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“You gonna be all night there?” Levine asked.

“This thing don’t fit right,” one of the patrolmen said.

“Her face all blown away,” Coombes said, shaking his head.

“Leave it alone,” Levine said to the patrolmen. “Come here a minute, willya?”

The heavier of the two patrolmen left the stubborn plank to his partner. He walked over through the snow, and put his hands on his hips.

“Who reported it?” Levine asked.

“Guy coming home from work. Lives there in the same building.”

“What’s his name?”

“I didn’t get his name. Frank!” he called to his partner. “You get that guy’s name?”

“What guy?” his partner yelled back. He had finally managed to get the crossplank seated on the sawhorses. Dusting off his gloves, he walked to where the other patrolman, his hands still on his hips, was standing with Levine. “What guy you talking about?” he asked.

“The guy who called it in,” Levine said.

“Yeah, I got it here in my pad, just a second.” He took off one glove, and began leafing through his pad. “I can’t find it,” he said. “What the hell did I do with it?”

“But he lives in the girl’s building, huh?” Levine said, sighing.

“Yeah.”

“And he’s the one who called 911?”

“Yeah. Whyn’t you go ask him yourself? He’s inside there with the Homicide dicks.”

Levine looked surprised. “Homicide’s here already?”

“Got here before you did.”

“How come?”

“They were cruising, picked up the Ten-Twenty-nine on the squawk box.”

“Come on,” Levine said to his partner.

The two Homicide detectives were standing in the lobby of the building with a man wearing a plaid mackinaw and a blue watch cap. The man was tall and thin and he looked frightened. The two Homicide detectives were burly and broad and they looked self-assured. They framed the thin frightened man like belligerent bookends.

“What time was this?” one of the Homicide detectives asked. His name was Monoghan.

“About twelve-thirty,” the man said.

“Half-past midnight?” the other Homicide detective asked. His name was Monroe.

“Yes, sir.”

“How’d you happen to find her?” Monoghan asked.

“I was coming home from work. From the subway.”

“You live in this building?” Monroe asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“And you were walking home?” Monoghan asked.

“From the subway?” Monroe asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“What kind of work do you do, you’re getting home so late?”

“I’m a bank guard,” the man said.

“You get home this time every night?” Monoghan asked.

“Half-past midnight?” Monroe asked.

“Yes, sir. I’m relieved at twelve, it takes me a half hour to get home by subway. The subway station’s a block away. I always walk home from the subway.”

“And that’s when you found the girl?” Monoghan asked.

“Walking home from the subway?” Monroe asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Look who’s here,” Monoghan said, spotting Levine as he came toward them.

Monroe looked at his watch. “What took you so long, Henry?”

“We were on a coffee break,” Levine said, deadpan. “Didn’t want to rush it.”

“Who’s this?” Monoghan asked.

“My partner. Ralph Coombes.”

“You look a little green around the gills, Coombes,” Monroe said.

“A little Irish around the gills,” Monoghan said.

“You sure you two guys’ll be able to handle this without your mamas here to wipe your asses?” Monroe said.

“At least the cops in Midtown East have mamas,” Levine said.

“Oh, hilarious,” Monoghan said.

“Sidesplitting,” Monroe said.

“This here’s Dominick Bonaccio,” Monoghan said. “Man who found the body. He was coming home from work.”

“From the subway station,” Monroe said.

“Right, Bonaccio?” Monoghan said.

“Yes, sir,” Bonaccio said. He looked even more frightened now that two other detectives had joined them.

“You think you can take over now?” Monoghan asked Levine. “The squeal’s officially yours, am I right?”

“That’s right,” Levine said.

“Better call your mamas first,” Monroe said.

“Tell ’em you’re gonna be freezin’ your asses off tonight,” Monoghan said, and laughed.

“You feel like pizza?” Monroe asked him.

“I thought Chink’s,” Monoghan said. “Okay, you guys, it’s yours. Keep us informed. In triplicate, if you don’t mind.”

“We’ll keep you informed,” Levine said.

The Homicide detectives nodded. First Monoghan nodded and then Monroe nodded. They looked at each other, looked at the two detectives from Midtown East, looked at Bonaccio, and then looked at each other again.

“Okay, pizza,” Monoghan said, and both cops walked out of the building.

“Choke on it,” Levine said, under his breath.

Coombes already had his notebook in his hand.

“Do you know who the girl is?” Levine asked Bonaccio.

“Yes, sir.”

“How come? Her face is gone.”

“I recognize the coat, sir.”

“Uh-huh,” Levine said.

“It’s a new coat. I met her in the elevator on the day she bought it. She told me she got it in a thrift shop.”

“Uh-huh,” Levine said.

Coombes was writing.

“What’s her name?” Levine said.

“Sally. I don’t know her last name.”

“Lives here in the building, huh?”

“Yes, sir. Third floor. She always gets on and off the elevator on the third floor.”

“Would you know what apartment?”

“No, sir, I’m sorry.”

Levine sighed. “What apartment do you live in, sir?”

“6-B.”

“Okay, go to sleep, we’ll get in touch with you if we need you. Would you know where the super’s apartment is?”

“On the ground floor, sir. Near the elevator.”

“Okay, thanks a lot. Come on,” he said to Coombes.

The rest was routine.

They awakened the superintendent of the building and elicited from him the information that the dead girl’s name was Sally Anderson. They waited for the assistant ME to pronounce the girl officially dead, and then they waited while the Crime Unit boys took their pictures and their prints. They went through the dead girl’s shoulder bag after everyone else was through with her. They found an address book, a tube of lipstick, a small packet of Kleenex tissues, an eyebrow pencil, two sticks of gum, and a wallet containing several photographs, $23 in fives and singles, and a card identifying her as a member of Actors Equity. The ambulance carted her off to the morgue while they were making their drawings of the crime scene.

It was not until later that morning that Detective Steve Carella and the 87th Precinct were drawn into the case.

2

Well, there it is, Carella thought. Same old precinct. Hasn’t changed a bit since I first started working here, probably won’t change even after I’m dead and gone. Same rotten precinct.

He was walking uptown from the subway kiosk on Grover Avenue, approaching the station house from the west. He normally drove to work, but the streets in Riverhead hadn’t yet been plowed when he’d awakened this morning, and he figured the subway would be faster. As it was, a switch had frozen shut somewhere on the track just before the train plunged underground at Lindblad Avenue, and he’d had to wait with another hundred shivering passengers until the trouble on the line was cleared. It was now almost 9:00 A.M. Carella was an hour and fifteen minutes late.