He stepped in. She closed the door behind him.
"Dexter's in the living room pretending he's watching girls playing softball."
Flack followed her through a door on the right and found himself looking at a thin black man, seated on a sofa, his head cocked to one side, a gun in his hand.
"It's not him," Larissa said.
"I know, but maybe he sent him," said Dexter, aiming the gun at Flack. "Don't move fast and don't reach under that jacket. I've been through two wars, lost one eye and plan to live to sell a lot of umbrellas."
"He's the police," said Larissa.
"Sure?"
"Certain," she said. "Put the gun away."
He slowly placed the gun on a table next to the sofa.
"You saw the man who killed Patricia Mycrant."
"Who?"
"Woman murdered on the roof above the Brilliance Deli."
"Shit," said Dexter, turning away and shaking his head.
"Tell the man, Dexter," his sister said.
"Man's crazy. I talk, he finds out who I am. He comes over here and slices me unless I get lucky and blow him all to shit. I'm not feeling lucky."
"You know who he is?" asked Flack.
"I know," Dexter said with a sigh. "I don't know his name, but I know."
"How do you know him?" asked Flack.
Dexter hesitated.
"He's killed three people," said Flack. "We've got a lot of reasons to believe he plans to kill another one tonight."
"Seen him coming out of the building with all the apartments," said Dexter. "The yellow one with the dirty bricks, the one your friend said the face of Jesus was on in the dirt. No one believed her."
"Dorothy is harmless," said Larissa. "Tell the man what he needs to know."
"I just told him. I seen the man coming out of there maybe ten, fifteen times, maybe more."
"Where is the building?"
"Three blocks down," said Larissa.
"Take him out and put him away," said Dexter. "If he sees me again, one of us is going to die and the odds are good it won't be him. I'm sixty, shaky and one-eyed. He's young and limpy and I won't be easy to catch, but he'll just keep coming. He's…What do you call it when you see in someone's eyes that he won't give up till you put a silver bullet through his heart?"
"Relentless," said Larissa.
"Right," said Dexter. "Relentless."
Lindsay and Danny sat in a narrow pizza shop that promised Chicago-style pizza. In Chicago they promised New York-style pizza. In Boston they promised Philadelphia-style pizza.
"Can't be sure it was a girl," said Lindsay.
They were sharing a small sausage pizza.
"No," said Danny seriously. "After all, his friend Wayne O'Shea caught him coming out of the closet."
"Funny," she said, grabbing the last pizza slice.
"Want another one?" he asked.
"You?"
"Let's live dangerously."
"My treat," she said, getting up.
"Only fair," he said. "You eat twice as much as I do."
When she got back, he reached for a slice before she could place the pan on the table. He grinned and adjusted his glasses. They were the only customers. The place smelled of grease and grilled meat. Danny felt at home.
"Have you talked to Hawkes?" Lindsay asked.
"Just for a minute. He sounds fine. Tired."
"He's not the only one. We should both get some sleep," Lindsay said.
"I forgot," said Danny. "Back in Montana you get up before the cows."
Lindsay began working on a pizza slice and said, "We get a lot done while you're still sleeping. You want to go back and go over the files again?"
Danny shrugged.
"One of those kids knows who was in that closet," he said. "So…"
"We look for boyfriends, girlfriends, angry parents, brothers, sisters," she said. "Long list."
"We look for anyone who has residue glass in their palms," he said.
"Let's go back and make a list," she said.
"Bring the rest of the pizza with," Danny said.
"A party."
"Not exactly," he said.
Lindsay had a vivid moment of recall, the dead teacher with the pencils protruding from his neck and eye. Then, another image, an older one from before she had come to New York, an image that came unbidden.
"Not exactly," she agreed.
The courtyard building was clean, well lit. The panel of names and buttons looked new, metallic. Most of the name plates next to the buttons were filled in, neatly printed. None of the name plates read "Yunkin" or anything like it. There was, however, one plate that read: THIBIDAULT, MANAGER.
Flack pressed the button next to the name. No response. He pressed again. Then he put his thumb on the button and didn't let up until he heard a voice, tinny and distant, say, "Come back in the morning."
"Police," said Flack.
"Crap," sighed the tinny voice. "Coming."
A few seconds and Flack heard something on the other side of the solid wood door. There was a slightly larger than standard peephole. The eye that appeared was wide open.
"Hold it up," said the man beyond the door.
Flack held up his ID, knowing there was no way the man could possibly read it through the hole. The door opened. The black man who stood there wore dark slacks, a green shirt and a matching green cowboy hat. He also held a pair of sunglasses in his hand.
"Poker night," the man explained. "Just heading out."
He was no more than five foot five and weighed no more than a hundred and fifteen pounds.
"I'm looking for a man. Late twenties. White. About my height. Walks with a limp."
"Melvoy," the little cowboy said.
"Melvoy what?"
"No," said the man. "Lee Melvoy. Apartment Two-A right over mine. What's he done?"
"Is he in?"
"Heard him go out about an hour ago, maybe less. What's he done?"
"I'd like to take a look in his apartment," said Flack.
"Don't you need a warrant?"
"I've got one."
"What's he done?"
Flack showed him the warrant. He had picked it up from Judge Abbott a few hours earlier. It gave no address, but it read, "the residence of one Keith Yunkin."
"He's a quiet guy."
"Jeffrey Dahmer was a quiet guy," said Flack.
"Yeah. Melvoy do something bad?"
"Looks that way."
"Knives," said the cowboy.
"Knives?"
"He sells 'em. Shop on Stoneman. All kind of knives. Says right on the window, 'Bohanan's Collectables, Combat, Cutlery.' Works there. Guns too. He stab somebody?"
"Let's go look at his apartment so you can get to your poker game, cowboy."
When they got to the apartment, Thibidault opened the door, reached in and hit a switch. A light came on in the overhead fixture in the middle of the ceiling.
They stepped inside.
The one-bedroom apartment was as clean and sparse as a monk's cell. Flack had seen apartments like this. He had even seen a monk's cell. Monks get murdered too. Not often. Sometimes monks are murderers. Not often either.
"Keeps it clean," said Thibidault. "I wish all the tenants were like him."
"Be careful what you wish for," said Flack.
The living area held one straight-backed wooden chair with curlicue arms. The chair faced a low dresser atop of which was a fifteen-inch television set. Next to the chair was a wooden-topped desk table with black metal folding legs. In a corner to the left was a cot covered by a sheet under a khaki blanket. The blanket was pulled tight. A pillow rested at the head of the cot. The pillow showed no sign of wrinkle.
There was one thing on the wall and one thing only. To the right of the cot was a framed black-and-white photograph of a teenage boy and a crew-cut young man. The boy's hair was tumbled over his forehead. The man had his arm over the shoulder of the boy. The photograph had been blown up as much as it could bear without losing the image to grain.
"That's him," Thibidault. "The older one, only he don't smile, never saw him smile. I don't know who the kid is. Okay if I go now?"
"The kid's name is Adam," said Flack, moving toward a closed door to his left. "And no, I'd appreciate it if you stayed."