The Stray E-Book

Alessio Chiadini Beuri

• Herausgeber: Tektime
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 348

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

A vitriolic thriller full of action and caustic jokes set in a New York corrupted by sin, hunger and organised crime in the 1930s.
The death of Elizabeth Perkins seems to be a case already solved: the body found in the house, no sign of robbery, a husband who lost track of him. But there is something that does not convince Mason Stone, private investigator and former police officer. A box of matches, a past that is struggling to emerge and a mysterious suitor are just the ends of a tangle that becomes more and more tangled every time the truth seems to come closer. Stone will be forced to fight against an entire city, against a New York corrupted by sin, hunger and organised crime, in a vortex of violence that grows tighter and tighter around him, like the coils of a snake.

Leseprobe

Alessio Chiadini Beuri

The Stray

Transl.: Simona Casaccia

Cover: ©Jason McCann©Cottonbro © Alessio Chiadini Beuri

©Alessio Chiadini Beuri 2021

Summary

Andrew Lloyd

The precinct

Police Line Do Not Cross

The witness

A taxi ride

Non-stop

On two sides

Sunshine Cab

Bump in the road

Family portrait

Tennant’s

The rescuer

Vesper

Stray

A lovely man

5 years

Watery grave

Distractions

A small world

Burning coals

Ace in the hole

It doesn't add up

Gloria Stanton

Treasure hunt

No answer

Chicago

A lovely father

The rat hole

Scripta manent

Shelter

Fog in Rochelle

End stop

Light

Back to school

Little girl

On the river

Building 25

John Doe

Appointment

Collect call

Crossroad

The Shadow

Adele's

Andrew Lloyd

"Good thing I'd left my gun here. The night is so quiet sometimes." he said as he entered the detective agency. The door closed behind him with a resounding slam.

The woman on the other side of the desk, typing out some incomprehensible notebook notes, jumped with a lump that had knotted in her throat without warning. The man walked towards her without lifting the brim of his hat with his index finger to hide his eyes or remove his raincoat.

"Didn't go, boss?"

"That bastard Jimmy's gone rogue. One more time." Mason Stone leaned his elbow wearily on the lamp on the desk of his assistant, April Rosenbaum, a very blonde girl from a good family who, for her age, could have been his little sister.

"He seems to do that when you look for him."

"It's not that it looks like, he does it on purpose!"

James Garfield, one of her informants, was a man who favoured easy joys and cheap vices. When he disappeared, you could be sure he had plucked someone's chickens or left a big hand uncovered in some gambling den.

"When I get my hands on him..." he promised.

"I forgot; you have visitors." April pointed with her eyes to the closed door of Mason's office. The detective turned to look too, as if he could see through the walls.

At first, he grunted, surprised, then, annoyed, asked, "Federal?"

"I don't think so..." replied April, biting her lip at that forgetfulness.

"How is he dressed, like a dandy?"

"He gave me the impression he was a Wall Street guy," she tried to make up for it.

"Even worse then," sighed Mason. He had never taken his eyes off the door.

As he entered his office, the dusty light from the window illuminated his mottled clothes. The hubbub of the door opening awakened the man at the back of the room, who was looking out over the beautiful view from the wall of the building opposite. His hands were buried in the pockets of his mouse-grey suit. He barely turned his head, as if he did not expect to see anyone enter. For his part, Stone did not say hello. He closed the door behind him, shook out his raincoat, which fell better on him, and walked over to the filing cabinet against the wall. He opened the top drawer and took out a small revolver. He checked that it was loaded, rotated the cylinder and closed it with a flick of his wrist. He put the pistol down and lit a cigarette. He did all this without so much as glancing at the man who, in the meantime, had approached and was standing three steps away from him.«Mr. Stone?»

"Bingo."

Only then did the man extend his hand. To return the gesture, Mason should have moved closer. He didn't.

"If it's for Senator Marlowe's campaign, forget it: I voted for the other candidate."

"No Mr. Stone, I'm not from the committee," the man explained, unable to stifle a nervous giggle.

"Then who is? I've had a bad night and will most likely have a worse day, help me with this transition."

"Andrew Lloyd." he hurried on.

"Good. What can I do for you, Andrew?" the suit was as FBI as he was a prom queen.

"I want you to find out who killed Elizabeth Perkins." he said all in one breath, as if a weight was being lifted from his stomach.

Mason Stone stared at him for a moment, the cigarette between his fingers wearing away uselessly. "Go on."

"Elizabeth used to work for me at Lloyd & Wagon's. She was my secretary."

Mason tucked the cigarette back between his lips and turned his back on the man, reached a hand towards the filing cabinet and picked up the small 6mm. "Yes, the name rings a bell. If I'm not mistaken, though, the department already has its suspect. All you have to do is get your hands on him."

"Exactly."

"Then why hire a private investigator for a case that only needs the word 'finish'? Is your wallet weighing you down?" he said slipping the revolver under his raincoat, behind his back.

"They're not doing enough."

"Really?" Mason turned to look at him, amazed.

"You know the police have bigger problems to deal with these days, too!" Lloyd snapped, as if Mason had just slapped him.

"The fight against smuggling is an invention of the mayor and a press affair, even the walls know it but that's no reason to take your frustration out on me. Do you remember the promise you made to me? I'm going to have a very bad day ahead of me so now you sit there and tell me why Papa Stone has to take this cat into the bag. That's a good boy." Mason patted Lloyd's cheeks a couple of times and pointed to one of the chairs opposite the desk. Now that he had rattled him, the man was ready to talk. Mason treated his clients like the scum he hunted. It served to strip them of the masks they wore. "Would you like a tonic, Andrew? I'd offer you something stronger but these are the times."

Lloyd refused with a wave of his hand. Once he had sat down Mason resumed.

"Why are you convinced that the police aren't doing everything they can in the Elizabeth Perkins murder?" the detective leaned back against the filing cabinet, his fist on his temple lifting the brim of his hat a few inches.

"First of all, I don't think the culprit is her husband, Samuel."

"Do you know him?"

"No, and Elizabeth didn't talk much about his private life but I know they were happy."

"Human nature is as treacherous as a mother-in-law, you should know that. I'd advise you not to put your hand in the fire for anyone, especially a stranger."

"I need you to do what the detectives aren't doing."

"And that would be?"

"Investigate."

"What if they're not overlooking anything? What if they're doing everything in their power to bring justice to the girl?"

Then I will accept it but I need the evidence, Mr. Stone. I need to know."

"Your bond must have been very strong for her, and not someone from Elizabeth's family, to come to me."

"From what I know she had no one but Samuel."

"That is a very sad thing but nevertheless it does not answer the question."

"It was very important, to us." he said, and his eyes searched the floor beneath his top-of-the-class shoes. "About the office." he then added.

"If you're hiding something from me coming to me won't help you."

Andrew Lloyd raised his head sharply, "Does that mean you accept?"

"I don't like splashing in other children's puddles."

"You'll be handsomely paid," Lloyd promised, rising to his feet.

"Talk it over with my secretary."

"Fine, thank you!"

"Wipe off your sweat before you go that way, or the girl will think I've mistreated you. Save me this trouble."

The precinct

"Stone, what the hell are you doing here?"

"Peterson, get the hell out of here."

"You know what'll happen if Martelli catches you snooping around."

"Oh, so you're here for me? Whatever you say. I'll take my coffee bitter, like life. Thanks."

Mason continued walking down the precinct corridor. Peterson stopped him after ten paces. It didn't seem like five years to the freshman he had mentored: the authority of a whipped dog and the stench of milk still on him. For Mason, those five years seemed like twenty. Time had spared him nothing. For too long he had defied risk and too many times he had managed to fool him.

"Get out of here, Stone."

"Or what? You'll slap me around like a whore?"

"No, man, I'll have to arrest you."

"I got a case."

"Let's not talk about ongoing investigations."

"Elizabeth Perkins."

"Good luck. The case is Matthews'."

"Matthews? He wouldn't even catch a cold, that one."

"Yeah, and he's pissed, so forget it."

"Peterson, how long have you had your balls in your wife's jewellery box?"

"Hand over the gun."

Mason looked at the old partner. Peterson stepped back just enough to let him know he trusted him but that it wasn't convenient to betray him. The private investigator brought a hand to his coat and held out the revolver by the butt end.

"Now let me talk to the coroner."

"No way."

"Can I take a look at the report?"

"If it's okay with Matthews."

"Hey, come on! For old time's sake!"

"You're getting old. They weren't so good."

"Piss off."

"Get out!" with a gentle nudge Peterson pointed the way.

"Don't make me put you to sleep."

"You've always been good with words."

"I punched the mayor in the face, don't think I'd lose any sleep over you."

"You sound frustrated, I understand, but you're picking on the wrong man. Your wife wasn't my type."

Behind Mason's fist, Peterson's face crumpled into a grimace of pain. Stunned, the detective staggered and darted to the side to retreat from a possible double. But Mason did not strike again, picked up his gun, which had escaped from his former partner's hands, and holstered it. He adjusted his hat and watched Peterson spit and wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. He then motioned for the two agents who had come to his aid to escort Mason out of the building. Mason did not resist.

"If I let you go this time, it's only because of Adele," Peterson shouted before the precinct doors slammed shut.

Back when real men didn't still reek of imported tobacco and bloody fish-egg canapés, the likes of Mason got to decide the good and the bad. Now he was just a man on the pavement, the renegade bastard of a town that had purged its sins and disowned its rebellious sons.

Stone adjusted his collar and slipped into the alley, engulfed in the dust of a world everyone thought was dead. The iron groan of an old door tore away the echo of his footsteps.

"Don't kid yourself, old man: I barely heard it." Peterson.

"Your Irish pig face lies but your eyes say you cried like a little girl."

Mason's wife's name was Wendy, not Adele.

And that's what she still calls herself, wherever she wants to take her ambitious ass. Los Angeles? Northern California? A sleazy small-town casino?

Adele's was the old Polish bar next to the district. In fact, in those days it was nothing but a lousy dump full of memories no one wanted. A cop bar when cops weren't supposed to go near a bottle of booze except to get it down the drain.

"Low profile." Peterson beckoned him through the back door from which he was drenched in cologne. He'd be in trouble if Captain Martelli or Matthews found out he was spilling the details of a case to a first-rate undesirable like himself.

He took him to Dr Tollins, and to Elizabeth.

"When I looked in the mirror this morning, I swore to myself that that would be the last horrible thing of the day. Now I understand why my father never made any promises. Hello, Doc."

"Always a pleasure, Stone."

"Our private detective would like to see someone," Peterson said.

"Do you have an appointment?" Doc acted as their cicerone among the many tables he was working on. Pale silhouettes under white sheets from which nothing but feet and name tags sprouted.

"The lady said she'd wait for him," cop humour.

"Elizabeth Perkins." cut Mason short.

Doc walked over to the table on his left and discovered the bluish body of a young woman, caught in her most beautiful dawn.

"Female, 21 years old. Height five feet seven inches, weighing approximately..."

"Skip the introductions, Doc."

"Arms have obvious bruising."

"Fingers." Mason said aloud.

"She was forcibly restrained," Peterson said.

"Perceptive as usual."

"The location of the bruises tells us that the attacker was facing her," the coroner continued.

"Signs of forced entry?" Mason turned to Peterson.

"None. When they found her she was on the floor. Only her blouse and skirt on. On the table two used glasses."

"Liquor?"

"In one was water or brew, in the other a light tea. Doc has already ruled out possible traces of poison or narcotic."

"The rest of his things?"

"Scattered all over the living room."

"Was she raped?" asked Doc.

"There's nothing to suggest rape."

"An angry lover?" proposed Mason.

"A husband who came home early from work?" suggested Peterson.

"There'd be a body missing," Mason pointed out.

"Maybe the boyfriend, tired of sharing her, decided to come out of the closet and she threatened to leave him."

"The lover in love theory? Peterson, how humiliating!"

"Who can say that?! Everyone seems to be going crazy these days. And without alcohol, there's nothing else to keep human impulses in check."

"You look better since you've been on tonic water, Pete. The 18th Amendment thinks about your health."

"As if Prohibition didn't triple the workload," he complained to himself.

"Are there any witnesses?"

"The body was discovered by the caretaker at 6.45pm. The door of the flat was half-opened. The man saw two men enter the building: the first went up at about 4 p.m. but, as he had been there before, he didn't ask any questions; the second, a notary, asked about the Perkins' interior at about 5.30 p.m."

"Have you identified them yet?"

"They're working on it."

"What about the husband?"

"Samuel Perkins, a Sunshine Cab driver, is..."

"Disappeared, I guess. When was he last seen?"

"What a lovely reunion! Pity he wasn't invited: I would have brought something." Standing in the doorway of the morgue towered the burly homicide detective Matthews. Peterson's hand went immediately to Mason's chest as the newcomer advanced toward them. This was neither the time nor the place to let tempers flare.

"I came to say hello to Doc and tell him a few cheerful stories. Now that he's a father, he needs more constructive anecdotes than the evolutionary cycle of maggots in corpses," Mason improvised, throwing a smile at Doc, who caught it and began to shake his head vigorously.

"Yeah, congratulations Doc. Take care with that creature: one creepy family member is more than enough!" barked Matthews, giving the doctor half a sidelong glance. Mason did not spare an ounce of contempt for Matthews. They were separated by Peterson and the naked body of a poor girl to whom fate had reserved a terrible fate.

Doc frowned in surprise, and Matthews emerged:

"Still playing cop, Stone?"

Mason met Peterson's gaze, convinced that spark would start a fire, and reassured him with a smile. A smile that turned into an amused grin when his eyes landed on an item in the cart next to the girl's body.

"Hey, we're celebrating, Matthews: relax, put on a hat and have a drink."

Matthews' face became a mask of anger, his white fists along his sides, clenched just tight enough to stop the blood. Mason was handing him a pythal.

"Try it, but I'm convinced you'll do just fine," he continued.

Matthews covered the distance in three wide strides. His size, so heavy, was no impediment when his anger took over. The world was full of rabid dogs. Especially the NYPD, when enlisting was a solution to a hot meal and warming hands with some poor guy who had no fault other than being in the wrong part of town. Matthews was a watchdog. He always had been, and he was now that he'd traded in his uniform for a name tag and a desk among dozens of others. Big and stupid enough to be the nightmare of every half-wit in New York.

"Let's be calm!" chimed in Peterson.

"Throw this clown out, Peterson, or Doc will have to make room!" Matthews was foaming with rage. If he had left, Peterson would have barely restrained him.

"Don't worry, I was just leaving. For a morgue the atmosphere is getting a little too hot." Stone walked around Peterson and Matthews, showing no haste in doing so.

"I don't want to see you around here again, is that understood?"

"Explained. Take care Doc." he said raising his arm.

"Next time I catch you snooping around in one of my cases I'll lock you up and throw away the key, understand?"

"Only if you let your parents beat me up a bit - cuddling is important if we want things to last."

"I'll accommodate you." Matthews loosened the knot on his tie and lifted his shirt sleeves, stepping forward.

"Stone, get out of here!" ordered Peterson, stepping between them.

"Matthews feels ready to come to school, Pete, do you want to deny him that pleasure?"

"Get out or I won't be held responsible for what happens."

"Oh yes you will be, Peterson. As soon as I get out of here, I'm going to report to Martelli and tell him how you allow certain individuals to sneak into the precinct. You should choose your friendships better," Matthews threatened.

"Is that how you want to play it?" replied Peterson.

"That's how it works in my neck of the woods. The district first."

"It's fascinating how quickly you can forget. A cop is always a brother, right?"

"Not when it embarrasses the force and betrays the family."

"And who arrogates all rights and leaves all duties to others?"

"What are you implying, you little brat?" Matthews pulled Peterson to himself and spat all his contempt at him. "I'll fix the student and then the master."

"Um..." intervened Doc.

"What is it, Doc?" barked Matthews.

"Stone's gone," he said.

Police Line Do Not Cross

The seals fell.

Some doors just need a little encouragement sometimes. Mason had the magic touch: when he leaned his full weight against it, the old, moth-eaten jamb crumbled like shortcrust pastry.

The Perkins lived in a turn-of-the-century council block: the flat wasn't big enough for a family with children, but they hadn't had any. Perhaps they hadn't had time. Elizabeth was still so young.

There was that feeling in her chest. It was as if, ever since he'd seen her, lying on that cold morgue bed, Elizabeth had crept under his skin.

Mason rubbed his eyes. He'd been up for two days. He needed coffee. The air in the flat was stale and the autumn sun had taken a holiday in the living room.

It was not difficult for him to imagine the confusion of the investigation after the body had been found he could still breathe in the sweat of all the blue-collar workers who, back and forth, trampled on evidence and confused clues; he could smell the forensic flashes; the palpable excitement of some rookie; the stench of Matthews' cheap cigars; the chalk dust traced where Elizabeth had fallen.

The neighbours had heard nothing: not a sound, not a laugh, not a cry. Regular in a neighbourhood like that, where the more you keep your mouth shut the better. A taxi driver and a secretary couldn't afford a better life.

The bedroom was tidy, the thalamus untouched.

Where are you, Samuel Perkins?

Elizabeth had not screamed. Maybe she didn't think she was in danger. Maybe it had been a sex game gone wrong. There were too many questions in that story. It was like trying to catch the dark.

He searched the house one more time, even though Matthews' team had turned it upside down at least a dozen times and maybe left him with nothing. He checked the best places to hide liquor bottles. That habit had outstripped all others in the last ten years. He found nothing. He searched the bedroom, dug in the wardrobe, rummaged through the cupboard, tore out the drawers looking for notes of clandestine love that would lead to a fatal outburst of anger, nothing.

All he found in the boiler was a pile of ashes.

He sat down on the arm of the armchair, right in front of the chalk outline on the floor. He took the packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and tapped them. Too hard: two came out. He managed to catch one but the other rolled under the wall cupboard. He imprinted and, with one cigarette out of the corner of his mouth, bent down to retrieve the other. His fingers easily recognised its outline, but next to it they found something else: small, light, with square edges.

Mason grabbed that too. He pulled out a box of matches. Anonymous but not cheap. Opening it, he discovered that of the thirty-six sticks in the sulphur hat, only one was missing. It had not been plucked from the side, a habit that usually connotes systematic use, control, planned action. That one had been taken from the centre: a distracted gesture, of someone who does not think about what he is doing, who perhaps must hurry, who has no time.

He put the box in his pocket and headed for the entrance.

"Hey, what are you doing? Freeze and hands above your head!" they ordered him. Two men in uniform had emerged from the corridor. The boy who had ordered him, in a trembling voice, not to move, held him at gunpoint.

"Easy boy, or you'll get a shot off. This is a new coat."

"Do as I say and no one gets hurt," he retorted, his grip on the gun trembling.

"Jones, it's all right," his partner said, making him lower his weapon to the floor. Mason nodded to his senior colleague, who nodded back, and disappeared through the doorway.

"We should have arrested him."

"If you want my advice, son, stay away from that man."

"Why?"

"He's dangerous. Like one of those dogs that's been in the sun too long."

Nocturne

Kenney was busy consulting with his partner, Mason could see him gesticulating nervously in the streetlight, his rain-soaked black curls drawing arabesques on his forehead. Behind them, a sergeant kept the team in line. The officers Mason had brought in ended up there too: two freshmen and two veterans with an easy right and wasted patience. It was the best he could get.

There were too many crimes in New York for Martelli to deprive himself of his best men.

The heavy rain drummed on the cars, on the thick fabric of the caps, on Kenney's restrained expletives.

Handicott, the partner, noticed Mason and nodded to him. A copious trickle slipped from the brim of his hat. Only then did Mason Stone get out of the car.

"Good evening, gentlemen." he ignored the puddles and the water.

"Stone." merely said Kenney. Given the joy it was clear that the reinforcements, consisting of Mason and his people, had not been asked for by him.

"Nice night for an outing," Handicott greeted him, giving him a comforting pat. Splashes rose from his jacket, which were immediately confused with rain.

"My favourite."

"Who did you bring us?"

"Santos, Koontz, Peterson and Cob."

"Santos? But that's great! As long as that one doesn't stop the discipline, he's a hoot!" Handicott was half polemic for its own sake and half sarcasm.

"See if you can rein him in, Stone. I don't want any messes tonight," Kenney cut Kenney short.

"How do we go about this?" asked Mason.

"We'll split into three teams: me and five of my guys go in the front; Kenney and five others go through the back while you and yours watch the perimeter," Handicott explained.

He had gone all that way to hold up the snot.

"Who's the stockman?" he asked. There was a little boy in a mackintosh and hat, strutting beside one of the patrol cars, his hands thrust deep into his pockets.

"Oh, that one? That's Clarkson, or Chalkson. He works at the Daily. There's an air of scoop about this investigation and you know how it is: the bosses don't want to miss a chance." replied Handicott.

"Does he come in with either team?"

"We've been clear on that: he can't get near it until it's all over."

"Do I have to vouch for him?"

"Just try not to shoot him."

Stone rolled up the lapels of his raincoat and went to the sergeant who, with an iron fist and a grim look, held the troops. He asked to confer with his officers: he wanted to calm the minds of the most violent and investigate the state of mind of the other two. For Peterson and Cob it was their first night-time operation. They were usually assigned to traffic and neighbourhood watch. The recruits were never given an area that was too dangerous, they were always given the less hot areas. Not that there were many in those years, not even that warm. There was Washington Square, Gramercy Park and Grand Central, oases of comfort in the midst of endless deserts of misery. Koontz and Santos, on the other hand, had been in Homicide with Mason for about two years, and they had done their homework. Perhaps too much: Santos had hardened himself to such a point that, with difficulty, he could be distinguished from one of those individuals he was hunting. They called him the 'hound', because of his boxer's grunt and his bull-like size. Koontz, on the other hand, was a cold-hearted tough guy who never stopped before the end, cunning and quick of thought, sharp and fleeting in his features.

"Shall we go, boss?" asked Santos, anxiously. "I'm freezing. I need to get some exercise."

"Not tonight, sorry."

"How?"

"We're here in support."

"Not operational?" intervened Koontz.

"That's right."

"Can't these half-breeds get by without calling us to watch that they don't get too dirty while they eat?"

"That's right, Santos."

"Orders, sir?" asked Peterson.

"The orders are to stay behind me. I don't want any cowboys. If you see anything that Detective Handicott or Kenney's team missed, report it to me. Nothing else."

"What a rip-off." complained Santos again.

"Yeah, starvation pay, no booze and now brothels under lockdown. Hard times," Mason commented sarcastically.

In Harlem Bridge, between Second Avenue and East 124th Street, in the vicinity of Cuvillier Park, Kenney and Handicott had been working for months on a luxury prostitution ring which, according to the investigation, included, among the many prestigious names of New York high society, also bigwigs from the worlds of finance and politics. A business that converged on the building which twenty Manhattan agents were observing that evening in a mixture of tension, euphoria and adrenalin.

On your marks!" said Kenney, reaching the back of the building with his men. At the same moment, Handicott's team also snuck under the first-floor windows. Synchronizing the break-in, ten officers and two detectives catapulted inside. The rain could not fully cover the din of smashing doors, surprised screams, and shuffling escapes. The front of the building lit up like a Christmas tree.

"A hell of an operation," commented Santos, standing next to him, disappointedly. Without replying, Mason continued to scan the rain-slicked darkness.

"When you can't work with your hands, you work with your mouth, Santos. That's your problem," Koontz replied.

"You want to know who I learned to work with my mouth from?"

"I don't think this is the time for..." tried to make Cob listen to him.

"No one asked you, it seems!" scolded Santos.

"Don't mind him: he hates getting wet. His uniform gets soaked and itchy," said Koontz.

"What's that over there, sir?" Peterson sought Stone's attention.

"You all seem a little nervous. Smoke a few cartons of cigarettes each before you come to work. Koontz is well stocked; he'll get them for you. Anyway, gentlemen, if you're cold, now's your chance." Mason pointed to the team two black shadows on the outline of the building come down clinging to the eaves. "Santos, you take Cob and Peterson and join the gentlemen who are fighting it out. Koontz and I will go around and cut them off."

The three set off at full speed, irons in hand. The first fugitive, having landed on the lawn, had climbed over the fence and disappeared from view. Peterson pounced on the second, making him lose his grip on the gutter, while Santos, who could have been in charge of the arrest, continued the hunt. Mason and Koontz, on the other hand, continued with their backs to the wall. Koontz, who had drawn his revolver, followed Mason, flattened against the wall. They both crouched under a window. The light was out: neither wanted to give an easy target to an agent with a sensitive trigger and an anxious hand.

"Shall we continue?" asked Koontz, improving his grip on the gun.

"One moment."

"The coast is clear," he insisted.

"The light's out."

"There's no one there."

"It's a raid, Koontz. Everything must be checked. It's the fundamentals."

"Maybe they haven't gotten in yet.

"That's the ground floor. You don't leave a floor until you've cleared it. That's a mistake that can cost you."

"That's not our job."

"My job is to get home tonight, preferably without a ball in my back. Check my left, I'll cover your right. Wait for my signal."

At the same moment that Mason was preparing to start the sweep a low squeak came to him from inside. He looked at Koontz and realised he hadn't imagined it. What is more suspicious than a sinister sound is the silence that follows it.

"Are you able to kick in the lock?"

"Sure."

"Perfect. You break through and I'll come in."

Koontz blew out the window with a shoulder strike and Mason jumped in, the iron flush. Thanks to the glow of the night behind him he could make out the outline of the bed, the ruffled sheets, the second-hand furniture filled with bottles of perfume and ampoules of ointments. If the mouse had not gone to hide under the bed, the room was safe. Before he could signal Koontz to follow him in, the bathroom door handle, ajar, returned his reflection. Certain that a puff of wind had not moved it, Mason approached in silence. He didn't have time to wonder why that room had escaped the search of Handicott and Kenney's men, for a groan came from it. Koontz peeped out. Mason warned him not to make a sound.

"Can you hear me? I'm Detective Stone, New York Police Department. If it's not too much trouble, I'd come in. I'm armed and this cold gives my fingers a little tremble."

There was no answer. Mason opened the cabinet door with the toe of his shoe and, despite the prevailing darkness, checked the corners. Less than a metre from him was a massive figure. It seemed to be holding a weight. Measuring the space by eye, he realised that, in a firefight, the situation could quickly escalate. He raised his revolver.

"How about putting down what you've got there?"

"You'd be much better off getting out, closing the door behind you and forgetting what you think you saw," the man said. Stone understood the consistency of the huge bundle, and how the man was trying to disguise his voice.

"Doing what's best has never been my strong suit," he said, flipping the switch he'd found by feeling the wall. As the brim of the hat shielded him from the glare, the annoyance was only of the other holding back, too frightened to struggle. The man's arm was around her neck, his hand pressed over her mouth, his lipstick smudged and his make-up smeared. Blinded, the man swung a left in Mason's direction but caught it with a glancing blow. With the momentum of that dodge Mason threw himself at him and a fist went into his stomach. The grip on the girl suddenly lost conviction.

"Stop! I am the mayor..." the man managed to shout before the policeman's right hand reached his face. At the same moment a flash of lightning snapped behind them and was followed by the sound of a small deflagration. Mason dropped the man who had taken to covering his face and grabbed the woman still in shock.

"What the hell did you do?" reaching him, Koontz, had brought company with him: the Daily's rookie, his target levelled.

The mayor, lying beside Stone's feet, blinked and gasped like a freshly caught tuna. Since Koontz had entered the scene, the pulled, violent expression had disappeared.

"You beat up the mayor!"

Regardless, Mason took care to cover the half-naked girl who was too scared even to say thank you. "Put handcuffs on this man," he said instead.

"Mr. Reimer, you're under arrest."

The first citizen's protests were to no avail: Koontz did not show him any special treatment.

"You saw that man attack me! I am the mayor!"

"Sure, sure, sir. He's going to file a complaint with the district. Now follow me, please."

"He'll pay for this! Tell me the name of that cop!" he ranted as Koontz escorted him toward one of the patrol cars. A small crowd had gathered outside the building and as the rookie captured what had happened, Reimer turned one last time to look at Mason Stone.

Only then did the detective see the angry man he had confronted again. In front of the crowd, the mayor ranted about the abuse of police power and the violence of some officers who, instead of serving and protecting, were a threat to the community they were supposed to be defending. He promised that such incidents would not happen again.

Mason listened patiently for two hours to Kenney's rant and Handicott's rebuke, which understood his reasons but did not justify the method. Neither was able to answer, however, for the failure to search the room. They both railed on the vague concepts of 'flawed procedures', 'oversight' and 'this is what we have'.

The girl did not press charges against Reimer. For the life she led and the prejudice of public opinion, Stone could not blame her.

The next day, no newspaper reported on the Cuvillier Park raid, the mayor's involvement or the fight against prostitution. The Daily opened with the beating of the mayor by an NYPD detective. There was no mention of the circumstances. There was an invective-laden editorial and four long pages of reporting by no fewer than five journalists who combed through Mason Stone's private life and described him as an angry, repressed man consumed by a violent hatred of white collar workers.

Even the failure of his marriage was traced to his frequent outbursts. The front-page photo, later reprinted and circulated by every newspaper in the city, showed him from behind, his arm still outstretched and his fist on the mayor's twisted jaw. The girl did not appear in the frame, hidden by his back.

It took the police chief four days, three more than he expected, to disbar him and kick him to the curb. The precinct needed to regain lost confidence, to send a signal, to calm down. A few heads had to roll.

The witness

Mason Stone still had a few questions left before he left the building.

The doorman ushered him into his tiny flat, next to the boiler room.

"I know why you're here."

"If you do, you'll save me a lot of trouble. Do you have any coffee?" he asked, looking around. She needed to get rid of that headache.

"It's because of what happened to Mrs Perkins. Just like all the others," the small, scrawny man gave him a stern, exhausted look. To him, they were all jackals now, ready to pounce on the few remains of a stripped-down prey. He probably hadn't been able to sleep much either in the last few days. "Would you like some sugar?" she continued, handing him a steaming cup.

"No, thank you." Mason wet his lips. The coffee was bad, but the day hadn't been any better, so he was content. "What do you remember about that day?"

"What I told the other cops, dozens and dozens of times. They kept me a whole night in that little room full of mirrors. Journalists came to me, too. They must have filled our bay with this story. Don't you read the papers?"

"The press is dead."

"Well, like I said, there wasn't much action that day. The lady came home around thirteen. That was the last time I saw her."

"How did she look?"

"I don't know, I just caught a glimpse of her. But I think I'm not wrong in saying that she's been more taciturn than usual over the last few days. Maybe she had some thoughts. I didn't mind, after all its normal when the end of the week is approaching and the salary is what it is, right?!"

"She didn't say goodbye?"

"She didn't stop that day. But she usually looked out at the guardhouse to ask me if I needed anything. Do you understand me? She was the one who worried about me! She was a good girl."

"Were you on good terms with Samuel?"

"Ever since they came to live here two years ago, they used to come to me for help with some repairs or errands. I have no complaints about Mr. Perkins. A hard worker, for sure."

"Did Elizabeth ever tell you anything personal? Something that, to the wrong ears, could have gotten her into trouble?"

"Elizabeth? I don't think anyone would ever hold it against her."

"And yet she's dead. How were things with her husband?"

"Working a lot, Samuel often came home late and most of the time their schedules didn't coincide. But they loved each other, I can assure you."

"How can you be sure?"

"I was married for more than forty years. I know certain looks and certain attentions."

The man's eyes ran, for a moment, to a photograph on the old sideboard in the living room. Mason got the impression of a small altar. It was the image of a smiling woman in a flowery dress.

"Can you tell me anything about Elizabeth's family?"

"Very little. For all I know, that girl could have been alone in the world. Maybe she wasn't even from New York."

"How do you know that? Something he said to her? The way he talked.? Any information could be useful to me."

At those words, the man recoiled, and an expression of embarrassment was painted on his face.

"No, mister, it was just an idea."

"I need facts, I have no use for your deductions! Stick to what you've seen," he blurted out, then the sight of the frail old man encouraged him to calm down. "What time did Mr. Perkins return that day?"

"Just before dawn. But I'm not quite sure. My son was on duty."

"Can I talk to him?"

"Not right now, I'm sorry. He's out of town this weekend. He'll be back in a couple of days. In any case, they questioned him as well. His statement was taken by Detective Matthews, I think his name is. Maybe you can talk to him."

"Perfect. Let's go back to that day, if you don't mind. Did anything else happen? Did you see Samuel Perkins leave?"

"Yes, but he was in a hurry."

"Maybe someone was waiting for him?"

"Perhaps he had overslept and was on his way to a grooming."

"Did you ever see him come back?"

"No, not me, Mr. Stone."

"Was there any unusual movement before Elizabeth was found?"

"Unusual... I don't think so, no."

"Anything 'usual' instead?"

"Around 4.00 P.M had a man come up, but it wasn't the first time."

"His name?"

"I don't remember. The police have the register."

"How often did you visit the Perkins'?"

"A couple of times a month, maybe more. It depended on Mr. Perkins."

"Were they in business together?"

"I beg your pardon? No, absolutely not."

"Try to explain yourself, then."

"I don't like to pry into other people's affairs."

"And who does." followed a moment of silence in which Mason didn't take his eyes off him.

"If Samuel Perkins left for work, or the bar, or wherever he was headed, there was a chance this gentleman would show up in the lobby no more than ten minutes later. Sometimes with flowers, sometimes with a package from a bakery, sometimes with a bottle."

"A suitor."

«Perhaps. But whether it was reciprocated I can't tell you."

"Did you hear Elizabeth complain about it? Generally, how long did she stay?"

"There were never any scenes. Sometimes she stayed for a few minutes, sometimes an hour. What is certain is that he never left with what he had brought."

"Could you describe him to me?"

"A distinguished, tidy fellow. A decent man."

"A man who can afford certain gifts."

"The suit was that of a well-paid man."

"Has there been anyone else after him?"

"Yes, a few deliveries, the couple on the third floor who called because their brat had clogged the sink, I brought the widower McArthur's groceries, the notary, the fuel for the boiler..."

"A notary?"

"Yeah."

"Who did he go to?"

"To the Perkins'."

"The Perkins', and you didn't think to mention that before?"