LITMIR.BIZ

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sounds like those two murders in Battery Park.’

      ‘That’s what I thought, Captain, and that’s why I phoned you to come here. Charlene got away because he got drunk and fell asleep and she managed to loosen her hands.’

      Parker nodded. ‘Okay, let me know when the line-up’s ready.’

      She went out and Parker went to the window, the rain driving against it, and found a Marlboro, having long since stopped pretending to have quit. He lit it and looked out at the river morosely, a huge black man who had started life in Harlem, earned a law degree at Columbia, and then decided to join the police rather than a law firm. He’d never minded seventy-hour weeks, although his wife had, and had divorced him for it.

      For three years now, he’d been captain in charge of a special homicide unit based at One Police Plaza. Sometimes he got depressed dealing with one killing after another, in a never-ending series, and when you were close to fifty you began to wonder if there was something better to do. He wondered if Blake had really meant what he’d said that there might be room for him in that special intelligence unit of his in Washington…

      The door opened and Helen Abruzzi called, ‘Show time, Captain.’

      The girl in the viewing room was in a bad way, a blanket around her shoulders, her face swollen, one eye black, bruise marks on her neck. Helen stood behind her, a hand on her shoulder, while Parker read the file. He finished, nodded, and she pressed a buzzer. A light flared and five men appeared on the other side. The girl cried out.

      ‘Number three. That’s him,’ she said and then she broke down.

      Compassion didn’t come easy at six o’clock in the morning on the East River, but Parker put an arm around her.

      ‘Hey, take a deep breath. I know it isn’t easy, but I’ll make you a promise. I’m going to take this fuck out.’ He squeezed her shoulder and nodded to Abruzzi. ‘Take her away, then bring that bastard in.’

      He stood at the window, looking down at the water, and after a while the door opened and Helen Abruzzi came in, followed by Paul Moody, cuffed between two police officers.

      ‘And who the hell are you?’ Moody demanded.

      ‘Captain Harry Parker. Sergeant Abruzzi’s got quite a list of charges against you, Moody, beginning with aggravated sexual assault.’

      ‘Hey, the bitch wanted it. She was into sadomasochism, all kinds of stuff. I mean, I was shocked, man.’

      ‘I’m sure you were, and I was forgetting physical assault on a minor.’

      There was silence. Moody said, ‘What’s this minor crap?’

      ‘Didn’t Sergeant Abruzzi tell you? The girl, Charlene Wilson, was fifteen two weeks ago.’

      Moody’s face paled. ‘Now, look, I didn’t know that.’

      ‘Well, you do now,’ Helen Abruzzi told him.

      ‘Another thing,’ Parker said. ‘There’ve been two killings in Battery Park within the last three months, using the same technique you prefer, Moody. Girls tied up, abused, beaten, and young.’

      ‘You can’t pin those on me.’

      ‘I don’t need to. We have good DNA samples retrieved from Charlene Wilson. We’ve got the DNA of the Battery Park killer. I’d bet my pension we’ll have a match.’

      ‘Fuck you, nigger bastard.’

      Moody lunged at him and the two officers restrained him.

      Parker said, ‘Why, Paul, you should conserve your energy. You’re going to need it to keep you going for the next forty years in prison.’ He nodded to the officers. ‘Get this piece of shit out of here.’

      He turned to the window as the door closed. Helen Abruzzi said, ‘It’s a bad one, sir.’

      ‘They’re all bad, Sergeant.’ He turned. ‘I need air. I’ll take a walk if you can find me an umbrella. I’ll come back to sign the papers later.’

      ‘Fine, sir.’

      He smiled, and suddenly looked charming. ‘You’ve been doing a good job here, Sergeant. I’ve been noticing. There’s an inspector’s job coming up, if you’d like a posting to Police Plaza. You deserve it. I can’t promise, mind you.’

      ‘I know, sir.’

      ‘Fine. I’ll see you later, but ring the front desk and get me that umbrella.’

      It was raining hard on the waterfront. Parker had borrowed a police raincoat with caped shoulders, and carried the umbrella Abruzzi had organized. The rain actually made him feel good, cleared the head. He lit another cigarette, and then an old man was running towards him in a panic.

      Parker got his hand up. ‘What is it? What’s your problem?’

      ‘I need the police!’

      ‘You’ve found them. What’s the problem?’

      ‘My name’s Richardson. I’m a night watchman at the old Darmer warehouse there. I was coming off shift and I went to the edge of the pier to toss my butt in the water, and…and there’s a woman in the water!’

      ‘Okay, show me,’ said Parker and pushed him forward.

      Katherine Johnson was a couple of feet under dark green water. Her arms floated to each side, her legs were open, the eyes stared into eternity. There was a look of surprise on her face and she was achingly beautiful in death.

      Harry Parker took out his mobile and called the precinct. ‘This is Captain Parker. I’ve got a Jane Doe in the water only three hundred yards from you. Let’s get an ambulance and back-up out here.’ He stood there, holding his mobile phone, then handed it to Richardson and took off his raincoat. ‘Hang on to those.’

      He went down a flight of stone steps, waist deep in water, and reached for her. It was stupid, because that was the recovery team’s job, but he couldn’t leave her there. In a strange way, it was personal.

      She was covered for a moment by flotsam, and he went chest deep and pulled her in and above his head. Above him, he heard the sound of vehicles grinding to a halt as the recovery team arrived.

      Parker went home, changed, had breakfast at his corner coffee shop – eggs, bacon, English breakfast tea – and returned to his office. But the dead woman’s face, the open eyes, wouldn’t go away as he phoned Abruzzi.

      ‘What’s happening with the Jane Doe I found?’

      ‘She’s at the morgue. They’ve brought in the chief medical examiner. I believe he’s doing the post-mortem himself later this morning.’

      ‘I’ll be down. Tell him I’m coming.’

      When Harry Parker arrived at the office of the chief medical examiner, Dr George Romano was eating a sandwich and drinking coffee.

      ‘Harry, my man, what’s new?’

      ‘This Jane Doe from the river. I took her out.’

      ‘So you’re feeling personal about it, right?’

      ‘Something like that.’

      ‘I’m about to finish the post-mortem. I was just taking a break. What do you want to know? Did she fall or was she pushed?’

      ‘Something like that.’

      ‘Okay, Harry, join me, ’cause this one stinks.’ Romano drained his coffee and led the way out.

      They went into the post-mortem room, where two technicians waited, suitably gowned. Romano held up his arms and one of them helped him into a robe. He went and scrubbed at the sink.

      ‘There she is, all yours, Harry.’

      Katherine Johnson lay on a slanting steel operating table, her head on a wooden block. She

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