilled into him every day how to stay under the radar—because it wouldn’t be just his safety and liberty at stake anymore, it’d be mine, too, my liberty, my family’s safety, and—

“Ah, fuck,” Matt said. “I shot him.”

For a while all I could hear were Elena’s muffled sobs and the whistle of her breath through her nose.

I cleared my throat.

“Yeh,” I said. “All that would’ve been a lot of work.”

“You shittin’ me? No way. And wherever he went, sooner or later, he’d blow it. Or someone would spot him from America’s Most Wanted—that show goes worldwide these days. How’m I suppose to live with that hanging over my head, my family’s head?

“One shot…and it all went away. The money’s mine, not just one mil but all of it, and no Jethro to worry about screwing everything up. And you know something, Payton, when you step out of bounds like that? It’s a shock when the earth just doesn’t open up and swallow you. But it doesn’t. The world goes grinding on. I tell you, I felt good. I felt peaceful.

“I popped open one of those suitcases and there was nothing inside it but money. Wads of used U.S. currency packed sideways, neat as sardines. Well-thumbed fifties and hundreds. The other two bags were the same. Would you believe, he hadn’t even packed a shaving kit? Guess he figured he could always buy one.”

He lowered his head and laughed into his chest.

“But I didn’t make his mistake. I looked after practical matters. Getting rid of his body. Over the years, you hear of so many guys and that’s what trips ’em up. They get caught transporting it or disposing of it. And I thought, out of the blue, then don’t touch it, leave it where it was. Let it ride. Wasn’t until later, after I’d counted up the money, I got the idea of buying this place.”

“But first you had to prep the body,” I said. “I saw the Raid and Black Flag shower you gave it to shoo the shoo flies.”

“Yeah, had to do that right away. I knew it would mean some coming and going, and there was the fucking garage attendant to deal with. But I’d slipped him a twenty on the way in, when I was following Addison, and I got the impression his palm would stand a bit more greasing.”

“Let me guess,” I said. “Jeff.”

He nodded. “He was more than willing to look the other way—if that’s all he had to do—as long as the price was right. And I made sure the price was right.”

“Seventy thousand bucks plus free rent and board for him and his girlfriend,” I said. “Pretty generous, Matt. But that’s where things started to unravel. It was just your bad luck his girlfriend was an old friend of George Rowell’s. And that Owl happened to be visiting her when Michael Cassidy showed up at the apartment. She was running scared after that botched attempt on her life by your drug dealer friend. She ran to Addison’s old hideout on Avenue C.”

“Jesus Christ,” Matt said. “Owl made her right away, I’ll bet.”

“More than that—he got her to spill her story about the kind-hearted private investigator who cut her a break, sending her off to rehab instead of letting her get collared with Law Addison. I’m sure you didn’t give her your real name, but somehow he must’ve guessed it was you. Addison was a Metro job after all.”

Matt shook his head. “Can you beat that? The one guy I take in to make it work for me, and ends up his girl knows Owl. That’s fuckin’ New York for ya. What’re the fucking odds?”

“Astronomical. Too bad no one made book, got a little money down on it.”

Matt leaned his head back and stretched his neck with little rotations. “Yeah, well, I did have money down, a load. In fact, I still got a fucking load riding on this.”

“How much, Matt? How much did it all finally come to? What was the tally? I’m curious.”

He brought his head back in line. His gray eyes pinned me.

“You’re curious. You’re curious. You’re curious. Shit, Payton, you don’t need to tell me you’re fucking curious. I get it, already. I know you.”

“Let me rephrase the question,” I said. “How much, and is it worth all that you’ve done to keep it?”

Matt’s eyebrows rose in baffled innocence, furrowing his brow.

“What? What have I done? C’mon, really?”

“You killed eight people.”

“Eight? That can’t be right.”

He started counting them off on the fingers of his left hand. As I watched him, I realized I could raise my gun and shoot him now, that I should shoot him now. But I didn’t. I watched him.

His thumb was Law Addison stuck in the car trunk.

His forefinger was George Rowell, pushed into traffic so he couldn’t put me on the case.

He didn’t count Craig Wales’ O.D., because that had been an accident, the hot bag meant for Michael Cassidy alone. I didn’t argue the point.

His middle finger.

“That guy at the Crystalview.”

He didn’t remember his name.

“Paul Windmann,” I told him.

“Saw his address on your desk, when I was still looking for Cassidy, I thought it was where she was stashed. I only went there to sniff around. But I knock on the door and next thing this guy’s waving a gun in my face. It was over before I even knew what happened. Idiot pulled the trigger, shot himself. I just went over there to ask a few questions and he freaked out and got himself shot.”

“Another accident then?” I asked.

He kept his middle finger up.

I said, “Then there’s the kid you shot over in East River Park, after your play with the drug dealer went bust. Why did he have to die so bad?”

Matt said, “That little cocksucker, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you. I didn’t believe he had it in him until he fucking showed me. He stopped me when I was coming out of your building. Skidded his skateboard in front of me, then flashed his cell phone up in my face. What’s the picture of, but me with my hands on Owl’s chest, pushin’ as the black car rounds the turn. Before I could grab the fucking phone, he was off in a shot. Like he just wanted me to know what he had on me. I guess he was planning to shake me down. But Homey don’t play that.”

He flicked up his fourth finger, his wedding ring finger.

The pinkie was for Michael Cassidy.

Matt said, “Can’t believe she was over at that hotel all the while. By the time I got there, she was flying so high, she just let me in the room when I knocked. There was a gun on the bed. She made it so…easy. I mean after trying so hard to hide. And then there she was all sort of laid out for me, ready, almost comatose. It should’ve been easy. Just pick up the gun and badabing. But I couldn’t do it at first. Maybe ’cause she was a woman, I don’t know. But then I thought of Jeanne and the baby and what this woman could do to us, and I shot her in the head. Very final, that is. Very final.”

But it wasn’t final at all. It wasn’t over.

I asked, “And where’s Jeff? He went off to meet you more than an hour ago, and here you are, but no Jeff.”

Elena had stopped her sobbing, suspended it long enough to strain and listen for his answer.

But his answer was wordless. Matt stuck out his other thumb.

He said, “That’s the lot. See, I told you.”

My chest heaved out a short laugh-sob, like I was gagging on ash.

“Okay, six then,” I said. “But shit, when you’re counting off victims on your fingers and have to move to the other hand, it’s time to admit you got a problem. You may have stopped drinking, Matt, but you’ve turned into a murderaholic.”

As soon as I’d said it, I regretted it. I noticed for the first time a distinct drunken cast to Matt’s expression. Not that I thought for a moment he’d been drinking—I didn’t—but there are such things as dry drunks, who can be just as dangerous and erratic as the regular sort.

Matt said, through a ragged smile, “You may be right, pal. But I can kick it. Same as I did with drinking. Cold turkey. Except maybe…one more for the road?”

He looked down at Elena, on her knees, as he held her by the scruff of the neck, propped up against his thighs.

I said, “You’re overlooking something, Matt.”

I raised my gun and waggled it at him, just to bring it into play. I’d forgotten how heavy it was with a full clip.

He frowned and shook his head.

“What are you going to do? Shoot me?”

“The thought has been trapezing through my mind.”

“You won’t. I know you, Payton.”

“Don’t be so sure about that.”

“Oh, wanna see how sure I am?”

He was surprisingly fast for such a big guy—or maybe just, as usual, I was too slow. I didn’t even see where it came from, but suddenly he was holding a gun.

Blue metal. It looked like the old .38 he’d always kept in his desk drawer at Metro. I’d only ever seen him crack walnuts with it. But now he cocked it, angled it down at Elena’s head.

“Drop your weapon, Payton,” Matt said.

“Or what, you’ll shoot her? Come on, Matt. How stupid do you think I am? If I drop my gun, you’ll shoot us both. But if you shoot her, I’ll drop you.”

“Then do it. Shoot me now. Go ahead. I told you, that’s your only play, Payton. Anything else is just me fucking talking you into putting your gun down. And I will. Because I know you. Oh yeah. Better than you know yourself.”

“Do you.”

“I know your secret, Payton.”

“I’m really the Green Lantern?”

Matt shook his head sagely.

“You think you’re a detective in a detective story.”

His voice bounced off the dank concrete walls and echoed through the shadows of the parking garage. It sounded more ominous than he probably intended.

I said, “I…”

“Payton, you think you live your life by this sort of code of behavior, but you’re only fucking playing at it. You and guys like Owl have outdated ideas about what’s right and wrong—but him I could forgive, he was a dinosaur, he lived it. You, you’re just aping old movies.”

I’d about had my fill of this reunion.

“You, Matt? You can forgive Owl? You shoved him in front of a car! And why, to stop him from coming to see me? What did you think he wanted to talk to me about? Or tell me? What made you kill him?”

“Actually, I didn’t mean to,” he said absently. “Kill Owl? Nothing I would’ve ever fucking dreamed of doing. He brought me up in this business. I loved him. But you know, shit happens.”

“Shit,” I said.

“After the party where Wales bought it, I picked up Cassidy’s trail. I followed her to Avenue C, waited for her outside Addison’s place, watched that fucking stoop till seven in the goddamn morning, and then who does she come out with but George Rowell? It was like something outta a fucking dream, where you think of an old friend you’ve been dying to see in forever, and there they are. And there he was. But holy fuck was he with the wrong woman.”

“So you followed them to his hotel,” I said. “Only you must’ve been a little clumsy, because he picked up on the fact that he had a tail.”

“I wasn’t clumsy, asswipe. Owl was good.”

“Well, you must’ve been good, too, because he didn’t know it was you following him. That’s what he wanted my help for—flushing out who was tailing him. Nothing more.”

Matt seemed to only half-hear me. When he spoke, it was almost to himself. “He figured it out, y’know. At the end. I tried to fake it when I walked up to him, a big smile, what a surprise. But he wasn’t fooled. I saw it in his eyes. Somehow he’d put it all together, out of nothing, like pulling it out of the air. He really was the best of all of us, just a great fucking detective. But he never really got it. The way life works when the chips are down. I mean, there I am, looking for a car coming fast down the road trying to beat the yellow, and he’s explaining to me the whole time why he has no choice, he’s got to turn me in. Can you believe it? Never saw what was coming.”

“Maybe he didn’t want to see.”

“At least he went out on the job. That’s the way he always wanted to go. Always said so. So he got his wish.”

I said, “You’ve got to listen to yourself.”

“I knew you wouldn’t fucking understand, Payton. You and that poor old fool. I could never make you see it. You don’t know what it’s like for me. Especially now. You don’t know what it’s like to be a father. It changes everything. There was no way I was going to have my family’s future threatened by someone’s principles.”

Like every asshole he’d ever collared, Matt had cooked up a rationale for all his actions, a way of convincing himself he wasn’t just doing what he wanted or what he had to but what was right. And who could argue with it? If it came down to me or his beautiful infant son, who was he supposed to choose? I mean, really, what did I expect?

Matt said, “You asked me before, how much and was it worth it. It came to just under four million dollars. Three million seven hundred eighty thousand. Cash. I’d never seen that much in my lifetime. If I hadn’t done what I’ve done, I wouldn’t have that to pass on to my family. As soon as I saw all that money in the suitcases, I knew I’d done the right thing. It was such a fucking relief, knowing it wasn’t for nothing. Knowing it was worth it. Does that satisfy you, Payton?”

“Not really,” I said. “Like how’d you manage to buy this place, a property this size in Manhattan for less than four million? How’d you ever persuade the previous owner to take less than market value?”

He didn’t say anything, just stared at me with a combination of sheepishness and pride on his face. Then he unrolled one more finger on his freehand.

“You got any other burning questions?” he said.

“Yeh,” I said. “Was it you who sicced Moe Fedel on me after all?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Hell.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You had me believing you hadn’t.”

“You wanted to believe, Payton. That’s you in a nutshell. You want to believe.”

“I don’t want to believe you killed all these people.”

“Oh fuck, Payton, throw that in my face.”

“And what are you throwing in my face? What do you expect me to do, Matt? What choice do I have?”

“You want a choice. Okay, okay. Here goes. A solid half million dollars in cash. Hundred dollar bills. Think about it, Payton. You will never see that much money if you live to be two hundred. So really think, okay? And I don’t mean think of a clever Deal Or No Deal comeback, jack-off. Think what’s really at stake here.”

He made a good pitch. And he was right. I lived in a world of penny rolls and crumpled one dollar bills. I literally couldn’t even conceive of that much money being mine. It defied my imagination.

Ultimately, I had to tell him I accepted his offer. His choice was no choice. The problem was keeping a straight face as I did it.

“So what’s it going to be, Payton?”

“I don’t know. Right now I feel like I’m in your shoes, Matt, faced with the same problem you were, whether or not to latch onto somebody I figure is going down no matter what I say or do. You gotta know it’s only a question of time. Seven bodies, man—that’s a lot for anyone to sweep under the rug.

“But I guess they won’t get you today and probably not tomorrow, and who knows, maybe you’ll find some way to pull it off. If anyone can… So sure, what the hell, I’d love a half million bucks. It’ll keep the draft out.”

“So, what, is that yes or a no?”

“Yes.”

“Fuck, then say yes! That’s all I want to hear, yes or no.”

“Yes.”

“Yeah, I got it now,” Matt said. “Just one thing.”

He nudged Elena, so she toppled over, landing on her side.

“Kill her.”

“Wha—no—what are you talking about?”

“Seal the deal. C’mon, why you think I let you keep your gun?”

“Let me keep…?”

“Do this, we’re solid. I’ll have something on you as bad as what you’ve got on me.”

“You’re nuts, Matt.”

“Maybe. Choose.”

“I’m not going to kill her.”

Elena was squealing. Her eyes were wide with terror, flicking from my gun to Matt’s and back. I lowered mine.

That was a mistake.

Matt swung his up to point directly at my chest.

“Eh—Payton—eh! Not a twitch. Pray as you like, but don’t genuflect ’less you’re done.”

He lifted the barrel higher and leveled it at my face. He started walking toward me, taking slow steps like a duelist measuring off his ten paces.

You never really see a gun for what it is until you stare down the muzzle of one in someone else’s hands, watch it come closer, closer, till it fills your line of sight. You watch, knowing it’s about to spit flame, that the split-second explosion will be the last thing you ever see. You know a bullet’s coming as soon as you blink, so you don’t blink. You freeze. Grow old looking at it. If it’s a big gun, you mark how small it looks. And if it’s a small gun, my, how big it looks. An enormous maw about to swallow your head.

I concentrated on that black hole approaching me. I didn’t blink. It became my whole world, my past future present. Funny that something so small could magnify and become huge, big enough to blot out the sun. It seemed to be sucking at me like a puncture hole in a pressurized cabin. I waited for it, knowing the moment I let my eyes shut I was done…

How quiet it was. Except for my heartbeat and Matt’s footsteps, there was no sound at all. Which was odd, actually. There should have been another sound, there had been one before, Elena’s muffled sobs. Glancing down, I realized I no longer saw her prostrate shape in the periphery of my vision.

Matt read something in my eyes, but he didn’t waver, didn’t look behind him. Maybe he thought I was pulling some trick to distract him. He gave me too much credit.

When I saw the movement behind him, I forced my eyes to lock on his, did my damnedest to hold him, make him focus on me. Not on the sliver of Sayre Rauth I could see behind him shifting her weight and raising her right arm out in front of her.

She fired. The .22’s dainty reports, even in the echo chamber of the parking garage, were like birthday balloons popping. The barrel gave off puffs of confectioners’ sugar.

Matt fell against me and I felt the slam of one of the bullets ripping through him. Then another, and a wetness like a sea mist on my face, only hot as molten wax. I clenched my lips against the animal urge to lick it away from my mouth.

She made no song and dance of it. Four times she shot him in the back, one got him in the neck.

I sidestepped his weight against me, shedding him like an overcoat. He landed on his face. I wiped mine on my sleeve.

Sayre lowered her gun, her cunning, little silver gun, the one that killed Windmann, the one I told her she should ditch. Thank god she’d ignored my advice.

She had dragged Elena over to one side, propped her against the concrete wall. I went and untied her, for something to do.

She gulped a free breath, her eyes tearing up. “He kill George,” she said, “and Jeff—” She started to cry.

Sayre came over and put her arms around her, helping her to her feet. They walked together to the stairs.

I checked on Matt, but there was no more Matt, only a silent body, a mound of lifeless meat on the ground. I patted his pockets but couldn’t find his cell. Finally grabbed a handful of coat lapel and heaved. Rolling him as easy as shifting a flood-sodden sandbag.

I found his cell phone, turned it on. A brightly lit animation appeared on the screen—crisp, vibrant—and the phone tootled a snappy tune. The first stored number was labeled JEANNE. I didn’t call it.

Instead I dialed 911. After the call, I slid the phone back inside Matt’s jacket pocket and rolled him back onto his face. I draped the belt with the gold coins in it over him. They would add weight to the story I’d tell the cops. Besides, they were his. If any man had earned his spoils, it was Matt. Then I went down to wait at street level for the cops to arrive.

The sidewalk was empty, both directions, not even a derelict or a roving wolf-pack of pumped-up ’bangers in sight. No sign of Sayre or Elena either. Disappeared into darkness together, the hard black-blue night.

I looked over at the East River, and the lights of Brooklyn beyond, and—

Cried my eyes out.

Only the sound of sirens brought me back. Wet goop was running down my cheeks. The night looked crystal clear and everything was starry.

The siren’s wail didn’t sound far off, but its crybaby cry grew fainter, not louder, more distant, farther away. Not my ride, someone else’s emergency. It was first come, first serve in the big city.

Me and my dead had to wait our turn.

THE END.

 

But here is a BONUS Payton Sherwood mystery story,

“East Village Noir”

(originally published in Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, July 1997)

 

***

New York City, 1997

Finding a teenage runaway in New York City is easy. The hard part is finding the one you're looking for.

I was in my office/apartment at the computer, hooked up to the Department of Justice's database, downloading a file on evidence seizure for a lawyer friend, when call-waiting interrupted the transfer. My modem crackling, I switched the phone cord and picked up the receiver.

They were calling from a payphone at Veselka's deli three blocks down. Walter and Louise Strich had come to the city to find their daughter Melissa. After a day of looking on their own, they wanted me to find her.

I asked them to pick me up a coffee—dark, three sugars—and come right over. My place was a mess but there was enough time to empty the ashtrays, fold the couch bed, and gather all the dirty glasses into the sink. I met them at the top of the stairs.

Mr. Strich said, "Thank you for seeing us on such short notice, Mr. Sherwood."

"Thank you for the coffee." He waved away the dollar I offered. "Please come in."

It took them awhile to get it all out, but my guest chairs are comfortable and I was patient. Their story was a familiar one:

Melissa Strich, fifteen, had left her home in Keene, New Hampshire five months before, in mid-April, telling a friend she was going to Manhattan to be with her boyfriend, Gary Stadnicki, a would-be guitar player. The New Hampshire police's efforts to locate either Melissa or Stadnicki had turned up nothing; Stadnicki's last known address had been a squatter's building on East 13th Street that the NYPD had evacuated for demolition the previous week.

For five months the Strichs didn't hear from their daughter. Then, two days ago, Tuesday, she called asking for enough money to get her home. So happy to hear her voice, they didn't pressure her for details, just wired the hundred dollars where she told them to, a Western Union on Avenue A, the Lower East Side. The next day, when there was no word from her, the Strichs checked with Western Union and discovered the money hadn't been claimed. Not knowing what else to do, frantic after so many months of worrying, they left their home before dawn the next morning and drove the six hours to New York. By 10 A.M. they were parked in front of the Western Union on Avenue A. They watched all day, but their daughter never came for the money.

I asked Mr. Strich what kind of car they drove.

Mrs. Strich answered. "You can see it from your window, Mr. Sherwood. The stationwagon on the corner."

I craned back and, through the wide oval window overlooking 12th Street and 2nd Avenue, saw a pale blue stationwagon parked across the street. It had New Hampshire license plates and, sitting on its hood, a rangy hooker—probably little older than the Strichs' daughter—applying badly needed flesh tone to her face.

"Your daughter could've picked your car out from five blocks away," I said. "You may have scared her off."

"Our daughter's not scared of us," Mr. Strich said, almost a challenge.

"But we didn't know what else to do," Louise Strich said. "I got so desperate I started stopping people on the street, showing them Missy's picture, asking if they'd seen her."

She handed me the photograph, a head and shoulders shot of Melissa taken the year before: round hazel eyes, cornsilk hair fluffed back, feather earrings brushing her long, slender neck. She was hugging a golden retriever. If she'd been roughing it on the street for five months, I wondered if even her own mother would recognize her now.

"Some people wouldn't even stop," Louise Strich said. "But...then there were these children sitting by—"

"Children!?" her husband groaned. "One was shaved bald. A tattoo of a bat on his forehead. I couldn't believe she went over to 'em."

Mrs. Strich set the record straight. "They were very polite. I showed them Missy's picture, but they said they didn't know her."

I shrugged. "They probably wouldn't have told you if they did. These kids are down here living on the streets for a lot of different reasons; some are just slumming rich kids, playing homeless. Others are fugitives from their families, running from abusers, hiding out."

"But listen, Mr. Sherwood, when we got back to the car, the one with the bat on his head came over. He said that he did know Missy and where she was."

"He knew your daughter?"

"He knew she was from New Hampshire."

"He could've gotten that from your license plates."

She looked unsure.

"But he said he could go and get her for us, if only..."

Her voice trailed off.

I could see what was coming next. "How much did you give him?"

Mr. Strich answered, disgusted. "Fifty dollars!"

"But he needed it," his wife insisted. "He owed money to the person she was staying with and he—"

"We waited over two hours," Mr. Strich said. "Then we called you."

I nodded.

"Is there anyone at your house in case your daughter calls?"

"My sister's there," Walter Strich said.

"How long do you plan to stay in the city?"

"We don't have any plan, really." He was a little ashamed. "Do you think...how long usually do...?"

I told them I'd have a better idea how things stood in the morning, suggested they check into a hotel for the night, and gave them the address of the Lincoln Towers on 34th Street; it had an underground garage.

At the door, we shook hands. Their skin was cold and frail to my touch. In their watery, sleepless eyes I saw a desperation that embarrassed me. Against my better judgment I told them there was nothing to worry about, their daughter was fine.

I'd looked for a lot of runaways since I took up the trade, first as an apprentice at Metro Security Inc. and for the last three years working freelance. The usual route was to canvass the youth hostels, shelters, and halfway houses, looking for Missy or anyone who may have seen her, but it was too late to start that process now, a little after eight P.M.

It bothered me that Melissa never picked up the money. A hundred dollars pulled a lot of weight on the street. Something obviously prevented her from getting it; I just didn't know what. Rather than rely on my psychic powers, I put my mouth to work for an hour calling the area hospitals and asking if Melissa Strich or a Jane Doe fitting her description had been admitted in the last two days. Everywhere I called Louise Strich had preceded me. I guess calling hospitals is a parent's first reflex.

I indulged a reflex of my own and called my "in" at the 9th Precinct on the Lower East Side.

Billie Mallow had only been on the force three years, but she'd already perfected her professional tone of bored hostility. Of course, that all changed when she heard my voice: the hostility was no longer bored.

"What do you want?"

"Fine, thanks, and yourself, Billie?"

"Look, I'm busy here, Payton."

We used to date. It was more than five years ago, when we were both enrolled at John Jay College of Criminal Justice, and only lasted four months, but I never lost the urge to hear her voice. As for Billie, I don't think she'll ever forgive herself for going out with me in the first place.

I quickly gave her Melissa Strich's description and asked if anyone matching it had been collared over the last couple of days. At least it would've explained why Missy hadn't claimed the cash.

Billie laughed gruffly. "Is that what you think I do? Stand by the door, stamping their hands as they pass through? Goodbye, Payton."

Click.

Still, it'd been nice to hear her voice.

A minute later, the phone rang and it was Billie.

"Hey, Payton, you said Tuesday, right?"

"Yeah."

"Uh-huh. Your runaway got a name?"

"Sure. Why, what you got?"

"Maybe nothing. What's her name?"

There was an official edge to her voice that made me sit up and squeak my swivel chair.

"That depends who's asking, Bill."

"How about a couple of first grades who'd love to spend the whole evening asking? They're looking for a kid like yours, snatched a purse outside the Outsiders Cafe Tuesday noon."

"Things must be slow, detectives working on a purse-snatching."

"They're homicide. The purse belonged to Charles Marburger's niece."

The name was fresh in my memory. I thanked Billie for the information, but hung up on her angry demands for the girl's name. I dug yesterday morning's Post out of the garbage, shook out the cigarette butts, and read the article:

GRAMERCY PARK SLAYING

A 72-year-old autograph expert

was found fatally stabbed in his

Gramercy Park townhouse Tuesday

afternoon by police responding to

a 911 call. Mr. Charles Marburger

was pronounced dead on arrival at

Bellevue Hospital, from numerous

wounds to the chest and throat.

Detectives are investigating

robbery as a motive.

The assailant or assailants may

have gained entrance with keys

obtained earlier that day when

a purse belonging to the victim's

niece, Celia Janssen, was stolen

outside an East Village cafe.

Police are seeking a young

female suspect in connection

with both crimes...

I read another account in the Times that provided a lengthy obit for Marburger, highlighting his career as an autograph expert (his crowning achievement the denouncement of a diary purported to be Hitler's). I dropped the papers back in the trash.

I had to hand it to myself. I was really giving the Strichs their money's worth, an hour on the job and already trying to tie their daughter in with a homicide. Brooding over it did no good. I got out the white pages and looked up Celia Janssen, but she wasn't listed. I did find a Charles Marburger on East 20th Street though. I dialed the number, closed my eyes, and let it ring.

Long after I'd lost count, a woman's voice answered, standoffish at first, until I assured her I wasn't "yet another reporter" (not that being a private investigator endeared me to her).

"I'm calling about the purse-snatching."

I could hear her breathe. I wondered what she looked like.

"Well, what about it?"

I hate interviewing witnesses over the phone: Half of what you can learn from somebody is lost on their unseen gestures and facial expressions. I told Ms. Janssen I had to see her in person, offering to meet at her convenience the next day.

"If it’s that important," she said. "I could see you now."

I glanced at my watch. Nine o'clock. I said that would be fine.

The neighborhood of Gramercy Park appears like the last holdout to a forgotten age of gentility in Manhattan, the elegant era of Edith Wharton. At its center is the park, completely enclosed by a wrought-iron fence, its locked gates protecting the green grass, gravel lanes, and flower gardens from the outside world. Its small forest towered above the surrounding buildings, two- and three-story townhouses dating back to the 1800s in Italianate, Greek revival, and Victorian Gothic styles. It must've been a quaint place to live until Marburger's murder.

Curved white marble steps led up to the entrance of the dead man's townhouse, a gaslit globe flickered over its doorway. There were separate buzzers for Marburger and Ms. Janssen. I touched hers once and the door opened to a black-haired young woman with long, coltish limbs and a boyish physique. She had on a dark blouse and a white satin skirt that clung to her like a layer of thick cream.

She looked at me with a kind of happy relief. I don't know what she saw in my eyes, but her dazzling smile was easy to take.

"Mr. Sherwood?"

I handed her my identification. As she read, I looked over her shoulder into a hallway of cozy Victorian decor. To the right a spiral staircase led to the upper floors, the walls decorated with autographed photos of celebrities and statesmen. Over her other shoulder, I saw down the facing passage to a closed oak door wrapped up like an unwanted present in yellow ribbon: CRIME SCENE—DO NOT ENTER.

Grabbing a black knee-length coat and a Chanel shoulder bag, Ms. Janssen stepped out and closed the door behind her.

"I'd rather not talk here, Mr. Sherwood. We can go to the park."

The gates to the park are locked twenty-four hours a day, keys belonging solely to the residents of the square. When I first moved to the city, I'd occasionally climb the fence late at night, usually drunk. I'd grip the spearhead tips of the fence and hoist myself up, over, and down into the soft black earth on the other side. In an instant the stink of exhaust would be replaced by the aroma of dirt, dewy grass, and cedar chips. Back then it felt like breaking into the Garden of Eden.

Celia Janssen had a key.

We went in the east entrance. When I started toward a statue I remembered, a surreal copper sculpture of a two-faced sun/moon, she tugged my sleeve and led me along another path, into shadows.

"I had to get out of there," she said. "The phone kept ringing. I finally took it off the hook after you called."

"I'm lucky I got in under the wire. I'm sorry I have to disturb you at all."

"Are you? People only say that when they want something. What do you want, Mr. Sherwood?"

"I'm trying to locate a young girl. A runaway. I think you might've seen her the other day."

She stopped in a patch of light. Eyeing me, she fished in her shoulder bag for a thin brown cigarette, lit it, and let the smoke drip from her wide, dark lips.

"You mean the girl who stole my purse?"

"Well, that's what I'm trying to determine." I handed her the photo of Melissa Strich.

She angled to catch more light from a streetlamp, studied the photo, then handed it back without a change of expression.

"Could have been her. If so, she's changed a great deal."

"In what way?"

"Dirtier. Much dirtier. There's a green tint to her hair now, sort of chartreuse, and braided into dreadlocks. It's hard to tell from the photo. Also she had a silver stud through her nose and silver rings that looked like barbed wire pierced through her lower lip."

"How tall?"

"I was seated at the time. Maybe five-three."

"Color of her eyes?"

"I didn't really get a good look. A glimpse as she turned away. Then my eyes were drawn to her nose and mouth. I didn't even know my purse was gone until she was halfway down the block."

"How much did she get?"

"A couple hundred dollars and my credit cards."

"Cancel them?"

"Naturally." She blew out smoke. "What makes you think it's the same girl?"

"Timing."

Whatever she made of that, she didn't say. We walked to the center of the park to a white flagpole with a bleached-out stars and stripes clinging to the top as if it were afraid to fall. The sky was soft black velvet. Starless to the city. A breeze shook the leafy heads of the high trees with an innocuous sound like waves stroking a pebbled shore.

She said, "I can't believe any of this is happening. It's like living a nightmare."

I asked if she knew what leads the police were working on.

"They're looking for this girl, too, but she couldn't have killed Charles. I mean, he wasn't strong, but...She looked so starved."

"According to the papers, your uncle was a leading expert in his field. Was he working on anything special?"

Her face was shadowed, but a glint of teeth appeared. "The police asked me not to say anything but yes, he was. A lost fragment by Keats, in Keats' own hand, an abandoned poem entitled 'Cupid.' It was taken in the robbery."

"Not the kind of thing your average thief would grab. How'd your uncle come by it?"

"He never said. The police are questioning collectors he dealt with regularly." We rounded the statue of Edwin Booth. She asked, "How will you look for this girl?"

"Trade secret," I said. I had no idea.

"Maybe I could help. I've seen her. And maybe as a woman..."

I spent a moment pleasantly filling in that blank. The offer was tempting for more than one reason.

"I don't think so," I said. "I'd feel responsible for you."

"That's sweet."

We walked along the remainder of the path in silence to the gate at Irving Place. As we reached it, she turned toward me and looked into my eyes.

I leaned in and our lips formed a perfect seal, her mouth moist and sweet. We parted an inch and rested forehead to forehead, breathing each other's hot breath.

"Thanks," she said softly.

"For what?"

She shook her head and turned away from me, out of my arms.

I watched her for a moment against the backdrop of million-dollar homes. She looked very alone. It was time for me to go.

I handed her one of my cards. "In case the police call about the girl," I said, but it wasn't what I was thinking.

It was just after 10 P.M., a busy time, shows getting out, dinners ending, people rushing to get home. I had to wait five minutes for a vacant cab on Third, and then they came three in a row. I rode straight down to the Village.

By the lights of passing neon signs, I looked over Missy's picture again. I couldn't see her involved in any of this. I tried picturing her with green hair and a pierced lip, but it wouldn't take. It gave me an idea though. I told the driver to drop me a St. Marks Place.

For the three blocks between Third Avenue and Avenue A, 8th Street in the Village became St. Marks Place, a major passage through this historic neighborhood. Its string of T-shirt stands, CD stores, and bars attracted the college crowd from NYU and tourists from around the world, who in turn attracted the homeless and the criminal to peddle sob stories or drugs. It was a sultry night for early September and people on all sides were taking advantage of it.

I stepped from the cab into a fog of sandalwood incense snaking from a cardtable set up on the corner. A pack of kids in baggy clothes ground by on skateboards, and jumped the curb, almost hitting a man wearing a black wig, high heels, and a flower-print dress crossing the street. He/she shook his/her parasol at them. Two severe-looking women with close-cropped black hair, walking hand-in-hand, noticed the man, glanced at each other, and broke into giggles like schoolchildren.

Rounding the corner, I saw a young guy sitting cross-legged on the sidewalk. He was dressed in grimy fatigues and a torn T-shirt that said "The Dukes of Biohazard" in cracked white letters. As I got closer, he sang out, "Hey, buddy, spare change for beer and drugs?"

I had to laugh. I looked down at him. His flesh was pale, almost translucent. A front tooth was missing from his grin and there was a brass ring pierced through his nose like a bull.

I placed the change from my cab ride into his waxy hand and offered him a cigarette.

"Awesome, man."

I gave him three.

"Nice ring," I said. "You get it done at that shop around here?"

"Naw, did this one myself. Ugly, huh?"

"Oh, very." I admired it. "But there is a body-piercing place around here, right?"

"Sure. My man Lyle's place over there." He jerked his head, not taking his eyes off me. "If you're thinking about getting plugged, it's the place to go. Tell Lyle 'Poker' sent you."

"Poker. Right."

It was a second-floor walk-up over a used-CD store, past a bar spilling over-amped heavy metal and the yeasty stench of stale beer. The front sidewalk was crowded with young people passing a paper bag, smoking, laughing, singing. Sometimes you get lucky; I looked them over carefully and they met my scrutiny with stonefaced tolerance. None of them was Missy.

Posted on the shop's door was an anatomy chart pinpointing the thirty-odd places (some odder than others) where a human being could conceivably be pierced. One, called a "Prince Albert," hurt me deeply just to look at. Inside, a dull buzzer announced my entrance.

"We're closed," a gravelly voice bellowed from behind a red velvet curtain at the rear.

Along one wall of the store was a glass display case filled with an array of exotic body jewelry: studs, rings, ear clamps, miniature chains, and collars. What caught my attention, though, was the wall by the cash register, covered from baseboard to tin-paneled ceiling with hundreds of Polaroid snapshots. A visual record of satisfied customers.

I gravitated toward them, but the velvet curtain parted and the gravelly voice stopped me.

"Yeah, whadaya want?"

He was fireplug stocky with a hard Buddha belly. His head was bald but not entirely hairless, a black Kentucky-colonel beard sprouting from his chin. He tugged it, assessing me with his leaden eyes.

I told him Poker sent me.

"Poker? What's a poker?" He crossed his arms, his manner as pedantic as a professor emeritus.

I tried another tack. "My editor at the Voice. He said he'd call ahead."

"The Village Voice?"

"Yeah, I'm putting the finishing touches on this article that was started by this other guy who o.d.-ed last week and now's in rehab till October, and we're going to press in two days."

"Article on what?"

"A season round-up on the newest innovations in your craft. You know, design, equipment, method."

The leaden eyes melted a little."That's a great idea," he said. "You know, you came to the right place. I've trained with some of the masters like—"

From behind the velvet curtain a man's voice screeched, "Lyle, I'm bleeding here. What the hell are you doin'?"

"Oh, shut it!" Lyle yelled over his shoulder, then said to me, "Look, I've gotta finish up with this dork. Can you hang?"

"Sure, no problem. I'll just check out some of your work." I motioned to the wall of photos.

He grinned, slapped my back, and went back behind the curtain.

Studying the snapshots was like screening applicants for the Coney Island freak show. There were men and women, young and old, some with rows of tight rings threading their eyebrows or studded silver balls cleaved straight through the center of their tongues. Some photos were only body shots of elaborately impaled nipples and bellybuttons. I almost missed what I'd been scanning for—a tight row of barbed-wire rings on a girl's bottom lip—but there it was low to the floor.

The flash camera had been too close to the subject, bleaching out her face, her eyes glowing orange, but she fit Celia Janssen's description of the girl who had taken her purse. I tried to match the face with my photo of Missy, but the Polaroid's quality was too poor for comparison. I could make out what she was wearing though: a white T-shirt and a black leather jacket with green-flaming skulls painted down the sides.

I pried loose the staples and walked out of the shop with the Polaroid cupped in my hand.

Once on the sidewalk I lost myself in the slow parade of people, hoping my quick departure didn't make Lyle suspicious.

Turning the corner onto Second Avenue I ran into an impromptu flea market being broken up by the cops, two officers ordering the people to pack up the clothes, jewelry, appliances, and books they'd laid out on the sidewalk for sale. I crossed the street and stopped for a Coke and a greasy slice of pizza. I chewed and considered my options.

I had a picture of the girl—or at least someone I thought was the girl. Celia Janssen could've told me if it was the same one, but it was too late to call her—even if she had put her phone back on the hook. I'd done a lot for one evening, I could've called it quits (maybe should've), but I felt like I was on a roll. And there was still one other place I could check: the scene of the crime, the first crime. The Outsiders Cafe.

It wasn't far away. I followed St. Marks east, past First Avenue toward Avenue A. While I was waiting for a light to change, a man with ashen-black skin came up to me, made eye contact, and asked, "Sense, man? You want some good sense?"

He was trying to peddle weed, but sense—-common sense—was really what I needed. I was fresh out, otherwise I would've looked behind me, just once, and noticed that there was someone dogging my trail.

A row of gleaming Harleys was parked in front of the Outsiders Cafe on the corner of East 6th Street. The tables out front, surrounded by a low white fence, were all occupied. A line of people waited anxiously for one to open up. I went inside where it was less crowded.

The harried woman making margaritas behind the bar pointed me to the manager, a young black man dressed in blue jeans and a green silk shirt open at the collar. He was ordering a busboy to clear a table for four as I came up to him. I asked if he knew anything about the purse-snatching on Tuesday, maybe the names of any waiters who'd witnessed it.

"It happened on my shift," he lamented. "Stuff like that always happenin' on my shift. You know, I once had a guy die of a brain aneurysm just as I came on."

"Tough."

"Not that it was his fault, but...well, take this lady. Just stupid. Comes down here, looking fine, flashing presidents. You'd think she had something on the ball, you know? But she goes and puts her bag down by her chair, right near the fence. Asking for trouble, you know? And I told her so, but she just shrugs, like, 'Big deal.'"

"See it happen?"

"I saw. Just didn't believe it right away the way she just sat there watching this kid take off. Where I grew up, if somebody stole from you, you let the whole world know."

"Was this the girl?"

I showed him the Polaroid snapshot. He took his time.

"Yeah, that's her. Same clothes and everything. You a cop?"

I shook my head, thanked him, and left somewhat distracted by an idea that was taking shape in my mind. I was trying to smooth its edges when I glanced to my left and saw Melissa Strich on the opposite corner of Avenue A.

I don't think I could have recognized her from either of the photos in my pocket if she hadn't still been wearing the leather jacket decorated with burning green skulls. Her dreadlocks had been chopped off and the remaining bristly hair dyed India ink black.

She stepped off the curb and cut across to my side of the street, but walking away from me. I followed.

Passing a fruitstand outside a Korean deli, she casually grabbed two oranges and kept walking at an even stride. I didn't bat an eye until the owner came running out after her, then suddenly all three of us were running up the avenue. The deli owner gave up at the first corner, but Missy didn't slow her pace, and neither did I. She hopped the short gate closing off the path into Tompkins Square Park and fled into darkness.

I went in after her.

The tar path snaked smoothly past trees and junglegyms and dry fountains reeking of urine. Irregular shadows cast from the arching branches whipped around my head. I couldn't see her anywhere at first, but a soft breeze blew up, carrying the sweet fragrance of orange. I stood sniffing the air like a golden retriever. As my eyes adjusted, I made her out, slumped on a park bench a few yards ahead. I crept toward her as she chewed.

Softly, I said, "Missy?"

She sprang up and spat out orange, barking a swear, but standing her ground.

"Don't come near me."

"It's okay," I said. "I'm a friend. I was hired by your parents."

She laughed.

"Yeah, my parents would have to hire friends."

"They hired me to find you."

"My parents? You're nuts."

"They're here. They want to take you home."

"Yeah, right."

"It's true," I said. "But first, we have a few things to sort out. Tell me about the purse, what did you do with the keys?"

She stiffened, tensed for either fight or flight.

She said, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Look, I don't care about the purse. I just need to know who you gave the keys to."

She started to say something, then checked herself. In the dark I couldn't tell what was passing over her face.

"Wise up," I said, "if I found you, the cops will too. Maybe I can help."

She swore. "You're not 5-0, so what's it to you if I lifted that bitch's purse?"

"The keys, Missy?"

"What keys? There weren't any. Not even a wallet, just a wad of bills, no change, not even a stick of gum. No friggin' keys, mister!"

I was starting to get a bad feeling about things. A little too late as it turned out.

"Never mind," I said. "Come on."

She stiffened. "Come on where?"

"You've got to talk to the police."

"Like hell I do!"

She started to run, but I was close enough to grab one wrist. A feral noise in her throat, she clawed at my face with her free hand, her blunt, broken fingernails scented of orange. I knocked her arm away.

I'd just succeed in getting both her narrow wrists into one hand when a number 6 train hit me low from behind. I didn't remember falling, just my cheek skidding across the tar, sparking my attention. I was eye level with the earth, listening to Melissa's running feet receding.

I sat up, tried to stand, but my legs wobbled under me like collapsible poker chairs.

A voice behind me warned, "Don't get up."

"Don't worry," I said, but tried again anyway.

"I'm telling you, don't get up."

I turned. A sweat-soaked man in jogging shorts was standing over me, fists clenched, chest pumping. He started yelling for the cops. He had a powerful voice, but suddenly it was like a whisper, blotted out by another of much greater urgency.

The girl's scream ripped across the evening sounds of the city, paralyzing time. I thought it would never end. But when it finally did the void it left was a hundred times worse.

By the time we found her, she was already dead, lying near the handball courts in a gathering moat of her own blood. So much of it. A neck wound. The short-bladed knife still inserted in her throat, her chin propped up by its blunt handle.

I couldn't bear the sight of her eyes.

Stepping closer I saw a piece of paper in her hand. An age-yellowed sheet inscribed with a cramped, ornate writing, one word foremost on the page: "Cupid."

My torn pants and scraped face didn't discourage the responding officers from jumping to the wrong conclusion. They handcuffed me and left me in the backseat of their cruiser while they went off to direct the arrival of the EMS van and the crowd forming around the park's northeast entrance.

More police, uniformed and plainclothes, converged on the scene. Through the side window of the cruiser I watched two sour-faced detectives question the jogger who'd attacked me. It obviously helped my situation that he'd been standing over me at the moment the girl was killed, because when the detectives came over to talk, they removed my handcuffs.

Before I answered any questions, I asked them to call Billie Mallow at the 9th (the precinct was just a few blocks away). Not only would she be a good character reference, but I knew she'd get a kick out of seeing me raked over the coals.

Then I told them what I knew, what I thought I knew, and one way I hoped I could prove it. During my third telling, Billie arrived. They asked if she knew "this yo-yo."

Reluctantly, she admitted it. Gritting her teeth, she vouched for me.

She looked sensational. She'd cut her long red-brown hair to neck length, the silky tresses forming around her cheeks. I wanted to say something, but there was no time—if what I believed was true, proving it meant acting fast.

Nobody liked my idea, except for its expediency. The police wanted to send one of their own men, but I convinced them I had a better chance of getting in. If I saw anything incriminating, something that might be destroyed before they could get a warrant, I could admit them to the Gramercy townhouse.

I climbed the marble steps for a second time that evening and pushed the intercom buzzer several times to the tune of "Fur Elise."

A scratchy voice came back, "Who is it?"

"Payton Sherwood. More questions."

"Go away."

I didn't know if she was listening, but I said, "You never lost your keys."

Silence. A curtain moved behind a narrow stained-glass window of the upper floor. I saw a distorted view of her face behind one ruby panel. Seeing if I was alone.

The door lock buzzed and I went inside.

The hallway's coziness had diminished, the warm glow now a murkiness casting the corners of the stairwell into shadow.

A door creaked open on the upper landing and from the wedge of light, Celia Janssen stepped out wearing a white terrycloth robe. Her hair was wet, but not as if she'd been in the shower, more like she'd been sweating.

She walked to the head of the stairs and stared down at me.

"What do you want?"

"Your key to Gramercy Park."

"What?"

"Your keys were stolen two days ago, but you still have your key to the park." I advanced a step up the stairs. "That bothered me. I guess it's hard to part with privilege."

"You're not making sense."

"It doesn't mean anything, of course," I said. "But it got me thinking. Then there was the way you acted at the restaurant, as if you wanted someone to steal your purse. Maybe you did. Part of your plan."

"Are you insane?"

"Have your purse stolen and claim your keys and wallet were inside. Make it look like someone used them to get in here and kill your uncle." I gripped the banister as I moved up, my dry palm squeaking on its smooth surface. "Too bad you didn't snag some homeless guy or junkie, you might've pulled it off. But you had to settle for a runaway girl."

"You're trying to protect her. Is that why you're making all this up?"

"No one can protect her anymore. You killed her tonight."

Celia tried to look surprised, but all I saw was her fear. I took two steps at a time.

"You got scared when I asked to see you about your purse. You thought I was a threat, maybe a blackmailer. Is that why you brought me to the park, kept us in the shadows? Did you have your knife with you then?"

She didn't seem to hear or sense me in any way, distracted as if she were busy dividing multiple fractions in her head.

I shouted, "I was a threat. I knew who the girl was. What if I found her? What would she tell me? Would I believe her? You couldn't take that chance, so when I left, you followed. And I led you to her. I helped you kill her."

"Get out of here! Or I'll—"

I didn't remember getting to the top of the stairs but suddenly I was on the landing, my hands reaching out for her.

She backed away from me, collided with the wall, and knocked one of the hanging photos to the floor, the glass shattering.

She tried to get by me but I grabbed her arms and twisted them. I wanted to hurt her. I could feel the slender bones in my grip. And something else, a dampness under my left hand, seeping through my fingers.

I held up her arm and examined where I'd grabbed her. The sleeve was wet with blood. She must've walked home from the park and hadn't had time to change. Beneath the robe, her blouse was still soaked with the dead girl's blood.

She tried to shake me loose, but I held on and dragged her with me into the next room until I found the intercom and buzzed in the police. Then I went and washed my hands.

I only got to see Billie for a moment outside the townhouse before they escorted me to a car and downtown for more questioning. Her smile and quick wink were the only good things about the new day.

It was dawn before they finally cut me loose. The sky was the color of faded blue denim. Outside I saw people jogging, walking their dogs, slurping coffee in one hand and skimming headlines in the other. I hadn't slept in thirty-three hours, but didn't feel the fatigue. Didn't feel anything. Missy Strich was dead and in some way I'd help make her that way. And now I had to face her parents and tell them.

I smoked a cigarette, then flagged down a cab and told the driver to take me to the Lincoln Towers Hotel.

Before I could ask the desk clerk to ring the Strichs' room, someone shouted my name across the climate-controlled marble lobby. In the Rose Lounge, Walter and Louise Strich waved table napkins at me from where they sat eating a continental breakfast.

Mrs. Strich's eyes were fretful with concern over my bruises and torn pantleg.

"Oh dear, you look awful, Mr. Sherwood. What's happened to you?"

"Rough night."

Mr. Strich was forking fried egg into his mouth and smiling.

"Not working for us, I hope," he said between chews.

"I'm afraid I was...I'm sorry." I breathed deeply. "I have some news—"

"—Nooo," Mrs. Strich cooed, "we're the ones who are sorry. We should've called you last night."

"It's bad news, Mrs. Strich."

"Don't be silly. We have wonderful news. Missy called."

"What?" I said. "Called you? When did you talk to her?"

"A little after ten."

Ten o'clock, I thought. Two hours before—

"You'll never guess where she is," Mr. Strich said.

On a cold steel table, her flesh gray under lights without warmth.

"She's home! In New Hampshire." He raised his coffee cup in a toast.

I couldn't quite process it, wasn't sure I'd heard right.

"That's right," Mrs. Strich said. "We must've literally passed each other on the highway. She got a ride from a Vermont family coming back from dropping their son off at NYU. She didn't need the money after all. Can you believe we made such a big deal of that?"

"I don't understand."

"She got a ride home with a friend's parents. A new boyfriend, I think. The Lord was looking after her," Mrs. Strich said, tears welling up in her eyes. "I'm just sorry we put you to so much trouble."

"No trouble," I said. "It's fine."

I stood up. I wanted to get out of there. I took Melissa Strich's photo from my pocket and handed it to her father.

"I won't be needing this then."

As it left my hand, I saw it was the wrong photo, the Polaroid of the girl with the green dreadlocks and pierced lower lip. Mr. Strich stared at it, looking lost.

"What is this?"

"It's...someone else's daughter."

THE END.