LITMIR.BIZ

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agents, half a dozen loan companies and lawyers. Shylocks and Sherlocks, I call ’em. Got a few outfits call themselves consultants, I wouldn’t know who consults ’em or for what.”

      Lindsey grunted a vague thank-you. It seemed unlikely that the killer was a fellow Torrington Towers renter, but you could never tell. Somebody who had it in for Berry might want to do his dirty work away from the building to keep the spotlight off himself.

      Lou Halter had gone back to his newspaper.

      Lindsey crossed the lobby. In seconds he was part of the crowd passing on the sidewalk. Yep, it was Christmas. Christmas, and NFL playoff time.

      Lindsey walked along 58th Street. The morning was still gray, but the sun was starting to fight its way through the clouds. Lindsey wasn’t used to sidewalks this crowded, to people moving with the speed and seeming urgency that New Yorkers did.

      Well, he’d adjust. He’d managed to speed up for Chicago, to slow down for New Orleans, he’d find the right pace for New York.

      He stopped in a counter-joint, slid onto a stool and reached for a menu. Before he could look at the menu a waitress poured a cup of coffee and shoved it at him and asked, “What’ll you have?”

      Lindsey took a breath.

      The waitress didn’t wait. “How ’bout the special? I’m busy. Scrambled eggs and a muffin.”

      Lindsey said, “No. No eggs.” An image of Cletus Berry’s scrambled brain presented itself and Lindsey blinked, hard. “Bring me a couple of pancakes.”

      “You got it.” And she was gone.

      Lindsey had never seen the likes of this place. Most of the men and women at the counter held newspapers or magazines in one hand and read while they shoveled food into their mouths with the other. A few of them talked to each other. More of them talked to themselves.

      He found himself wolfing his food, tapping his finger impatiently while the waitress brought his check, slapping his money on the counter and striding rapidly to the door.

      Why?

      He didn’t have an appointment. He had work to do, but his style was to take a steady, gradual approach to each case. He wasn’t in any hurry.

      No, he wasn’t in any hurry. He was just finding his pace.

      CHAPTER THREE

      He wanted to talk with Berry’s wife. He knew she would be in shock. It was only thirty-six hours since the discovery of her husband’s body, give or take a few hours, and she would not even have begun to come to terms with his death. But sometimes that was a help. She wouldn’t have edited her husband’s life and death, she wouldn’t have erected any barriers or sealed off any facts or memories that might have a bearing on the case.

      Lindsey found a working pay phone and looked up Cletus Berry’s home number in his pocket organizer. It was a good thing he had the number with him. Ducky Richelieu insisted on all SPUDS agents having unlisted home telephone numbers. Sometimes that was a convenience, sometimes a nuisance.

      He dialed and a woman answered. She was crying. That was no surprise. Lindsey identified himself, told the woman he was a friend as well as a colleague of Berry’s, asked if he could come and see her.

      She agreed, but not so early in the day, please, could he come in the afternoon.

      The woman spoke with a light Italian accent.

      That was no surprise. From Berry’s personnel file, Lindsey had learned that Berry’s wife was the former Ester Lazarini, an Italian citizen. Berry had married her in 1979, when he was serving as a warrant officer in the US Army, attached to a satellite NATO headquarters in Rome doing liaison work with the Italian Ministry of Defense.

      Lindsey made his appointment with Mrs. Berry and hung up. He studied his wristwatch. It was a little after nine. He looked up another contact in his pocket organizer, punched Detective Sokolov’s number and introduced himself.

      Marcie Sokolov had a pleasant voice but spoke with the hard-driving intensity that Lindsey thought typical of New Yorkers. “You’re with International Surety, interested in the Berry shooting.”

      Lindsey acknowledged that was so.

      “I already talked to your—” she must be fumbling with papers on her desk “—Morris Zissler. Have you spoken with him?”

      Lindsey said that he had, that Zissler had briefed him on the case, but that he was representing the company now in the matter of Berry’s death.

      “Zissler has the facts. This is a law enforcement matter.”

      “Still,” Lindsey said, “if you could spare a few minutes of your time. I flew in from Denver and if I go back empty-handed.…” He let it hang there.

      Sokolov took the bait. “Okay. I’m at Midtown North. Where are you coming from? You know your way around New York? You taking a cab or the subway?”

      “Uh—I’m on 58th Street. Near Seventh Avenue.”

      She laughed. “Never mind. Welcome to our lovely city. You can walk here. Midtown North is on West 54th between Eighth and Ninth. Enjoy your stroll.”

      He walked to the corner and stopped to buy a copy of The New York Times. He tucked it under his arm and started down Seventh Avenue.

      The walk was invigorating. Detective Sokolov might have meant to be ironic, but Lindsey really did enjoy it. He’d never seen such varied people jammed onto a single strip of pavement. He passed a group of teenagers in a full gang regalia, watch-caps and hooded sweatshirts. They glared at him, but they didn’t do anything more than that. Maybe God was watching over Hobart Lindsey.

      He reached Midtown North in a matter of minutes. The police were housed in an utterly characterless building that Lindsey quickly labeled as Postwar Functional. He gave his name to a bored civilian receptionist and sat down with his New York Times while he waited for Detective Sokolov.

      National and world news were the same as they’d been a day ago in Denver, but the local stories were enticingly different. The most intriguing was a piece on the expected announcement of a race for the US Senate by a Congressman named Randolph Amoroso. The resignation of the incumbent Senator in the face of charges of sexual malfeasance and financial hanky-panky had left a vacant seat. Even though the Christmas season was generally quiet politically—who wants to compete with the Christ Child for headlines, or with the Jolly Old Elf for campaign contributions?—would-be Senators were scurrying to qualify for a special election slated for June.

      Lindsey had heard of Amoroso—barely—but apparently he was hot news in New York. A big Amoroso rally was planned for noon in Times Square. Lindsey looked at his watch. If he didn’t spend too long in Sokolov’s office—if Sokolov ever got around to talking with him—he might take a look at the event. He wasn’t sure where Times Square was, but he suspected that it was fairly nearby.

      Amoroso’s Congressional district was Dutchess County, wherever that was, but he was expected in New York to accept the endorsement of a right-wing radio personality. The event would be broadcast live on national radio and TV. Lindsey tracked back through the story to make sure that he’d got it right. He had. Amoroso was not an announced Senatorial candidate—not yet—but he was issuing campaign manifestos and lining up endorsements anyway.

      Reading the article about Amoroso, Lindsey felt a chill. An opponent was quoted as accusing the Congressman of Fascist leanings, and Amoroso’s comment was only, “I think I could make the trains run on time.” The Sons of Italy had disowned Amoroso, but a splinter group that claimed affiliation with a neo-Fascist party in Italy had proclaimed its enthusiastic support, and Amoroso had welcomed it.

      “These are true Americans,” the Times quoted him, “and true Italian-Americans. These are the people who built our great land. In this age when welfare loafers, drug peddlers and deviates of every sort are wrecking our cities and our nation, it is time for real Americans to stand up and speak loud and clear, to

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