Alessio Chiadini Beuri

The Stray

Transl.: Simona Casaccia

Cover: ©Jason McCann ©Cottonbro © Alessio Chiadini Beuri

©Alessio Chiadini Beuri 2021

Summary

Andrew Lloyd

The precinct

Police Line Do Not Cross

The witness

A taxi ride

Non-stop

On two sides

Sunshine Cab

Bump in the road

Family portrait

Tennant’s

The rescuer

Vesper

Stray

A lovely man

5 years

Watery grave

Distractions

A small world

Burning coals

Ace in the hole

It doesn't add up

Gloria Stanton

Treasure hunt

No answer

Chicago

A lovely father

The rat hole

Scripta manent

Shelter

Fog in Rochelle

End stop

Light

Back to school

Little girl

On the river

Building 25

John Doe

Appointment

Collect call

Crossroad

The Shadow

Adele's

Andrew Lloyd

"Good thing I'd left my gun here. The night is so quiet sometimes." he said as he entered the detective agency. The door closed behind him with a resounding slam.

The woman on the other side of the desk, typing out some incomprehensible notebook notes, jumped with a lump that had knotted in her throat without warning. The man walked towards her without lifting the brim of his hat with his index finger to hide his eyes or remove his raincoat.

"Didn't go, boss?"

"That bastard Jimmy's gone rogue. One more time." Mason Stone leaned his elbow wearily on the lamp on the desk of his assistant, April Rosenbaum, a very blonde girl from a good family who, for her age, could have been his little sister.

"He seems to do that when you look for him."

"It's not that it looks like, he does it on purpose!"

James Garfield, one of her informants, was a man who favoured easy joys and cheap vices. When he disappeared, you could be sure he had plucked someone's chickens or left a big hand uncovered in some gambling den.

"When I get my hands on him..." he promised.

"I forgot; you have visitors." April pointed with her eyes to the closed door of Mason's office. The detective turned to look too, as if he could see through the walls.

At first, he grunted, surprised, then, annoyed, asked, "Federal?"

"I don't think so..." replied April, biting her lip at that forgetfulness.

"How is he dressed, like a dandy?"

"He gave me the impression he was a Wall Street guy," she tried to make up for it.

"Even worse then," sighed Mason. He had never taken his eyes off the door.

As he entered his office, the dusty light from the window illuminated his mottled clothes. The hubbub of the door opening awakened the man at the back of the room, who was looking out over the beautiful view from the wall of the building opposite. His hands were buried in the pockets of his mouse-grey suit. He barely turned his head, as if he did not expect to see anyone enter. For his part, Stone did not say hello. He closed the door behind him, shook out his raincoat, which fell better on him, and walked over to the filing cabinet against the wall. He opened the top drawer and took out a small revolver. He checked that it was loaded, rotated the cylinder and closed it with a flick of his wrist. He put the pistol down and lit a cigarette. He did all this without so much as glancing at the man who, in the meantime, had approached and was standing three steps away from him.«Mr. Stone?»

"Bingo."

Only then did the man extend his hand. To return the gesture, Mason should have moved closer. He didn't.

"If it's for Senator Marlowe's campaign, forget it: I voted for the other candidate."

"No Mr. Stone, I'm not from the committee," the man explained, unable to stifle a nervous giggle.

"Then who is? I've had a bad night and will most likely have a worse day, help me with this transition."

"Andrew Lloyd." he hurried on.

"Good. What can I do for you, Andrew?" the suit was as FBI as he was a prom queen.

"I want you to find out who killed Elizabeth Perkins." he said all in one breath, as if a weight was being lifted from his stomach.

Mason Stone stared at him for a moment, the cigarette between his fingers wearing away uselessly. "Go on."

"Elizabeth used to work for me at Lloyd & Wagon's. She was my secretary."

Mason tucked the cigarette back between his lips and turned his back on the man, reached a hand towards the filing cabinet and picked up the small 6mm. "Yes, the name rings a bell. If I'm not mistaken, though, the department already has its suspect. All you have to do is get your hands on him."

"Exactly."

"Then why hire a private investigator for a case that only needs the word 'finish'? Is your wallet weighing you down?" he said slipping the revolver under his raincoat, behind his back.

"They're not doing enough."

"Really?" Mason turned to look at him, amazed.

"You know the police have bigger problems to deal with these days, too!" Lloyd snapped, as if Mason had just slapped him.

"The fight against smuggling is an invention of the mayor and a press affair, even the walls know it but that's no reason to take your frustration out on me. Do you remember the promise you made to me? I'm going to have a very bad day ahead of me so now you sit there and tell me why Papa Stone has to take this cat into the bag. That's a good boy." Mason patted Lloyd's cheeks a couple of times and pointed to one of the chairs opposite the desk. Now that he had rattled him, the man was ready to talk. Mason treated his clients like the scum he hunted. It served to strip them of the masks they wore. "Would you like a tonic, Andrew? I'd offer you something stronger but these are the times."

Lloyd refused with a wave of his hand. Once he had sat down Mason resumed.

"Why are you convinced that the police aren't doing everything they can in the Elizabeth Perkins murder?" the detective leaned back against the filing cabinet, his fist on his temple lifting the brim of his hat a few inches.

"First of all, I don't think the culprit is her husband, Samuel."

"Do you know him?"

"No, and Elizabeth didn't talk much about his private life but I know they were happy."

"Human nature is as treacherous as a mother-in-law, you should know that. I'd advise you not to put your hand in the fire for anyone, especially a stranger."

"I need you to do what the detectives aren't doing."

"And that would be?"

"Investigate."

"What if they're not overlooking anything? What if they're doing everything in their power to bring justice to the girl?"

Then I will accept it but I need the evidence, Mr. Stone. I need to know."

"Your bond must have been very strong for her, and not someone from Elizabeth's family, to come to me."

"From what I know she had no one but Samuel."

"That is a very sad thing but nevertheless it does not answer the question."

"It was very important, to us." he said, and his eyes searched the floor beneath his top-of-the-class shoes. "About the office." he then added.

"If you're hiding something from me coming to me won't help you."

Andrew Lloyd raised his head sharply, "Does that mean you accept?"

"I don't like splashing in other children's puddles."

"You'll be handsomely paid," Lloyd promised, rising to his feet.

"Talk it over with my secretary."

"Fine, thank you!"

"Wipe off your sweat before you go that way, or the girl will think I've mistreated you. Save me this trouble."

The precinct

"Stone, what the hell are you doing here?"

"Peterson, get the hell out of here."

"You know what'll happen if Martelli catches you snooping around."

"Oh, so you're here for me? Whatever you say. I'll take my coffee bitter, like life. Thanks."

Mason continued walking down the precinct corridor. Peterson stopped him after ten paces. It didn't seem like five years to the freshman he had mentored: the authority of a whipped dog and the stench of milk still on him. For Mason, those five years seemed like twenty. Time had spared him nothing. For too long he had defied risk and too many times he had managed to fool him.

"Get out of here, Stone."

"Or what? You'll slap me around like a whore?"

"No, man, I'll have to arrest you."

"I got a case."

"Let's not talk about ongoing investigations."

"Elizabeth Perkins."

"Good luck. The case is Matthews'."

"Matthews? He wouldn't even catch a cold, that one."

"Yeah, and he's pissed, so forget it."

"Peterson, how long have you had your balls in your wife's jewellery box?"

"Hand over the gun."

Mason looked at the old partner. Peterson stepped back just enough to let him know he trusted him but that it wasn't convenient to betray him. The private investigator brought a hand to his coat and held out the revolver by the butt end.

"Now let me talk to the coroner."

"No way."

"Can I take a look at the report?"

"If it's okay with Matthews."

"Hey, come on! For old time's sake!"

"You're getting old. They weren't so good."

"Piss off."

"Get out!" with a gentle nudge Peterson pointed the way.

"Don't make me put you to sleep."

"You've always been good with words."

"I punched the mayor in the face, don't think I'd lose any sleep over you."

"You sound frustrated, I understand, but you're picking on the wrong man. Your wife wasn't my type."

Behind Mason's fist, Peterson's face crumpled into a grimace of pain. Stunned, the detective staggered and darted to the side to retreat from a possible double. But Mason did not strike again, picked up his gun, which had escaped from his former partner's hands, and holstered it. He adjusted his hat and watched Peterson spit and wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. He then motioned for the two agents who had come to his aid to escort Mason out of the building. Mason did not resist.

"If I let you go this time, it's only because of Adele," Peterson shouted before the precinct doors slammed shut.

Back when real men didn't still reek of imported tobacco and bloody fish-egg canapés, the likes of Mason got to decide the good and the bad. Now he was just a man on the pavement, the renegade bastard of a town that had purged its sins and disowned its rebellious sons.

Stone adjusted his collar and slipped into the alley, engulfed in the dust of a world everyone thought was dead. The iron groan of an old door tore away the echo of his footsteps.

"Don't kid yourself, old man: I barely heard it." Peterson.

"Your Irish pig face lies but your eyes say you cried like a little girl."

Mason's wife's name was Wendy, not Adele.

And that's what she still calls herself, wherever she wants to take her ambitious ass. Los Angeles? Northern California? A sleazy small-town casino?

Adele's was the old Polish bar next to the district. In fact, in those days it was nothing but a lousy dump full of memories no one wanted. A cop bar when cops weren't supposed to go near a bottle of booze except to get it down the drain.

"Low profile." Peterson beckoned him through the back door from which he was drenched in cologne. He'd be in trouble if Captain Martelli or Matthews found out he was spilling the details of a case to a first-rate undesirable like himself.

He took him to Dr Tollins, and to Elizabeth.

"When I looked in the mirror this morning, I swore to myself that that would be the last horrible thing of the day. Now I understand why my father never made any promises. Hello, Doc."

"Always a pleasure, Stone."

"Our private detective would like to see someone," Peterson said.

"Do you have an appointment?" Doc acted as their cicerone among the many tables he was working on. Pale silhouettes under white sheets from which nothing but feet and name tags sprouted.

"The lady said she'd wait for him," cop humour.

"Elizabeth Perkins." cut Mason short.

Doc walked over to the table on his left and discovered the bluish body of a young woman, caught in her most beautiful dawn.

"Female, 21 years old. Height five feet seven inches, weighing approximately..."

"Skip the introductions, Doc."

"Arms have obvious bruising."

"Fingers." Mason said aloud.

"She was forcibly restrained," Peterson said.

"Perceptive as usual."

"The location of the bruises tells us that the attacker was facing her," the coroner continued.

"Signs of forced entry?" Mason turned to Peterson.

"None. When they found her she was on the floor. Only her blouse and skirt on. On the table two used glasses."

"Liquor?"

"In one was water or brew, in the other a light tea. Doc has already ruled out possible traces of poison or narcotic."

"The rest of his things?"

"Scattered all over the living room."

"Was she raped?" asked Doc.

"There's nothing to suggest rape."

"An angry lover?" proposed Mason.

"A husband who came home early from work?" suggested Peterson.

"There'd be a body missing," Mason pointed out.

"Maybe the boyfriend, tired of sharing her, decided to come out of the closet and she threatened to leave him."

"The lover in love theory? Peterson, how humiliating!"

"Who can say that?! Everyone seems to be going crazy these days. And without alcohol, there's nothing else to keep human impulses in check."

"You look better since you've been on tonic water, Pete. The 18th Amendment thinks about your health."

"As if Prohibition didn't triple the workload," he complained to himself.

"Are there any witnesses?"

"The body was discovered by the caretaker at 6.45pm. The door of the flat was half-opened. The man saw two men enter the building: the first went up at about 4 p.m. but, as he had been there before, he didn't ask any questions; the second, a notary, asked about the Perkins' interior at about 5.30 p.m."

"Have you identified them yet?"

"They're working on it."

"What about the husband?"

"Samuel Perkins, a Sunshine Cab driver, is..."

"Disappeared, I guess. When was he last seen?"

"What a lovely reunion! Pity he wasn't invited: I would have brought something." Standing in the doorway of the morgue towered the burly homicide detective Matthews. Peterson's hand went immediately to Mason's chest as the newcomer advanced toward them. This was neither the time nor the place to let tempers flare.

"I came to say hello to Doc and tell him a few cheerful stories. Now that he's a father, he needs more constructive anecdotes than the evolutionary cycle of maggots in corpses," Mason improvised, throwing a smile at Doc, who caught it and began to shake his head vigorously.

"Yeah, congratulations Doc. Take care with that creature: one creepy family member is more than enough!" barked Matthews, giving the doctor half a sidelong glance. Mason did not spare an ounce of contempt for Matthews. They were separated by Peterson and the naked body of a poor girl to whom fate had reserved a terrible fate.

Doc frowned in surprise, and Matthews emerged:

"Still playing cop, Stone?"

Mason met Peterson's gaze, convinced that spark would start a fire, and reassured him with a smile. A smile that turned into an amused grin when his eyes landed on an item in the cart next to the girl's body.

"Hey, we're celebrating, Matthews: relax, put on a hat and have a drink."

Matthews' face became a mask of anger, his white fists along his sides, clenched just tight enough to stop the blood. Mason was handing him a pythal.

"Try it, but I'm convinced you'll do just fine," he continued.

Matthews covered the distance in three wide strides. His size, so heavy, was no impediment when his anger took over. The world was full of rabid dogs. Especially the NYPD, when enlisting was a solution to a hot meal and warming hands with some poor guy who had no fault other than being in the wrong part of town. Matthews was a watchdog. He always had been, and he was now that he'd traded in his uniform for a name tag and a desk among dozens of others. Big and stupid enough to be the nightmare of every half-wit in New York.

"Let's be calm!" chimed in Peterson.

"Throw this clown out, Peterson, or Doc will have to make room!" Matthews was foaming with rage. If he had left, Peterson would have barely restrained him.

"Don't worry, I was just leaving. For a morgue the atmosphere is getting a little too hot." Stone walked around Peterson and Matthews, showing no haste in doing so.

"I don't want to see you around here again, is that understood?"

"Explained. Take care Doc." he said raising his arm.

"Next time I catch you snooping around in one of my cases I'll lock you up and throw away the key, understand?"

"Only if you let your parents beat me up a bit - cuddling is important if we want things to last."

"I'll accommodate you." Matthews loosened the knot on his tie and lifted his shirt sleeves, stepping forward.

"Stone, get out of here!" ordered Peterson, stepping between them.

"Matthews feels ready to come to school, Pete, do you want to deny him that pleasure?"

"Get out or I won't be held responsible for what happens."

"Oh yes you will be, Peterson. As soon as I get out of here, I'm going to report to Martelli and tell him how you allow certain individuals to sneak into the precinct. You should choose your friendships better," Matthews threatened.

"Is that how you want to play it?" replied Peterson.

"That's how it works in my neck of the woods. The district first."

"It's fascinating how quickly you can forget. A cop is always a brother, right?"

"Not when it embarrasses the force and betrays the family."

"And who arrogates all rights and leaves all duties to others?"

"What are you implying, you little brat?" Matthews pulled Peterson to himself and spat all his contempt at him. "I'll fix the student and then the master."

"Um..." intervened Doc.

"What is it, Doc?" barked Matthews.

"Stone's gone," he said.

Police Line Do Not Cross

The seals fell.

Some doors just need a little encouragement sometimes. Mason had the magic touch: when he leaned his full weight against it, the old, moth-eaten jamb crumbled like shortcrust pastry.

The Perkins lived in a turn-of-the-century council block: the flat wasn't big enough for a family with children, but they hadn't had any. Perhaps they hadn't had time. Elizabeth was still so young.

There was that feeling in her chest. It was as if, ever since he'd seen her, lying on that cold morgue bed, Elizabeth had crept under his skin.

Mason rubbed his eyes. He'd been up for two days. He needed coffee. The air in the flat was stale and the autumn sun had taken a holiday in the living room.

It was not difficult for him to imagine the confusion of the investigation after the body had been found he could still breathe in the sweat of all the blue-collar workers who, back and forth, trampled on evidence and confused clues; he could smell the forensic flashes; the palpable excitement of some rookie; the stench of Matthews' cheap cigars; the chalk dust traced where Elizabeth had fallen.

The neighbours had heard nothing: not a sound, not a laugh, not a cry. Regular in a neighbourhood like that, where the more you keep your mouth shut the better. A taxi driver and a secretary couldn't afford a better life.

The bedroom was tidy, the thalamus untouched.

Where are you, Samuel Perkins?

Elizabeth had not screamed. Maybe she didn't think she was in danger. Maybe it had been a sex game gone wrong. There were too many questions in that story. It was like trying to catch the dark.

He searched the house one more time, even though Matthews' team had turned it upside down at least a dozen times and maybe left him with nothing. He checked the best places to hide liquor bottles. That habit had outstripped all others in the last ten years. He found nothing. He searched the bedroom, dug in the wardrobe, rummaged through the cupboard, tore out the drawers looking for notes of clandestine love that would lead to a fatal outburst of anger, nothing.

All he found in the boiler was a pile of ashes.

He sat down on the arm of the armchair, right in front of the chalk outline on the floor. He took the packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and tapped them. Too hard: two came out. He managed to catch one but the other rolled under the wall cupboard. He imprinted and, with one cigarette out of the corner of his mouth, bent down to retrieve the other. His fingers easily recognised its outline, but next to it they found something else: small, light, with square edges.

Mason grabbed that too. He pulled out a box of matches. Anonymous but not cheap. Opening it, he discovered that of the thirty-six sticks in the sulphur hat, only one was missing. It had not been plucked from the side, a habit that usually connotes systematic use, control, planned action. That one had been taken from the centre: a distracted gesture, of someone who does not think about what he is doing, who perhaps must hurry, who has no time.

He put the box in his pocket and headed for the entrance.

"Hey, what are you doing? Freeze and hands above your head!" they ordered him. Two men in uniform had emerged from the corridor. The boy who had ordered him, in a trembling voice, not to move, held him at gunpoint.

"Easy boy, or you'll get a shot off. This is a new coat."

"Do as I say and no one gets hurt," he retorted, his grip on the gun trembling.

"Jones, it's all right," his partner said, making him lower his weapon to the floor. Mason nodded to his senior colleague, who nodded back, and disappeared through the doorway.

"We should have arrested him."

"If you want my advice, son, stay away from that man."

"Why?"

"He's dangerous. Like one of those dogs that's been in the sun too long."

Nocturne

Kenney was busy consulting with his partner, Mason could see him gesticulating nervously in the streetlight, his rain-soaked black curls drawing arabesques on his forehead. Behind them, a sergeant kept the team in line. The officers Mason had brought in ended up there too: two freshmen and two veterans with an easy right and wasted patience. It was the best he could get.

There were too many crimes in New York for Martelli to deprive himself of his best men.

The heavy rain drummed on the cars, on the thick fabric of the caps, on Kenney's restrained expletives.

Handicott, the partner, noticed Mason and nodded to him. A copious trickle slipped from the brim of his hat. Only then did Mason Stone get out of the car.

"Good evening, gentlemen." he ignored the puddles and the water.

"Stone." merely said Kenney. Given the joy it was clear that the reinforcements, consisting of Mason and his people, had not been asked for by him.

"Nice night for an outing," Handicott greeted him, giving him a comforting pat. Splashes rose from his jacket, which were immediately confused with rain.

"My favourite."

"Who did you bring us?"

"Santos, Koontz, Peterson and Cob."

"Santos? But that's great! As long as that one doesn't stop the discipline, he's a hoot!" Handicott was half polemic for its own sake and half sarcasm.

"See if you can rein him in, Stone. I don't want any messes tonight," Kenney cut Kenney short.

"How do we go about this?" asked Mason.

"We'll split into three teams: me and five of my guys go in the front; Kenney and five others go through the back while you and yours watch the perimeter," Handicott explained.

He had gone all that way to hold up the snot.

"Who's the stockman?" he asked. There was a little boy in a mackintosh and hat, strutting beside one of the patrol cars, his hands thrust deep into his pockets.

"Oh, that one? That's Clarkson, or Chalkson. He works at the Daily. There's an air of scoop about this investigation and you know how it is: the bosses don't want to miss a chance." replied Handicott.

"Does he come in with either team?"

"We've been clear on that: he can't get near it until it's all over."

"Do I have to vouch for him?"

"Just try not to shoot him."

Stone rolled up the lapels of his raincoat and went to the sergeant who, with an iron fist and a grim look, held the troops. He asked to confer with his officers: he wanted to calm the minds of the most violent and investigate the state of mind of the other two. For Peterson and Cob it was their first night-time operation. They were usually assigned to traffic and neighbourhood watch. The recruits were never given an area that was too dangerous, they were always given the less hot areas. Not that there were many in those years, not even that warm. There was Washington Square, Gramercy Park and Grand Central, oases of comfort in the midst of endless deserts of misery. Koontz and Santos, on the other hand, had been in Homicide with Mason for about two years, and they had done their homework. Perhaps too much: Santos had hardened himself to such a point that, with difficulty, he could be distinguished from one of those individuals he was hunting. They called him the 'hound', because of his boxer's grunt and his bull-like size. Koontz, on the other hand, was a cold-hearted tough guy who never stopped before the end, cunning and quick of thought, sharp and fleeting in his features.

"Shall we go, boss?" asked Santos, anxiously. "I'm freezing. I need to get some exercise."

"Not tonight, sorry."

"How?"

"We're here in support."

"Not operational?" intervened Koontz.

"That's right."

"Can't these half-breeds get by without calling us to watch that they don't get too dirty while they eat?"

"That's right, Santos."

"Orders, sir?" asked Peterson.

"The orders are to stay behind me. I don't want any cowboys. If you see anything that Detective Handicott or Kenney's team missed, report it to me. Nothing else."

"What a rip-off." complained Santos again.

"Yeah, starvation pay, no booze and now brothels under lockdown. Hard times," Mason commented sarcastically.

In Harlem Bridge, between Second Avenue and East 124th Street, in the vicinity of Cuvillier Park, Kenney and Handicott had been working for months on a luxury prostitution ring which, according to the investigation, included, among the many prestigious names of New York high society, also bigwigs from the worlds of finance and politics. A business that converged on the building which twenty Manhattan agents were observing that evening in a mixture of tension, euphoria and adrenalin.

On your marks!" said Kenney, reaching the back of the building with his men. At the same moment, Handicott's team also snuck under the first-floor windows. Synchronizing the break-in, ten officers and two detectives catapulted inside. The rain could not fully cover the din of smashing doors, surprised screams, and shuffling escapes. The front of the building lit up like a Christmas tree.

"A hell of an operation," commented Santos, standing next to him, disappointedly. Without replying, Mason continued to scan the rain-slicked darkness.

"When you can't work with your hands, you work with your mouth, Santos. That's your problem," Koontz replied.

"You want to know who I learned to work with my mouth from?"

"I don't think this is the time for..." tried to make Cob listen to him.

"No one asked you, it seems!" scolded Santos.

"Don't mind him: he hates getting wet. His uniform gets soaked and itchy," said Koontz.

"What's that over there, sir?" Peterson sought Stone's attention.

"You all seem a little nervous. Smoke a few cartons of cigarettes each before you come to work. Koontz is well stocked; he'll get them for you. Anyway, gentlemen, if you're cold, now's your chance." Mason pointed to the team two black shadows on the outline of the building come down clinging to the eaves. "Santos, you take Cob and Peterson and join the gentlemen who are fighting it out. Koontz and I will go around and cut them off."

The three set off at full speed, irons in hand. The first fugitive, having landed on the lawn, had climbed over the fence and disappeared from view. Peterson pounced on the second, making him lose his grip on the gutter, while Santos, who could have been in charge of the arrest, continued the hunt. Mason and Koontz, on the other hand, continued with their backs to the wall. Koontz, who had drawn his revolver, followed Mason, flattened against the wall. They both crouched under a window. The light was out: neither wanted to give an easy target to an agent with a sensitive trigger and an anxious hand.

"Shall we continue?" asked Koontz, improving his grip on the gun.

"One moment."

"The coast is clear," he insisted.

"The light's out."

"There's no one there."

"It's a raid, Koontz. Everything must be checked. It's the fundamentals."

"Maybe they haven't gotten in yet.

"That's the ground floor. You don't leave a floor until you've cleared it. That's a mistake that can cost you."

"That's not our job."

"My job is to get home tonight, preferably without a ball in my back. Check my left, I'll cover your right. Wait for my signal."

At the same moment that Mason was preparing to start the sweep a low squeak came to him from inside. He looked at Koontz and realised he hadn't imagined it. What is more suspicious than a sinister sound is the silence that follows it.

"Are you able to kick in the lock?"

"Sure."

"Perfect. You break through and I'll come in."

Koontz blew out the window with a shoulder strike and Mason jumped in, the iron flush. Thanks to the glow of the night behind him he could make out the outline of the bed, the ruffled sheets, the second-hand furniture filled with bottles of perfume and ampoules of ointments. If the mouse had not gone to hide under the bed, the room was safe. Before he could signal Koontz to follow him in, the bathroom door handle, ajar, returned his reflection. Certain that a puff of wind had not moved it, Mason approached in silence. He didn't have time to wonder why that room had escaped the search of Handicott and Kenney's men, for a groan came from it. Koontz peeped out. Mason warned him not to make a sound.

"Can you hear me? I'm Detective Stone, New York Police Department. If it's not too much trouble, I'd come in. I'm armed and this cold gives my fingers a little tremble."

There was no answer. Mason opened the cabinet door with the toe of his shoe and, despite the prevailing darkness, checked the corners. Less than a metre from him was a massive figure. It seemed to be holding a weight. Measuring the space by eye, he realised that, in a firefight, the situation could quickly escalate. He raised his revolver.

"How about putting down what you've got there?"

"You'd be much better off getting out, closing the door behind you and forgetting what you think you saw," the man said. Stone understood the consistency of the huge bundle, and how the man was trying to disguise his voice.

"Doing what's best has never been my strong suit," he said, flipping the switch he'd found by feeling the wall. As the brim of the hat shielded him from the glare, the annoyance was only of the other holding back, too frightened to struggle. The man's arm was around her neck, his hand pressed over her mouth, his lipstick smudged and his make-up smeared. Blinded, the man swung a left in Mason's direction but caught it with a glancing blow. With the momentum of that dodge Mason threw himself at him and a fist went into his stomach. The grip on the girl suddenly lost conviction.

"Stop! I am the mayor..." the man managed to shout before the policeman's right hand reached his face. At the same moment a flash of lightning snapped behind them and was followed by the sound of a small deflagration. Mason dropped the man who had taken to covering his face and grabbed the woman still in shock.

"What the hell did you do?" reaching him, Koontz, had brought company with him: the Daily's rookie, his target levelled.

The mayor, lying beside Stone's feet, blinked and gasped like a freshly caught tuna. Since Koontz had entered the scene, the pulled, violent expression had disappeared.

"You beat up the mayor!"

Regardless, Mason took care to cover the half-naked girl who was too scared even to say thank you. "Put handcuffs on this man," he said instead.

"Mr. Reimer, you're under arrest."

The first citizen's protests were to no avail: Koontz did not show him any special treatment.

"You saw that man attack me! I am the mayor!"

"Sure, sure, sir. He's going to file a complaint with the district. Now follow me, please."

"He'll pay for this! Tell me the name of that cop!" he ranted as Koontz escorted him toward one of the patrol cars. A small crowd had gathered outside the building and as the rookie captured what had happened, Reimer turned one last time to look at Mason Stone.

Only then did the detective see the angry man he had confronted again. In front of the crowd, the mayor ranted about the abuse of police power and the violence of some officers who, instead of serving and protecting, were a threat to the community they were supposed to be defending. He promised that such incidents would not happen again.

Mason listened patiently for two hours to Kenney's rant and Handicott's rebuke, which understood his reasons but did not justify the method. Neither was able to answer, however, for the failure to search the room. They both railed on the vague concepts of 'flawed procedures', 'oversight' and 'this is what we have'.

The girl did not press charges against Reimer. For the life she led and the prejudice of public opinion, Stone could not blame her.

The next day, no newspaper reported on the Cuvillier Park raid, the mayor's involvement or the fight against prostitution. The Daily opened with the beating of the mayor by an NYPD detective. There was no mention of the circumstances. There was an invective-laden editorial and four long pages of reporting by no fewer than five journalists who combed through Mason Stone's private life and described him as an angry, repressed man consumed by a violent hatred of white collar workers.

Even the failure of his marriage was traced to his frequent outbursts. The front-page photo, later reprinted and circulated by every newspaper in the city, showed him from behind, his arm still outstretched and his fist on the mayor's twisted jaw. The girl did not appear in the frame, hidden by his back.

It took the police chief four days, three more than he expected, to disbar him and kick him to the curb. The precinct needed to regain lost confidence, to send a signal, to calm down. A few heads had to roll.

The witness

Mason Stone still had a few questions left before he left the building.

The doorman ushered him into his tiny flat, next to the boiler room.

"I know why you're here."

"If you do, you'll save me a lot of trouble. Do you have any coffee?" he asked, looking around. She needed to get rid of that headache.

"It's because of what happened to Mrs Perkins. Just like all the others," the small, scrawny man gave him a stern, exhausted look. To him, they were all jackals now, ready to pounce on the few remains of a stripped-down prey. He probably hadn't been able to sleep much either in the last few days. "Would you like some sugar?" she continued, handing him a steaming cup.

"No, thank you." Mason wet his lips. The coffee was bad, but the day hadn't been any better, so he was content. "What do you remember about that day?"

"What I told the other cops, dozens and dozens of times. They kept me a whole night in that little room full of mirrors. Journalists came to me, too. They must have filled our bay with this story. Don't you read the papers?"

"The press is dead."

"Well, like I said, there wasn't much action that day. The lady came home around thirteen. That was the last time I saw her."

"How did she look?"

"I don't know, I just caught a glimpse of her. But I think I'm not wrong in saying that she's been more taciturn than usual over the last few days. Maybe she had some thoughts. I didn't mind, after all its normal when the end of the week is approaching and the salary is what it is, right?!"

"She didn't say goodbye?"

"She didn't stop that day. But she usually looked out at the guardhouse to ask me if I needed anything. Do you understand me? She was the one who worried about me! She was a good girl."

"Were you on good terms with Samuel?"

"Ever since they came to live here two years ago, they used to come to me for help with some repairs or errands. I have no complaints about Mr. Perkins. A hard worker, for sure."

"Did Elizabeth ever tell you anything personal? Something that, to the wrong ears, could have gotten her into trouble?"

"Elizabeth? I don't think anyone would ever hold it against her."

"And yet she's dead. How were things with her husband?"

"Working a lot, Samuel often came home late and most of the time their schedules didn't coincide. But they loved each other, I can assure you."

"How can you be sure?"

"I was married for more than forty years. I know certain looks and certain attentions."

The man's eyes ran, for a moment, to a photograph on the old sideboard in the living room. Mason got the impression of a small altar. It was the image of a smiling woman in a flowery dress.

"Can you tell me anything about Elizabeth's family?"

"Very little. For all I know, that girl could have been alone in the world. Maybe she wasn't even from New York."

"How do you know that? Something he said to her? The way he talked.? Any information could be useful to me."

At those words, the man recoiled, and an expression of embarrassment was painted on his face.

"No, mister, it was just an idea."

"I need facts, I have no use for your deductions! Stick to what you've seen," he blurted out, then the sight of the frail old man encouraged him to calm down. "What time did Mr. Perkins return that day?"

"Just before dawn. But I'm not quite sure. My son was on duty."

"Can I talk to him?"

"Not right now, I'm sorry. He's out of town this weekend. He'll be back in a couple of days. In any case, they questioned him as well. His statement was taken by Detective Matthews, I think his name is. Maybe you can talk to him."

"Perfect. Let's go back to that day, if you don't mind. Did anything else happen? Did you see Samuel Perkins leave?"

"Yes, but he was in a hurry."

"Maybe someone was waiting for him?"

"Perhaps he had overslept and was on his way to a grooming."

"Did you ever see him come back?"

"No, not me, Mr. Stone."

"Was there any unusual movement before Elizabeth was found?"

"Unusual... I don't think so, no."

"Anything 'usual' instead?"

"Around 4.00 P.M had a man come up, but it wasn't the first time."

"His name?"

"I don't remember. The police have the register."

"How often did you visit the Perkins'?"

"A couple of times a month, maybe more. It depended on Mr. Perkins."

"Were they in business together?"

"I beg your pardon? No, absolutely not."

"Try to explain yourself, then."

"I don't like to pry into other people's affairs."

"And who does." followed a moment of silence in which Mason didn't take his eyes off him.

"If Samuel Perkins left for work, or the bar, or wherever he was headed, there was a chance this gentleman would show up in the lobby no more than ten minutes later. Sometimes with flowers, sometimes with a package from a bakery, sometimes with a bottle."

"A suitor."

«Perhaps. But whether it was reciprocated I can't tell you."

"Did you hear Elizabeth complain about it? Generally, how long did she stay?"

"There were never any scenes. Sometimes she stayed for a few minutes, sometimes an hour. What is certain is that he never left with what he had brought."

"Could you describe him to me?"

"A distinguished, tidy fellow. A decent man."

"A man who can afford certain gifts."

"The suit was that of a well-paid man."

"Has there been anyone else after him?"

"Yes, a few deliveries, the couple on the third floor who called because their brat had clogged the sink, I brought the widower McArthur's groceries, the notary, the fuel for the boiler..."

"A notary?"

"Yeah."

"Who did he go to?"

"To the Perkins'."

"The Perkins', and you didn't think to mention that before?"

"I don't see why: I myself, a few days before...I gave the lady a package of documents. Registered mail. Very urgent."

"And you can't tell me what was in it, I suppose?"

"Sorry, I never open tenants' mail."

"And you couldn't read that many papers against the light, I understand. I bet you couldn't even tell me which firm it was."

"Certainly a big name! Unfortunately, I don't have the good memory I once had, mister."

"Did anything of this notary's impress you?"

"I remember thinking that he was very young. But perhaps it's habit; they're all generally too old and stooped, aren't they?"

"How young?"

"No more than forty."

"His appearance?"

"Black hair, pointed face, tall and serious looking. A handsome man."

"Anything else?"

"Only family stories left, are you interested?"

"He was very kind, Mr. Cochrane. And patient. I bid you good day." Mason held out his hand to the old doorman and, taking his hat, left the room.

"You didn't tell me how the coffee was!"

"Hot, Mr. Cochrane.".

A taxi ride

He walked out of the Perkins' building and felt more tired than ever. The accumulating questions weighed heavy in his notebook. His sleepy, tired eyes, bothered by the light, were slits, his temples throbbed so much that if they didn't stop soon he might not be able to take off his hat. Instead of going to the car, he stopped a taxi. He told the driver his destination and said to take it easy, let him choose the route. An unusual phrase to say to someone who makes money on the time he takes to do his job.

Stone finished transcribing Mr Cochrane's words and dozed off. Not even the noise of rush hour, the driver's bad driving and the rancid smell of the interior disturbed his sleep.

The company where Elizabeth worked as a secretary, Lloyd & Wagon's, was located in the Bronx. The underground from her home took about an hour, and who knows how many people had seen her, noticed her, desired her in the battered and dilapidated carriages she took every day. Perhaps the girl had met her murderer there, perhaps she had been observed, watched, followed once she got off at the stop. Maybe they had started chatting with a trivial excuse, maybe he had picked up her handkerchief and offered her a cup of coffee. Maybe they had become friends.

The image of Elizabeth appeared in front of him. She was still alive: her pink cheeks, her bright eyes, her sincere smile. When the girl peeped into his dream, the detective woke up, looked out of the window and tried to figure out where she was. The traffic had softened the taxi driver's driving. At that speed they would be there in about ten minutes.

"Big traffic, mister," he justified himself.

"Never mind." Mason craned his neck and read the nameplate on the dashboard. "Tim...I told her not to rush."

"Sure...sure! patience is a great virtue! If everyone thought like her!"

"You'd be a millionaire, Tim!"

"Sure, sure! Are you from New York, mister?"

"Florida adopted me when I married my wife."

"She's lost the accent a bit, though!"

"Not only that, Tim."

"You said it, mister."

Tim was a big guy with full cheeks, muscular arms and a wide waist. Judging by the colour of his sparse, yellow teeth, he was an avid tobacco chewer.

"How are you finding the Sunshine Cab, Tim?"

"Huh?!"

"What?"

"Forgive me: that's not a question I get asked often. I'd say I'm fine. In the two years I've been there, there have never been any problems."

"Is the climate good?"

"The good thing about this job, coach, is that you don't have to agree with anyone and as long as you're happy with yourself you're a lucky man. Of course, every now and then we get a few nutcases up here..."

"What about colleagues?"

"What's with all the questions, man?"

"I like to get to know the people I travel with. I love your company, it's my favourite one. I know all the Sunshine taxi drivers now!"

"Ah, I know who you are! You could have told me right away! Carl and Peter talk about her all the time!" Mason knew that Tim the taxi driver was lying. We always tend to agree with someone who is disturbing us, who is strange to the point of frightening us, someone whose back we are turning and whose movements we can't keep an eye on.

"And Sam, how is he? I haven't had a run in with him in a while."

"Look, mister, I don't want any trouble," gone was the high jester's voice and the talkative manner, Tim had become a bundle of nerves.

"And you won't have any, but try to keep your eyes on the road. That's a good boy." Mason had moved closer to Tim's seat and was now speaking quietly.

"Who are you?"

"I'm a guy who takes corners better than you do."

"I don't know anything about Sam."

"I just want you to tell me what he's like. You work at Sunshine enough to know him."

"He was ok"

"Try to be a little more forthcoming, mate." Tim stopped chewing the dark mush, wiped his lips with his free hand and swallowed. He hadn't dared roll down his window to spit out the excess saliva. Mason thought that had been a very bitter pill to swallow.

"None of us have ever had a problem with Sam. He's not a chatterbox, he just gets on with it. He worked a lot of overtime and covered a lot of people's shifts. He did it on the side. The pay isn't much but it's enough for me, you know, I don't have anyone..."

"Let's save the story of your life for the second date, shall we?"

"Yes, sir. Excuse me."

"What did he do when he got off work?"

"When he got off, he always went straight home. Is it true what they say, the things he did to his wife?"

"What do they say?"

"Well, that's why he ran away, isn't it?"

"Was there anywhere he used to hang out with you colleagues, just to take the stress off work, have a drink and a cigarette? A bar, for example?"

"Dude that's against the law!"

"Yeah, I got the word, but you know what? I don't believe in rumours. How about you, Tim?"

"No, sir."

"Then we get along great. I love MaC's. It's located in Jersey, do you know it?"

"No, mister."

"It's not bad, but don't order cognac: the real thing ran out over a year ago. Now it's just fuel and cough syrup. What do you recommend?"

"Tennant's. It's by the harbour, on the Hudson, I don't know if you know..."

"Clear."

"He wasn't a regular, he only came in from time to time and never stayed too long, he didn't drink or smoke. We used to drag him along. He wasn't a man of many words."

"What's the codeword?"

"What? Ah, Tammany."

"How much do I owe you for the ride, Tim?" Mason caught a glimpse of the Lloyd & Wagon's sign and was about to ask him to stop.

"Compliments of the company, mister," he said, relieved that that service was coming to an end.

"Take five dollars for the chat." Stone extended the money over Tim's shoulder, after he had pulled over, and got out. He crossed the street and reached the entrance to Lloyd & Wagon's. It was a low, two-storey building.

He was greeted on the threshold by a frantic Andrew Lloyd. The large windows on the first floor had announced Mason as having just stepped out of the taxi.

Stone advanced through the offices without waiting for his client, his hands buried in his raincoat, his gaze vaguely distracted as Lloyd entered his field of vision. Mason found him funny and more awkward than when he had first met him: he hopped around him, industrious as a bee, never ceasing to ask how the investigation was going, that he shouldn't bother so much but that he could contact him by phone. Mason Stone knew his business well enough to realise that Elizabeth's former employer was under intense stress. He studied the place, the environment, the atmosphere that Elizabeth Perkins had experienced while she was alive.

He found it cosy, not particularly baroque. Partly sad. As they passed by, the heads of the employees had popped out of their paperwork and loculi like springs from a broken clock.

Unfortunately, the visit proved fruitless.

He was able to inspect the girl's desk, although Matthews' team had already taken away all the interesting items. Except for a few items of stationery, the drawers were empty. On the table there was only a picture of her with Samuel. She asked Lloyd if she could keep it so that she would have no difficulty in recognising the man if she came across him. The department had not yet released the sketch. Maybe Lloyd had been right after all. Matthews and his people weren't losing any sleep over the girl.

As the boss's personal assistant, Elizabeth had few opportunities for dialogue with her colleagues. Everyone, however, thought she was a smart woman. She had not seemed strange to anyone in the last week, some said they had not noticed, others did not remember. Only one employee, Martha, Wagon's secretary, said that on a couple of occasions her eyes and nose had seemed red. She told Mason that she had let it go, believing it to be just a seasonal cold. She herself had had a fever the week before.

Mason avoided Andrew Lloyd's questions about her progress by asking if he could make a phone call. As long as he was on the suspect list, the fewer details he knew the less he could get in his way. Lloyd offered him the phone installed in his office, as if relieved that it was out of sight. After a few seconds, the switchboard connected him. April answered at the same time that Mason was pushing Lloyd away with his eyes. The man closed the door behind him.

"Stone, private investigation. Good evening, this is April."

"Mason."

"Ah, boss!"

"What are you still doing there?"

"I was closing up. How's it going?"

"Before you go, have there been any phone calls for me, any messages?"

"Captain Martelli has been looking for you."

"Splendid. What did he want?"

"He wanted to talk to you. When I told him you weren't there he seemed upset."

"I can understand that. The man is crazy about me. What time is he picking me up for the dance?"

"He said to stop meddling in the Perkins case. If you keep it up, he's going to put you in the slammer."

"Did you thank him for me?"

"What kind of case are you on, boss?"

"That's what I'm trying to figure out, April. Be careful going home."

"You want me to wait for you? I can stay if you need me to."

"Go ahead, thanks. I'll stop by the office tonight. I think I can manage on my own with the coffee."

"I'll make some before I go."

Non-stop

Elizabeth's train was the 19:37 to Manhattan, from Pelham Parkway to Bleecker Street Martha had been very thorough. Every night, except on Thursdays when the office closed in the early afternoon, she and Elizabeth walked a little way together, a couple of blocks, then Martha took Allerton ave., flanking Bronx Park, while Elizabeth continued to the underground.

Mason thought the station would be crowded, but instead there were only thirty or so people on the platform, mostly middle-aged housewives and workers in their stained overalls, a few gentlemen hooded up to their chins, their wristwatches under their noses, checking the time, and kids who looked like emperors of the world.

They were Elizabeth's people, the ones who crowned her every day.

With whom had she exchanged a few words? With whom had she shared a smile? Who had given up their seat to her? Who had been fascinated by her beauty, who had been enraptured by her gentle ways?

There was no way a girl like that could go unnoticed, he himself had not been able to escape her charms.

After the arrival of the train, Mason let all the passengers’ parade before boarding: habits had to manifest themselves without his presence altering them.

He stayed out of the way for the entire journey, holding on to the handles. The roll of the journey would certainly have knocked him out if he had leaned over. None of the passengers aroused his suspicions: with few exceptions, no one paid any attention to him. A train full of spirits invisible to each other. The day had extinguished sociability. Only the young people still had the energy for the hubbub. Perhaps it was age, perhaps it was life. There were a couple of squabbles over unused seats and one push too many, but all you could get out of it was frustration. People did not understand each other and had no intention of trying to do so. Individuals only a few palms apart were miles apart. Being born and dying alone was part of existence. Living alone was a choice.

He thought not of himself but of Elizabeth. None of the people he had listened to had yet been able to tell him anything useful or meaningful, anything personal to help him enter his world, to see the hidden threads behind the curtain. Perhaps he had not asked the right questions. Perhaps he had not asked the right people. Samuel Perkins must have been one of them.

"How much longer are you going to stare at me, soldier boy?"

A guy with a neck set in broad docker shoulders had approached him from the back of the carriage, now only half full.

"My mistake, mate." Mason still towered over him by a hat. It wasn't him his attention had been on for the last five minutes but a petty thief just behind whom he'd pinched trying to lighten an old lady's purse. He had managed to dissuade him without approaching her with his gaze.

"I don't know what to do with your apology."

"I didn't apologise."

"Are you making fun of me?"

"I wouldn't dare."

"What's your stop?"

"I live here, man. The third seat on the right is my bedroom. The fifth one on the left is where I relax on hard days. You're standing with your feet in my toilet right now, just for the record."

The man went right up to his nose. He smelled of sweat and sardines and the impetus with which he spoke made him spit.

"You think you're funny, soldier boy? I'll give you a pass on being a comedian."

"I'll give it a rest, thanks. I wouldn't want any of your syllables to end up in my mouth."

"You're good with words, let's see how good you are with actions." He was well placed, just wide enough to fill the space between himself and the corridor. Mason could have done a number of things to him: some would have interfered with his ability to walk, others would have made him forgetful.

"Sorry, mate. Here, here's to me." Mason handed him a note and a smile. He still remembered how to do it. He wanted to get back to the car, stop by the office, maybe get a few hours' sleep. There was no time to slaughter the brawlers. First duty, then pleasure.

The astonished man took the money, stuffed it in his pocket and walked away without ceasing to look at him in puzzlement.

A number of people came down to Bleecker St, including the pickpocket who slipped through the crowd and disappeared before Mason Stone could see what direction he had taken. He had missed him like a rookie.

He continued out of the station. From there to where he had left the car was a couple of blocks. A few young men in suits hurried to the party they'd been talking about nonstop the whole way; a woman and her little girl went to the charity event at their parish, even though the girl didn't want to and her shoes hurt; a hooded man scurried off, muttering and running over the man in front of him. Mason walked a short distance down the street, following the quarrel of two lovers from a distance and ahead of a woman carrying shopping bags.

He had an uncomfortable feeling about him. He had had it ever since he got off the train. The boyfriends turned the corner and continued to argue about how to get permission from their parents. Mason, however, crossed the street. Something was wrong. His bones were telling him. When he reached the opposite pavement, he turned to his right to look at the intersection where the kids had stopped fighting and were now hugging each other. He thought he saw a shadow beyond the parked cars. He stepped back off the pavement. The sound of the paper bag collapsing and scattering the groceries on the ground distracted him from his thoughts long enough to notice the car being thrown at him. Mason Stone threw himself to the side, sure that if the car had continued in that direction, that move would have been for nothing. He glanced at the driver but the taxi's headlights exploded in his head. The tyres slammed into the kerb, pushing the car back onto the road and the bumper missed his head by a whisker. With his hand on the revolver, he leapt for the rear door, just grazing the handle. The car accelerated in a screech of wheels. Mason could not read the number plate because he turned before the flecks of light burned into his eyes faded.

All he could make out was the company emblem on the side. Sunshine Cab.

Coffee and cigarettes

Who was driving the taxi that had tried to run him over?

He wondered if it was Samuel Perkins who was determined to put an end to the manhunt. Was it possible that a man on the run, with the whole police force at his heels, had the time to try to kill a private investigator who had been on his trail for only a few hours? Yes, if he was insane: eliminating him would not intimidate the police, nor could Mason understand how Sam could feel more threatened by him than by the department. Nor was there any explanation as to how he had come to know that he himself was on the case.

It was unlikely that he had any contact with Matthews' men. He might have had some at Lloyd & Wagon's, although after a few seconds Mason pushed that possibility out of his mind. It was more plausible that he had been tailing Andrew Lloyd for a couple of days until he had gone up to his Chinatown office.

Another lead, much easier to believe, was the Sunshine Cab, the company he worked for and where he might still have some friends. Taxi drivers are the ears of the city and Samuel, never more than at that moment, needed to know what was going on.

Unable to track the taxi, he reached his car in front of the Perkins' building. He started the engine and drove into the sparse evening traffic. Unfortunately, the only witness to the incident, the lady with the shopping bags, had not been able to see the driver's face because she was busy collecting her week's salvage. She barely understood what had happened. Mason discovered that he had bruised his shoulder trying to avoid the car. He realised it when he got behind the wheel. It wasn't serious. The pain behind his eyes was nagging at him. The insistent throbbing in his temples, however, was part of the job. It was what kept him moving.

Just inside the agency, the smell of coffee reached him. April had made plenty. He poured himself a cup and walked over to his desk. He let himself down in his chair and lit a cigarette.

She had to go to Sunshine, find out what she could about Sam, his habits, his vices, what might make him a wife killer and a fugitive. He had to get to predict his moves and get ahead of him. There was a small chance that the records would contain the racing data for the last period. He still didn't know if the car was his or the company's. He had to hope for a lucky hand. After that, there were secondary leads to consider, assess their plausibility and avoid dead ends. There was still too much smoke to see clearly. He had to get back to Lloyd, find out who the notary was that the doorman had picked up and what the news was.

He wrote a note to April asking her to make an effort to track down the notary's office, then sank into the back and closed his eyes with a view of the unresting city before him. The cigarette died in the ashtray next to the hot cup of coffee.

On two sides

It was April who woke him up.

Mason had responded to her smile, a mixture of kindness and guilt, with a gruff good morning. It wasn't directed at her but at the fact that he seemed never to have dozed off. Elizabeth Perkins' case had taken over.

April didn't seem to mind his rudeness but handed him his hat, which had fallen from the nape of his neck abandoned to sleep.

Mason Stone crinkled his eyes and sat up, elbows on the desk and eyes interrogating the calendar to find out how long he'd been asleep. April brought a cup of freshly brewed coffee which he instinctively intercepted.

"Can you read what it says?" April had found his note.

"Sure, boss."

"Good thing, sometimes I get in trouble myself."

"It's not so terrible. There was a guy I dated in high school, Paul Russel, he had such terrible handwriting that when he asked me out on a date, I thought he'd scribbled me out."

"What happened to Paul?"

"He was a nice guy and my parents liked him but he wasn't for me," the girl's cheeks lit up as she shrugged.

"You did well, then."

"What do I need to find out about this notary?"

"As much as you can. I know I haven't given you much to work with but I'm sure you'll do a great job. I want to know who he is and what he went to do at the Perkins' on the day Elizabeth died. It's vital, I'm afraid. The problem is, I don't know his name or the name of the firm. Just the rough description of a doorman. If there's anything, it's in the police statements."

"Are you still working on that case? Captain Martelli..."

"Of course. Besides, since I've been forbidden to deal with it, it's all become much more interesting."

"Interesting?"

"How long have you been with me?"

"Three years, seven months and sixteen days."

"And in that time, how many cases have we had?"

"Several dozen, I'd say."

"And how many times did Martelli or a police officer call us to inform us that we were not liked people and that, not only should we disregard but, even, refuse the assignment?"

"I would say none."

"And you don't find that curious?"

"Without a doubt."

"That makes two of us."

"What are you going to do?"

"Nothing for the moment. We'll move on and see what happens. There are priorities to think about before playing cat and mouse with Martelli: I need to find Samuel Perkins, or find out what happened to him. The notary is your business, however. Get on it immediately."

"I'll go. One more perplexity yet, if I may."

"You may."

"What if Martelli had ordered your arrest in case you were discovered?"

"They may come."

"How?"

"Oh, fear not. If the captain arrested me, it would benefit me more than it would him. An arrest means at least a night in the slammer, an interrogation, maybe with Matthews himself, or Martelli if I'm so inclined. I doubt they'd let Peterson have me. They trust him less than they trust me. For someone who can listen and knows what to look for, a string of questions about my investigation might be more fruitful than reading all the case reports."

"But if they just wanted to keep you away they'd just keep you locked up!" April's voice trembled. "You need more than a pretext for an interrogation, don't you? They'd have to have well-founded reasons, like a serious criminal charge, to make them question you about what you know."

"And I'm on my way to get them." Mason rose from his desk and closed the study door behind him, accompanying April, uneasy but increasingly admiring, to her battle station.

Sunshine Cab

The big engine of the black Ford started at the first attempt. Sometimes she needed some encouragement, but who didn't? That car was her second office and third home after her office in Chinatown. It wasn't a king's bed but it served him like one. Without intermediate stops Mason Stone arrived at the Sunshine Cab.

Since the company's yard was bustling with cars, he parked on the opposite side of the street. Sunshine was one of the most important companies and favoured G-Model Checkers, but it was not uncommon for other cars to be converted to the job. Classifying the previous night's episode as a simple accident helped to make it less important. When you find yourself in quicksand, the best thing to do is to try to move as little as possible. At the speed at which the event had unfolded, however, he had managed to make out the taxi company's crest and guess the profile of a Checker. It was one of the cheaper cars, known for its reliability and low maintenance requirements, ideal for the job.

Mason found himself almost hoping that Sam was driving another car. If he didn't, it meant one of two things: either incredible, ostentatious stupidity on the man's part or an attempt to throw him off the scent. If the latter turned out to be true, he would waste a lot of time.

He had to track down the owner, a Julie Darden. He walked across the dusty yard and into the entrance. There was the stench of motor oil and grease stains all over the floor. The Sunshine Cab was nothing more than a huge, dirty, dusty shed with large windows opening up to the mechanics in the repair shop. No one looked up at him as he made his way to the offices. It was as anonymous as dormant the taxi drivers' capacity for wonder, so accustomed to oddities of all kinds.

Leaning against the office door, a driver in a foul mood was reading a no less pitiful newspaper, his beard unkempt and his visor cap lopsided three-quarters of the way up on his head.

"Hello." Mason stopped half a step away from him and the door. The man, distracted by his reading and intent on chewing gum, studied the newcomer for a few moments and then resumed his press review, unperturbed. The taxi driver's shoulder and weight pressed against the door. Mason reached under his arm to hold the newspaper, grabbed the handle and gave a little tug, just to check the man's intentions, who did not move.

"Are you the fellow who enjoyed terrorizing Tim MaCgrady yesterday?"

"If you're the one who's now moving and letting me in I'm all you want," he said squinting as he smiled.

"They're waiting for you." he said and walked away after rolling the newspaper under his arm. Mason Stone watched him disappear into the workshop behind a long row of vehicles and racks of tools, then opened the door. A narrow corridor opened before him. Moments later, a woman appeared through a door at the far end. Mason waited for her to say something, his hands sunk into the pockets of his mackintosh.

"Can I help you?" he finally said, aloud.

"You certainly can. My name is Mason Stone. I'm a private detective. I'm looking into the disappearance of Samuel Perkins."

"Wouldn't it be more accurate to say you're investigating the murder you're accused of?" retorted the woman, her hands crossed under her breasts.

Realising he was talking to the right person Mason didn't wait until he was invited to approach and firmly covered the distance between them "Is that a side effect, Miss...?"

"Darden. Mrs. Darden."

"Am I disturbing you, Mrs. Darden?"

"Don't stand in the doorway: follow me. If it's as long as I think it is, we'd better get comfortable. Would you like some coffee, Detective?" Mason followed Mrs. Darden to a small office in a prefabricated building. She went off to get coffee and five minutes later, when she returned, she placed a stack of papers in front of Stone in addition to the cup.

"Comfortable?" she asked him.

"Too much, comfort withers. What are they?" he asked, pointing to the stack.

"What he's here for: Samuel Perkins' racing records for the last six months. Amazed?" Mrs. Darden was a beautiful woman with a stern face and an icy soul. A businesswoman in a man's world.

"Astonishment is for fools. I'm more of a doubtful type."

"Well, I'll untie that for you: I could refuse to talk to you, no one is forcing me to tell you anything about my business and my company. You are nobody to me, Mr Stone, and you have nothing to bargain with to persuade me to do so. But I want to give you my help: if you have to scare one of my taxi drivers to death to get some information, you must obviously be desperate."

"I thought it was a rather pleasant conversation instead."

"Tim almost had a nervous breakdown."

"A rather sensitive big boy."

"By coming to you, I'm convinced you won't bring any more confusion into my company. I'll be in the next office if you need me."

"You take bad news well, Mrs. Darden."

"I assess situations and adapt. If I didn't know better, I'd have been bankrupt long ago."

"A woman with that kind of cunning, I wonder where she'd go if she wanted to."

"In the other room, for the moment."

"Don't treat me like the big bad wolf, Mrs. Darden. I'm on the shepherd's side."

"That may be. And I know you believe that, but your actions tell of your nature, I'm afraid. Tell me if I'm wrong. You are not a man who is easily discouraged. You're used to pushing, pushing and pushing. You insist, you're not capable of giving up. There are no boundaries that cannot be crossed. Maybe you don't see them or maybe you choose to ignore them," he didn't wait for her to respond and left.

A small smile had grown on Stone's face, which he still turned to the portion of the corridor he could see from his chair. It had been a long time since he had felt so attracted to a woman.

It took him no less than forty minutes to go through the copies of Samuel Perkins' records. The originals were in the hands of Matthews' team, of course. In any case, the whole thing proved almost useless. There were addresses, times and payments. Next to the tables filled out in an undoubtedly masculine handwriting, someone had written mileage notes.

Probably a Sunshine secretary in charge of monitoring that the prices corresponded to the route and the time taken to reach the destination. From what could be gleaned, Samuel Perkins was a dedicated and almost indefatigable driver: copious night shifts, at least four a week, and almost constant double shifts of around sixteen hours. However, he did not find recurring destinations that caught his eye. The records stopped four days before Elizabeth's death. Before he got up, he jotted down an address, perhaps the only one that had appeared three times in the previous two months. It was nothing to shout about, but it was still something in a city that had more taxis than private cars. It was an address in New Jersey. He turned off the lamp on the desk and left the room, taking the file with him. He knocked on Mrs. Darden's door and when she invited him in, he said thank you and stood in the doorway, his back against the doorframe and his hand on the half-open-door handle.

"Ask away, Detective," Mrs. Darden said, filing the records in a huge cabinet in front of her desk. It was a cramped, makeshift office. She could hardly move, even the thin Mrs. Darden.

"A few more things, if you'll indulge me."

"Until now, I have given you everything you wanted." Mrs. Darden sat down on the edge of the desk. She slid the small reading glasses down to the tip of her nose.

"Then let's see how far I can go: the records are missing the last four days."

« I'm afraid I don't have them either, and neither do the police. You see, Detective, here at the Sunshine Cab we ask our drivers for trip reports every week. That's the best we can ask for. Some of them are out there so much that if we asked for it daily, the furthest areas would go uncovered for too long. As you will understand, I can't afford to give up even one street corner to other companies."

"Where are the service records kept?"

"Each employee is free to keep them wherever he wishes. It goes without saying, however, that they should always be at hand, so most keep them on the dashboard."

"Suppose, Mrs. Darden, that someone wanted to keep these records safe. Where would he hide them?"

"If there was anything in them that had the potential to get me into trouble, I would burn them."

Mason instinctively thought back to the ashes in the Perkins' stove.

"What if I didn't want to destroy it because, for some reason, it might come in handy?"

"In every man's castle, then: the house."

"But they should always be at hand, don't forget that."

"The taxi."

"Entrust it to one of the family?"

"For as long as Samuel Perkins worked for me he never mentioned anything that reminded him of her. The only leave he ever requested was for his wife."

"I see. But a man with a taxi can go anywhere without having to explain himself."

"Not quite, Detective. A company that gave its employees that much freedom would go bankrupt in less than a week. We periodically check the mileage against the mileage on the books."

"How do you know that a driver has not stopped somewhere to take a break?"

"We calculate the distance of the last run with that of the area where drivers stop. Generally their home."

"But there's still a margin of error. A mile today, another half tomorrow, and in no time you create a fairly large grey area."

"Every week the kilometres, approximated by excess, which do not turn out and which cannot exceed a certain limit, are marked. "'Frozen', if you will."

"You've thought of everything."

"I am pleased with your admiration. Is there anything else?"

"I bet he wants to get his car back."

"Samuel was a freelancer. The car was his. We just provided him with the equipment and signs. In such cases Sunshine Cab 'leases' the vehicle to the owner, who becomes our employee. Obviously, the cars have to be above certain standards to work with us. It's a question of image."

"A free hitter, then."

"Within certain limits."

"Did he have an area of expertise?"

"All our drivers must have it or areas would form with an overabundance of service and others totally abandoned. You understand it would be chaos. Samuel was assigned Grand Central."

"What kind of vehicle are we talking about?"

"A Checker T."

"What kind of man is Samuel Perkins?"

"Tim didn't tell you enough?"

"I like to have a choice."

"If you want to hear that Sam was capable of doing everything that is being attributed to him I am forced to disappoint you. He was no saint, that must be clear: he had his good temper tantrums too, and frequent ones, but that's part of the job, especially in a city like this. He was a hard worker with all the strengths and weaknesses of all of us. No more, no less. no more, no less."

"Did he know his wife?"

"Not well. She came over a few times, maybe at Christmas, to bring Sam lunch. Something special. Yeah, Sam always worked at Christmas. It's the time of year when the real money is made."

"Why do you think he worked so hard? They both had good jobs and no children."

"I never get involved in private matters. I see what you're getting at but, I'm sorry, I didn't know anything about their married life, so I ignore whether they were on the rocks, whether Sam preferred to spend more time in his taxi than with his wife. I don't think so, Detective, but if I can give you a professional opinion, street kids who manage to grow up and, miraculously, stay out of trouble, become tireless workers. I know a thing or two about that."

"I don't want to take up any more of your time, Mrs. Darden."

"Duty."

"One last thing: is there a Mr. Darden, by any chance?"

The woman, who had already returned to the papers in front of her, looked up at him.

"I imagine it's relevant to your investigation."

Bump in the road

Mason Stone crossed the Washington Bridge in the direction of New Jersey. The sun shone raw, lacking in cheerful tones, the sky emotionless. That morning the traffic was hiccupping, stuck in the tired rhythms of those who don't want to but have to.

The address found in the Sunshine Cab's phone records was in Leonia, a neighbourhood for those who were not blatantly rich but could afford to have a front garden. And in that time of financial crisis, there weren't many of them. Moving slowly forward amidst the honking horns and rumbling bonnets, Mason left Manhattan behind. He was following a truck that he could have easily overtaken, but because of the narrow roadway and oncoming traffic, he decided not to rush.

Within a couple of blocks there was a queue three blocks long.

At an intersection, a dark green Chevrolet Six pulled up behind Mason, and as the driver realised the poor timing he had encountered, he started punching the horn. Mason signalled for him to pass, but he continued to follow without stopping barking. Stone then slowed down to make it easier for him to overtake. Nothing.

Maybe there was a rookie behind the wheel of the truck that wouldn't give way, stiffened by the fear of making a mistake on the first day and earning an earful. At the umpteenth angry blast of the horn, Mason tried to make out the Chevy owner's face in the rereview mirror. The shadow of the fedora he wore made it difficult, but he could still make out a clean-shaven chin and a pair of hollowed-out cheeks. A screech of tyres in front of him forced him to let go and brake. The lorry had hit the kerb. The impact caused the body to swing so far that one side of the truck jerked up off the ground.

As Stone slowed down, the driver of the truck accelerated to keep the pachyderm on its feet. If he failed, Mason would be crushed by the load. As the truck towered over him, he shifted into reverse. Immediately a double set of high lights flashed in the rear-view mirror: the man in the green Chevrolet was gesturing angrily and urging Mason Stone on. Meanwhile, the trucker's attempt had brought the right-hand tyre train crashing back onto the pavement. The structure embarked determinedly.

The Ford's engine screamed violently. The Chevrolet occupied almost the entire carriageway and advanced without giving Stone a chance to move. The truck, now out of control, ended up blocking the opposite lane. The clamped brakes locked the wheels, which left a long, dark trail on the asphalt and white smoke rose from the tyres. The trailer whined furiously. Mason knew from the noise that he would not last long.

Pushed into the arms of a terrible fate, Stone considered crashing his car into the truck and settling his fall, now certain. His car would crumple like a tin of sardines. On the left, a row of lampposts would have provided him with no better service: the old Ford was not agile enough to avoid them all. There were too many people, anyway. He wasn't going to risk their lives for his. On the other side, the deep waters of the East River.

With yet another blast of the horn, the Ford's cockpit filled with light. Stone gripped the steering wheel and lowered his chin until the brim covered his view of the Chevy's high beams. The trucker cursed in panic: the steering wheel was pulling his arms off.

Mason stepped back sharply. A dull thud preceded the clang of scrap metal. The bumpers of the Ford and Chevrolet had engaged. The engine in reverse was at its rev limit. The Ford pushed away HollowCheeks’ car which was pushing it towards the crash. The tyres of both cars groaned. Then the truck's trailer collapsed, taking the load and the tractor with it, just as the space Mason had created became enough for him to shift into first gear and drive to the right. On impact with the kerb, the Ford spun upwards, but it was in that way that it was barely grazed by the lorry, losing only a mirror. A cloud of steam rose from the truck's radiator like the mushroom of an explosion. The dust and goods scattered on the ground enveloped the truck and the bystanders.

Mason Stone overcame the incident and pulled over to the other side.

A huddle of curious onlookers and alarmed good citizens gathered. At the windows there was a luxuriant flowering of heads. Mason left the car mumbling in neutral and opened the door to get out. He only had time to get an inkling of a rapid movement behind him, but it was enough for his instinct to lift his foot. One more moment and he would no longer be able to kick anyone. The green Chevrolet, which had made its way as far as he had since the disaster, had missed him and the Ford by a whisker.

HollowCheeks nailed it sideways, blocking what might have been an escape route for Mason. Through the Chevy's rear window Stone saw him moving to get out, so he mounted the wheel cover and leapt off the Ford's bonnet.

He threw away his cigarette. The two faced each other with a hard grunt in the midst of the commotion. The guy reminded him of a big dog: the drooping cheeks on his skinny face, the deep wrinkles, the big sad eyes, the long-crooked nose. The grey suit fell over him, as if dressed by an old hanger. The long raincoat fit him like a corpse. HollowCheeks e towered over him by more than half a span. His hands were not those of a starving runt, they were strong.

As soon as he got a better look at his attacker's face and breathed in his garlic breath, Mason Stone knew who he was up against an Italian-American named Frankie D’Angelo, a soldier in the Colombo family, under the direct orders of Dominick Petrillo, a man of honour in the New York Mafia.

"What's wrong with you, man?" Mason chose to attack. That tone had the impact of a slap: Frankie's yellow eyes widened and his lips revealed long, crooked teeth. Cursing aloud, he clapped both hands on Mason's chest. They were too close for him to reach into his coat and pull out his gun as he wished. He had to back off at least a step, just enough for Stone to pounce on him.

"Do you know who you're up against?" growled Frankie D'Angelo.

"A bad driver?"

"You see this car?" the mobster asked, pointing to the Chevrolet that had kicked him out.

"I've been eyeing it ever since it tried to push me into a truck-sized headache."

"That's Mr. Profaci's personal car. Look what you've done!"

"If he cared so much, he shouldn't have entrusted it to such primates."

“What?"

"What, did I talk too fast? One whinny for yes, two for no."

"You don't seem to care much for life, clown."

"I like to keep it light." Mason gave him a sardonic smile, almost an invitation to reply. But Frankie D'Angelo wasn't that kind of man: he was a doer, an arm, he didn't need dialectical skills. "'So, nothing brilliant to say? Do you want to get back in the car and try again?" he pressed him again.

Mason felt himself being lifted off the ground; Frankie had grabbed him by the jacket. The ease with which he'd managed it confirmed that he was all brawn underneath that long amount of clothes. But Mason was also quite massive and did not let himself be carried around like a puppet: quickly, the strong hand passed through Frankie's arms and closed around his neck. He tensed his muscles, making it harder to sink into the carotid artery. Under his fingers, the beating of his heart. Frankie gritted his teeth; Mason increased the pressure.

"Finished flexing?" asked Mason through gritted teeth.

D'Angelo loosened his grip on the lapels of his jacket and Mason came back firmly on his legs.

"You'll regret this," whispered Frankie breathlessly, filled with rage.

"Are you threatening, you wop?" Mason shoved him against the Chevy after making him half turn around. "Do I let you go or do you want to dance some more?"

"You better finish me now."

"I'm very tempted." Mason released Frankie D'Angelo. On his neck, his fingerprints would turn purple. "But you're not worth my time, mister."

Before leaving, Mason gave him a long look. He decided he wasn't going to take any chances by turning his back on him. Frankie D'Angelo was a bloodthirsty mobster, but he wasn't going to kill some poor guy in front of dozens of people and with help on the way. It wasn't even his turf: it was the Lucchese's turf. If they had been on Staten Island, Mason Stone would not have met a better end than surfacing a week later in the net of some fishing boat. A soldier, not yet affiliated, who killed a policeman, or one who had been one, would have found no place in any Italian-American family. He might still have made his way into the Irish or the Jewish ghetto gangs, but there was no honour in those. And he wouldn't have lasted long.

"Laugh now while you still can! We'll take everything away from you!" retorted Frankie, adjusting his suit.

"Let me give you an advance!" Stone didn't turn to look for her face, but his fist still found the tip of her chin.

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