LITMIR.BIZ

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he drove through the Queens Midtown Tunnel and through Manhattan’s slushy streets, Lindsey got his first real look at New York.

      He’d have to learn the city fast if he was going to do anything with this puzzle. It was the first time he’d taken a case for International Surety where the company had no financial stake. Normally, Desmond Richelieu would have squelched any effort like this one, but for all the Director’s faults, he was loyal to his troops and he wasn’t going to let Cletus Berry’s murder stand as just one more statistic in the most murderous country in the world.

      Zissler drove uptown for a few blocks, then pulled to a stop in front of a nondescript commercial building on West 58th Street. “This is it.”

      He raced around the car and opened the door for Lindsey.

      The heater had been on, and the flow of warm, stuffy air had lulled Lindsey into a half-doze. He climbed out of the car and drew cold air into his lungs. That woke him up.

      Torrington Tower. That was the name of the building, engraved into the granite lintel above the thick glass and tarnished cast-iron doors. Lindsey craned his neck. The Torrington Tower might have been considered a tower when it was erected; now, it was dwarfed by its neighbors.

      “How are we going to get in?” Lindsey asked.

      Zissler separated a pair of keys from a massive batch. “I had an extra set made when I heard you were coming to town, Mr. Lindsey. There’s a guard in the lobby, but we’ve got keys to the lobby door and to Mr. Berry’s office, both.”

      He hauled Lindsey’s flight bag out of the sedan’s trunk. Lindsey clung to his laptop computer in its carrying case. Zissler opened the lobby door and stood aside while Lindsey entered. The door locked itself behind them with a click.

      The guard was behind the desk, as Zissler had promised. He stood up when Zissler and Lindsey entered. He’d been reading; now he laid his book down on his desk, spine upward. Lindsey read the title. Principles of Modern Accounting for the Medium-Sized Business.

      The guard was a tall Hispanic with rich wavy hair and a small mustache. He wore a name tag. It said, R. Bermúdez.

      R. Bermúdez said, “Hello, Mr. Zissler. This gentleman with you?”

      Zissler said, “This is Mr. Lindsey. Rodrigo Bermúdez.”

      Lindsey extended his hand.

      The guard smiled and shook it. “Rigo. Please just call me Rigo.”

      Zissler led the way to a small elevator that creaked and wobbled its way up six stories. On the way up, Zissler said, “Rodrigo’s twin brother works here, too. Can’t tell ’em apart except by their schoolbooks. Rodrigo’s studying accounting. Benjamino’s out to be a lawyer.”

      Once they reached Cletus Berry’s erstwhile home-away-from-home Zissler put Lindsey’s flight bag on the carpet, then handed him the keys.

      “Didn’t the coroner put a seal on this place?” Lindsey asked. “Or the police?”

      Zissler shook his head. “This is New York, Mr. Lindsey.” Apparently he regarded that as a full explanation.

      Maybe it was.

      Lindsey reached for his pocket organizer. He opened it and said to Zissler, “I want to make sure I’ve got this right. The detective on the case is named Marcie Sokolov. You’ve met her?”

      Zissler shook his head. “I spoke with her. By telephone.”

      Lindsey chewed his lower lip. This guy wasn’t going to be much help, that was obvious. He was like a big, good-natured, not-very-bright dog. He wanted desperately to please, but unless you kept the instructions simple, really simple, he was more likely to mess up than to help out.

      “What was your impression of this, ah, Detective Sokolov?”

      “She was okay.”

      Lindsey looked around the office for a chair. The furnishings weren’t quite as sparse as Zissler had indicated. There was a nondescript gray rug on the floor and a couple of cheap prints of Rome on the walls. In addition to the computer, the microwave, and the futon, there were a desk with a telephone on it, a couple of chairs, and a filing cabinet. One window offered a view that surprised Lindsey. Some quirk of architecture had left a narrow line of sight to the north. He recognized Central Park from a hundred movies and a thousand postcards. He imagined he could see Dick Haymes and Deanna Durbin riding through the park pursued by the dastardly Boss Tweed, played by Vincent Price, in an AMC revival of Up in Central Park.

      There were three doors in the room. One, Lindsey and Zissler had come through. Lindsey opened the others. A bathroom complete with shower stall. Okay. And a closet. A rack of clothes, a lightweight, mini-, what the heck did they call it, dresserette maybe. A shelf with a few pairs of shoes and a little TV set. The TV was one of those compact models with a built-in VCR.

      Huh.

      Lindsey dropped to his hands and knees and scoped out the electrical connections under the desk. There was a power line for the computer, a fax/modem connection, and a TV cable outlet.

      “She, um, Detective Sokolov asked me some questions,” Zissler added to his statement.

      Lindsey stood up and looked out the window. There were still a few lights on, farther uptown, but it was the park that held his attention. “What questions?”

      “Well, like, Did Mr. Berry have any enemies? Did he use drugs? Did he go to Atlantic City often? Bet with bookies? Was he in debt? Did he run around with women?”

      “And what did you tell her?”

      “I told her no.”

      “But you told me you hardly knew Berry. How did you know he didn’t have gambling debts? Or a dozen girlfriends?”

      “Well, that’s right, I guess I didn’t know him very well. But he didn’t seem to have any enemies. Or—or the rest of it. Gambling, I mean. Or drugs.”

      “Women?”

      “I never saw Mr. Berry with any women. I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

      Lindsey knew that Berry was married and had a child. Berry had mentioned his wife once or twice, but Lindsey could not remember his saying anything about a child. Lindsey had learned about the child—a daughter—from Berry’s personnel file.

      Cletus Berry was a sweet guy. Had been a sweet guy. Had been a top worker, Lindsey could testify to that. He had a pleasant personality, he made good dinner-table conversation and he had been an easy-going, unobtrusive room-mate. But he seldom spoke about his private life. Lindsey should have known that was a danger sign, but somehow he’d failed to pick up on it with Berry. Put the dunce cap on me, Lindsey thought. There’s more here than meets the eye.

      “Did Sokolov say what the police were planning to do about the killings?”

      “About Mr. Berry and that other fellow? Well, Detective Sokolov said they were going to investigate fully.”

      Lindsey held his head in his hands. Then he lowered his hands and looked at his watch. He’d readjusted his watch as the jet approached JFK so the watch was running on Eastern Time even though Lindsey’s body still thought it was two hours earlier.

      Zissler said, “I’d like to help out, Mr. Lindsey, but it’s awfully late. I have to drive back out to Queens. And my wife always worries when I’m late.”

      Lindsey said, “Sure. I’ll call you at Manhattan East if I need you.”

      As Zissler headed for the elevator, Lindsey could hear him humming. He thought, If only he’d hum something with a melody. But with a Moe Zissler, you took what you could get.

      Now Lindsey scrunched down inside the futon.

      This was the same Japanese bed that Cletus Berry had used. There were almost certainly a few of Berry’s hairs in the bed, and microscopic sheddings of dead skin.

      Why

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