The bare-limbed trees were ash-colored; they looked as if they had been
severely scorched by a long-extinguished fire.
He got out of the unmarked sedan, half a block off Park Avenue, and a
raw gust of wind hit him in the face. The December air had a faint
tomb-dank smell.
He jammed his hands into the deep pockets of his overcoat.
Rebecca Chandler got out of the driver’s side and slammed the door. Her
long blond hair streamed behind her in the wind. Her coat was
unbuttoned; it flapped around her legs. She didn’t seem bothered by the
chill or by the omnipresent grayness that had settled like soot over the
entire city.
Viking woman, Jack thought. Stoical. Resolute. And just look at that
profile!
Hers was the noble, classic, feminine face that seafarers had once
carved on the prows of their ships, ages ago, when such beauty was
thought to have sufficient power to ward off the evils of the sea and
the more vicious whims of fate.
Reluctantly, he took his eyes from Rebecca and looked at the three
patrol cars that were angled in at the curb. On one of them, the red
emergency beacons were flashing, the only spot of vivid color in this
drab day.
Harry Ulbeck, a uniformed officer of Jack’s acquaintance, was standing
on the steps in front of the handsome, Georgian-style, brick townhouse
where the murders had occurred. He was wearing a dark blue regulation
greatcoat, a woolen scarf, and gloves, but he was still shivering.
From the look on Harry’s face, Jack could see it wasn’t the cold weather
bothering him. Harry Ulbeck was chilled by what he had seen inside the
townhouse.
“Bad one?” Rebecca asked.
Harrv nodded. “The worst. Lieutenant.”
He was only twenty-three or twenty-four, but at the moment he appeared
years older; his face was drawn, pinched.
“Who’re the deceased?” Jack asked.
“Guy named Vincent Vastagliano and his bodyguard, Ross Morrant.”
Jack drew his shoulders up and tucked his head down as a vicious gust of
wind blasted through the street. “Rich neighborhood,” he said.
“Wait till you see inside,” Harry said. “It’s like a Fifth Avenue
antique shop in there.”
“Who found the bodies?” Rebecca asked.
“A woman named Shelly Parker. She’s a real looker.
Vastagliano’s girlfriend, I think.”
“She here now?”
“Inside. But I doubt she’ll be much help. You’ll probably get more out
of Nevetski and Blaine.”
Standing tall in the shifting wind, her coat still unbuttoned, Rebecca
said, “Nevetski and Blaine? Who’re they?”
“Narcotics,” Harry said. “They were running a stakeout on this
Vastagliano.”
“And he got killed right under their noses?” Rebecca asked.
“Better not put it quite like that when you talk to them,” Harry warned.
“They’re touchy as hell about it.
I mean, it wasn’t just the two of them. They were in charge of a
six-man team, watching all the entrances to the house. Had the place
sealed tight. But somehow somebody got in anyway, killed Vastagliano
and his bodyguard, and got out again without being seen.
Makes poor Nevetski and Blaine look like they were sleeping.”
Jack felt sorry for them.
Rebecca didn’t. She said, “Well, damnit, they won’t get any sympathy
from me. It sounds as if they were screwing around.”
“I don’t think so,” Harry Ulbeck said. “They were really shocked. They
swear they had the house covered.”
“What else would you expect them to say?” Rebecca asked sourly.
“Always give a fellow officer the benefit of the doubt,” Jack admonished
her.
“Oh, yeah?” she said. “Like hell. I don’t believe in blind loyalty. I
don’t expect it; don’t give it. I’ve known good cops, more than a few,
and if I know they’re good, I’ll do anything to help them. But I’ve
also known some real jerks who couldn’t be trusted to put their pants on
with the fly in front.”
Harry blinked at her.
She said, “I won’t be surprised if Nevetski and Blaine are two of those
types, the ones who walk around with zippers up their butts.”
Jack sighed.
Harry stared at Rebecca, astonished.
A dark, unmarked van pulled to the curb. Three men got out, one with a
camera case, the other two with small suitcases.