"She wasn't allowed to meet with the few people she knew."
"Wasn't allowed?"
"It was a condition of her parole," said Gladys. "My daughter was a convicted sexual predator, as you no doubt know."
"He walked funny. Like this," Dorrie said, demonstrating how the limping man had looked.
She had seen him coming down the corridor.
"He smiled at me like this," she told Mac, showing a sad smile.
"Was he young? Old?"
"Old like you mostly," she said.
They were sitting on the steps to the second floor. Dorrie was alone for the day with her ball, her toys, the television.
There was no school today. Her mother was working at Jack the Steamer's, six blocks away. Jack the Steamer operated one of a few dozen illegal shops that prepared meat products- hot dogs, gyros, souvlaki- for illegal pushcarts.
Jack the Steamer operated out of the back of Wargo's Electronics. Today the carts were not coming by. Even the most desperate pushcart men who had families to feed and no green card for other work couldn't see the point in getting swept away. Besides, who would buy knishes in a deluge?
When the uniformed cop named Kovich who knew the neighborhood had come through the door, Jack the Steamer was sure that this was the final nail in his palm on the worst day of his life. Kovich, however, was not there to make a bust or get a free fake kosher red hot. He had come to fetch Dorrie's mother, Rena Prince.
In the apartment building where Mac and Dorrie sat six blocks away, a voice boomed down from above, a man's voice, vigorously arguing in a language Mac didn't understand.
"That's Laird," Dorrie explained. "He's crazy. He makes up his own words."
"He talk to himself like that a lot?" asked Mac.
"A lot."
"Did he do it this morning before you found…?"
"Yes. He doesn't hurt anybody. When he comes out of his apartment, he's very sad, very nice."
"Sad like the limping man?"
"Yes."
"You know anyone really old, older than me and the limping man?"
"Oh yeah. Jack. He's a nice guy. When I go to work with my mom, he gives me stuff to eat. You want to know a secret?"
"Sure," said Mac.
"I think it smells bad at Jack's and the food tastes like shit."
With that Officer Kovich and Rena Prince appeared.
The woman was no more than twenty-five, skinny, pale, smooth, pretty face with hair held in place by a rubber band.
"I don't leave Dorrie alone," she said, moving in front of her daughter and taking her hand. "Do I, Dore?"
"Nope. Just when school gets closed and you can't get me to Tanya's in Brooklyn."
"Officer," Mac said. "Mind taking Dorrie back to her apartment?"
"Sure thing," said Kruger. "Come on, Dorrie."
He held out his hand. She shook her head "no" to the hand but followed the officer down the hall.
"We're not here to arrest you for neglect," Mac said when they were out of earshot. "Timothy Byrold in One-A was murdered a few hours ago. Dorrie found the body."
"Oh," said Rena. "I've got to- "
"This will just take a few seconds," Mac said gently.
"Was it-?" she began and halted.
"It wasn't good," said Mac. "Dorrie seems to be handling it pretty well."
"She's seen too much. A kid shouldn't see what she's seen."
Mac had a feeling the woman was talking not just about what her daughter had seen, but what she herself had seen and experienced.
"You know Mr. Byrold?"
"A little. Dorrie talked to him more than I did. Seemed harmless, but who the hell really knows, you know?"
Mac nodded. "He have any friends, visitors?"
"He lives in that apartment. I mean, lived there. Once a week, Wednesday's I think, he went to some meeting downtown. No visitors. Well, I did see some guy knocking at his door about a month ago when I was going to work."
"What did this guy look like?"
"Nice looking. Maybe thirty. Clean slacks, nice pullover. Built like he worked out."
"You got a good look?"
"Yeah. I thought he might say hello. I don't see many good-looking, clean guys in my life."
She looked around the hall as if to illustrate the boundaries of her existence.
"Byrold let him in?"
"Yes. He knocked. Tim said, 'Who is it.' He said…Don? Dom? Who remembers?"
"Only visitor?"
"Only one I ever saw. Tim opened the door. Guy limped in."
"Limped?"
"Yeah, I figured he hurt his leg or something."
"And you could recognize him again if you saw him?"
"Oh, yes," she said. "You think he killed Tim?"
Mac didn't answer.
Above them Laird the Loud shouted in gibberish and then let out a triumphant laugh. Rena looked up the stairs and then at Mac.
"Welcome to our life," she said. "Can I go be with my baby now?"
"Go ahead," said Mac.
The mutilated corpse of Timothy Byrold was definitely the work of the same person who had killed Patricia Mycrant and James Feldt.
Before Mac had checked for prints or examined the body for strands of hair that didn't belong; before he had taken samples of blood or scraped under the dead man's fingernails; Mac had used a swatch of gauze dipped in alcohol to clear away just enough blood to read the letter A carved into Timothy Byrold's thigh.
Mac was not surprised. They had found Patricia Mycrant first, D. Then James Feldt, A, and now Timothy Byrold, another A. DAA. But that was not the timeline of the murders, just the order in which they had found the bodies. The actual sequence was ADA. The name Feldt had typed onto his computer was "adam." Rena Prince had seen a limping man go into Byrold's apartment. The man had identified himself as "Don" or "Dom." Could it have been "Adam"?
The killer with a limp was not finished. It was only three in the afternoon. Plenty of time left in the day and who could be certain that he would be finished when he had finished spelling Adam? Perhaps there was a last name too.
Maybe Sid Hammerbeck could come up with something more.
After he had talked to Dorrie and her mother, Mac's cell phone rang. It was Leonard Giles.
"You going to be back here in the reasonable future?"
"On my way," said Mac.
"Good. Something interesting on the Stanwick Oil building security tapes from this morning."
"A limping man," said Mac.
"A limping man," said Giles. "I assume that was no prescient guess."
"No."
"No clear view of his face," said Giles. "Hooded. Guard doesn't know how the man with the limp got past him. Guard is seventy, wears significant glasses and requires frequent visits to the bathroom."
"Thanks," said Mac.
"You haven't heard it all," said Giles. "I played some computer games, videos from rehab centers of people with permanent leg trauma."
"The limp," said Mac.
"The limp," Giles agreed. "I looked at and did overlays of the videos and those of the man in the lobby."
"And you found?"
"Our limping man has an artificial leg," said Giles.
"You're sure?"
"I am acutely aware of the various causes of crippling trauma. An artificial leg is an awkward thing to hide, but it can be done with a great deal of patience and practice. All of which suggests that our limping man suffered his loss in the past year or so. He's still learning."
"I'm on my way," said Mac. "Thanks."
Mac picked up his kit and headed down the hallway, the ranting Laird's voice bellowing above. His phone rang again. "Yeah."
"Mac. What've you got?"
"Another corpse," he told Flack. "A suspect. You?"
"Something very interesting about Patricia Mycrant, a possible motive for her murder. And more."
Flack told Mac what he had learned from Gladys Mycrant.
"Follow it," Mac said.
"I will," said Flack. "You inside or out?"
"In, going out."
"Surprise waiting for you on the street," said Flack. "The rain stopped."