Manhattan Serenade: A Novel - Joseph Sinopoli Steven

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comes from a plant not found in the States. It’s mainly used in expensive Afghanistan and Iranian hand-crafted rugs. To get those threads imbedded, Myer had to dig his heels into the rug with tremendous force.”

      “Which indicates there was a struggle,” Moran said. He leaned forward to scrutinize the fibers. He picked them up with his fingertips and held them close to his eyes.

      Langdon said, “Microscope analysis exhibited signs of wear and tear on them, so we know the rug was old.”

      “It’s a start,” Moran said as he set the threads back down on the desk.

      “Don’t get too excited, lieutenant. The same threads with the same dye are also used in the cheaper versions made in China,” Langdon said. “I have one at home with these same colors.”

      Moran slowly lifted himself out of the chair and bit his lower lip. “What about the particles of blood and skin tissue found under Myer’s fingernails that Chang sent over?”

      Langdon slowly shook his head. “Not good. The sample is very tiny and in a deteriorated state,” the Forensics chief said. He leaned back in his chair, pulled a pack of Camels from the top pocket of his lab coat, shook out a cigarette, and lit it. Moran’s eyes went to the glowing ember and he moistened his lips. The words that he’d said to Newbury on the pier, ‘Finally kicked the habit,’ rang in his mind and he realized that he should have added, ‘Maybe.’

      “The Combined Ballistic Identification System in Albany couldn’t come up with a match on the bullets,” Hernandez said. He was in Moran’s living room, talking to him, Darcey and Simms. “I also ran them through Integrated Ballistic Identification System and got nothing there either,” Hernandez said. He inserted his chopsticks into an open container of Hunan Spicy Pork. The container rested on the coffee table next to three others. He drew out a large piece of meat, dropped it into his mouth, and tossed the chopsticks inside the container.

      Moran frowned. “That only tells us the gun wasn’t bought instate, and the results from IBIS just mean the gun can’t be linked to any previous crimes.” He gave the sergeant an appraising look and shifted his weight in his chair. “All of which does squat for us.”

      Hernandez dug into his pocket and pulled out a Blackberry. “I checked with the Taj in Atlantic City and their records show that Lacy stayed overnight a couple of weeks before she was killed,” he read from the handheld’s screen.

      “That puts Lacy there on the date we found on the back of the snapshot,” Moran added.

      Hernandez went on. “Hotel records indicate that someone else paid the bill—in cash.”

      Moran narrowed his eyebrows. “What about a credit card as a guarantee for incidental expenses?”

      Hernandez shook his head. “Also cash. Paid by a Patricia Wooden. Claimed she and Lacy were sisters.”

      “Didn’t know they accepted cash as a guarantee,” Simms offered.

      “Normally they don’t,” Hernandez said, “but the employee that handled the registration was new and made a mistake.”

      Moran snorted. “According to the Commish, Lacy was an only child. I think she was staying with whoever owns the house where the picture was taken, and they both spent a night out at the casino.”

      “How’s everyone doing?” Sandra called out from the kitchen. “You guys need anything, just holler.”

      Darcey, who was seated on the sofa next to Hernandez, opened the large file in front of him. He drew out a newspaper clipping and a one-way Aero Mexico ticket. “Forensics didn’t find any prints other than Myer’s at his place. Seems the guy was a loner.” Darcey handed Moran the clipping and the ticket. “They did find these in a folded envelope at the back of a shelf in Myer’s closet. Somehow, Simms and I missed it. The ticket was for two weeks ago. Destination: Acapulco.”

      Moran gazed at the clipping. “New York Times society page from eight months ago,” he said, and fixed his eyes on the group of men and women in the center of the picture. They were posed with wide smiles while clusters of other couples loitered in the background. Moran read the caption: “Among the attendees at last night’s Muscular Dystrophy benefit performance of ‘Cats’ at Radio City Music Hall were Mrs. Nora Shilling; State Senator George J. Halpern and his wife, Samantha; New York City Criminal Court Judge Edwin Corbin and spouse and…” Moran paused and studied the face of the handsome man with graying temples and a Pepsodent smile. “Greg Saunders, star of the popular soap opera ‘Bachelor Dad’, ” Moran read on and looked up at the group. “Seen him on ‘Dancing With Celebrities.’ ”

      “Plays James Fox on ‘Bachelor Dad’ My next door neighbor watches the show every day. Saunders’s very popular with the ladies,” Alice Simms chimed in from her chair on the other side of the coffee table.

      Moran nodded. “Why would Myer stash away a six-month-old society page clipping?”

      “Maybe he was blackmailing someone in that picture,” Simms said.

      Darcey shook his head. “I can’t buy that. You’re talking about the DA’s wife, a respected judge who’s been on the bench for over fifteen years, a four-term state senator, and Greg Saunders, who’s on every woman’s dream list,” Darcey said. “A little farfetched, don’t you think, lieutenant?”

      Moran sat with his chin resting on his steepled fingers, staring down at an invisible spot on the carpet.

      “Sir?” Darcey repeated when Moran didn’t respond.

      Moran jerked his head up, tossed the clipping onto the coffee table and pointed at Darcey. “I want you and Simms to show this photograph to everyone who knew Lacy Wooden. If you want to find out why someone died, it helps to know how he lived and whom he loved. Check the hospitals and ask if around the date Myer’s was killed, they treated anyone for cuts or knife wounds.”

      Hernandez asked. “What do you want me to do?”

      “I’ve got a special job for you.” Moran held up the plane ticket. “Myer was obviously planning to permanently leave the country. Something or someone was waiting for him in Mexico. Whoever has those bearer bonds may have wanted to get rid of our boy, Myer, to prevent him from talking or claiming his share.”

      “If you’re thinking of sending me down there, my Spanish isn’t that good. I… I don’t know if—” Hernandez began.

      “Don’t worry, you’ll be fine,” Moran reassured his sergeant.

      “Where you’re going I’m sure they speak English.”

      The phone rang and Sandra’s voice could be heard from the kitchen. “Mmm… I see… I guess it was too much to hope for. Thank you for calling.” After she hung up, she appeared at the doorway, her face chalk-white.

      Moran came up from his chair. “What’s happened?”

      “That was Dr. Cook--my brother wasn’t a good match for the transplant.”

      ‘The Little Foxes’, a topless club tucked away in the heart of Hell’s Kitchen, was still closed when Moran stopped his Mercury Marquis in front of the door. This was an area of the city that spread itself between 34th Street and 57th Street on one end and 8th Avenue and the Hudson River on the other end. Turn-of-the-20th century Irish immigrants settled in the area that now was the heart of the Theater District. After Moran inserted the ‘Official Police Business’ sign on the dashboard, he climbed out.

      “Hey, good buddy, move it!” a hoarse voice with a southern drawl called out from the alley next to the club. The man gestured

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