Dead Game

By James Neal Harvey

Framed for murder, NYPD detective Ben Tolliver confronts a brilliant serial killer

Razek gets into Jan’s apartment by pretending to deliver flowers. Once she opens the door, the game is already over. He pushes his way in, pistol in hand, and tells her that he has not come to rape her; he just wants to make love. At gunpoint, she makes drinks, puts on music, and finally disrobes as Razek fights to ignore the voice in his head that tells him to kill her. Of course, the voice always wins in the end.

Before he leaves, Razek plants evidence around the apartment implicating NYPD detective Ben Tolliver. Razek is a game player, and he thinks it would be fun to frame a cop for murder. To keep himself out of jail and avenge the murdered woman, Tolliver will have to learn to beat a madman at his own game.

• Language: English
• Publisher: MysteriousPress.com Open Road
• Release date: Apr 29, 2014
• ISBN: 9781480485877

James Neal Harvey

James Neal Harvey spent fifteen years in the advertising business before selling his company and devoting himself to writing. He made his hardcover debut in 1990 with By Reason of Insanity, which introduced NYPD detective Ben Tolliver. Harvey followed Tolliver through four more novels, including Painted Ladies, Mental Case, and the concluding thriller, Dead Game. In 2011, Harvey published the nonfiction Sharks of the Air, a detailed history of the development of the first jet fighter, and in 2014, he returned to thrillers with The Big Hit, a mystery about an assassin. 

Book preview

1

Heavy rain was falling, whipped by gusts of wind. The drops spattered on the sidewalk and on the black pavement of the street and glistened in the light from the streetlamps and the headlights of the cars. The air was raw and cold and stank of the rushing torrents in the sewers.

Razek hunched his shoulders as he walked, but water trickled inside the collar of his raincoat and ran down the back of his neck. More of it dripped from the bill of his baseball cap, making it hard for him to see. He carried a heavily laden backpack that was made of rubberized canvas, and he wore skintight surgical gloves. In his left hand was a large bouquet of roses wrapped in green florist’s paper. His right was buried in his pocket, clutching the pistol.

Shitty night, the thing in his head said.

Yeah, but that’s good, Razek replied. Shittier the better.

It was true; for his purposes, the weather was ideal. The darkness and the rain enveloped him like a cloak, hiding him from passersby. No one would notice him, much less remember seeing him. He strode on steadily, his sneakers slopping through the puddles.

As he squinted into the downpour, he saw that the houses along this street on the East Side of Manhattan all looked alike, as anonymous and sullen as faces in the subway. They were almost entirely dark, with only a sliver of light showing here and there from the edges of drawn shades. No matter—he knew exactly where he was going.

The building he wanted was near the corner of Third Avenue. It was narrow and four stories tall and faced in stone, and like its neighbors, it had heavy steel bars over the windows. When he reached it, he went up the steps and entered the small vestibule.

There were only four apartments in the house, one on each floor. The intercom had names beside the buzzers. They were last names only, so that a stranger would glean as little as possible about the occupants, let alone whether they were male or female.

The name for the first-floor apartment was Peterson. He took a deep breath and reached out to press the buzzer.

Let me take her, the thing grated. Soon as she opens the door.

Razek clenched his teeth. Shut the fuck up. I’ll make the moves, exactly like I planned them.

What for? It won’t make any difference. Just let me hit the bitch—you hear?

No, goddamn it. I make the decisions—not you!

He waited a few seconds, just long enough to be sure he was in control again, and then he pressed the buzzer and shoved his hand back into his pocket, gripping the pistol.

Moments later, a metallic-sounding female voice came from the speaker. Who is it?

Flowers for Miss Jan Peterson, Razek said.

There was a pause, and he knew he was being surveyed through the peephole in the door. Just leave them there, the woman said. I’ll get them later.

He had anticipated that. Can’t do it, ma’am. You have to sign a receipt.

Another pause. Who’s the florist? Testing him.

Myers, on Lexington Avenue. The card said the flowers’re from John.

A shorter interval this time. Then he heard the sound of locks being undone, a dead bolt being thrown back. The door opened a crack, revealing part of a young woman’s face, one blue eye peering out at him.

Razek extended the bouquet. Here you are, ma’am.

She opened the door wider, and he saw that she was wearing a white silk robe and that her blond hair was tousled and damp. Apparently, she was just out of the bath.

As she took the flowers from him, Razek brought his right hand out of his pocket and pointed the pistol at her face. You make one sound, he said, and I’ll blow your fucking head off.

Her eyes widened, her mouth fell open. But she remained silent. He stepped forward, forcing her backward into the foyer.

Kicking the door shut behind him, he reached back and pushed home the dead bolt. Good girl, he said. Smart. I like that. Understand something, okay? I wasn’t kidding about shooting you, if I have to.

He brandished the pistol, a .22-caliber Colt Woodsman semiautomatic. His tone now was conversational, as if he were merely an affable young man speaking to a friend. See this, on the end of the barrel? It’s a silencer. At least that’s what most people would call it. Actually, it’s a suppressor. Because it suppresses the sound, right? If I shot you, the noise wouldn’t be any louder than a cough. Nobody’d hear it, and you’d be dead. After that, I’d just walk out of here, end of story. You wouldn’t want that, would you?

She continued to stand as still as a statue, making no response and staring at him as if she couldn’t believe what was happening.

Well, would you?

She moved then, shook her head.

Razek smiled. No, of course not. Hey, aren’t you gonna look at the flowers?

What?

The flowers. Go ahead, look at them.

Her fingers trembling, she pulled back the wet paper and brought her gaze down to the bouquet. It was a bundle of yellow roses, nestled in a bed of greens.

Pretty, aren’t they? he said. You better put them in water. They’re fresh and all, but they’ll last longer if you give them water right away.

Again she stared at him, the blue eyes revealing puzzlement along with fear. She had to be wondering what kind of lunatic she was dealing with, and that was amusing to him.

He gestured with the pistol. Go on, I’ll follow you.

She hesitated, then turned and walked down the hallway, Razek trailing.

She was barefoot, he noticed, no doubt wearing nothing but the robe. He could imagine what her body looked like under the silk; it would be firm and sleek and her skin would be pink and there would be a darker patch at her pubis. He began to get an erection, thinking about it.

They passed what he took to be the living room, and he looked inside. The furnishings were contemporary: a sofa and two chairs in squashy beige leather, a glass-topped coffee table standing on a zebra rug. A desk stood near the windows, which were covered with nubby-textured draperies in soft hues of blue and gray. On one wall was a framed print of an Edward Hopper painting of seaside cottages, and on another was a Jamie Wyeth of a child on a swing. The room looked too bland, Razek thought, for his taste.

The kitchen was at the end of the hallway, done all in white, with Corian countertops and flush-mounted cabinets. A white telephone rested on the counter. He put it aside and took the instrument off the hook. Again he waved the pistol. Come on, Jan. Get going.

Peterson avoided looking at him. She laid the bouquet on the counter and opened a cabinet, taking out a cut-glass vase. Her hands continued to tremble as she filled the vase halfway up with water from the tap and then set the roses into it.

That’s fine, Razek said.

She glanced at him, then looked away again.

Hey Jan, look at me when I’m talking to you. You hear me?

She met his gaze. Yes.

Good. He took off the cap and stuffed it into a pocket of his slicker. His face was lean and square-jawed, with a short, straight nose and wide-set gray eyes. A brown mustache decorated his upper lip. Except that his hair was thinning, he believed he was quite good-looking.

I know you’re nervous, he said, but there’s really nothing to be scared of. See, I don’t want to shoot you at all. And if you just cooperate, I won’t. Not unless you force me to. So it’s really up to you. Understand?

Yes.

Swell. We’re making progress. Now, you probably figure I came here to rob you, right?

This time, the words tumbled out of her. My purse is in the other room, and there’s some money in my desk. I’ll give you everything I have. Then if you’ll just get out, I won’t call the police or anything. I’ll never tell anyone you were here.

Hey, you got it all wrong. I don’t want your money.

She swallowed, waiting.

What I want, he said, is you.

She drew back a little. A rabbit, watching the hawk.

Only not the way you think, Razek said. What I want is to make love to you. But not rape you. I think you’re beautiful, and I like you a lot. You don’t realize it, but I know quite a bit about you. How you’re with Farrow Associates, doing real well selling for them. I also know you were married to George Peterson, but that went down the tubes. You kept the name, though. Your maiden name was Olson, right?

She didn’t respond to any of this, just went on staring at him with that gape-mouthed expression. More than puzzled, at this point. Astonished, even.

And of course, he said, I know about John. I hate to say it, but he’s been stringing you along, giving you that shit about divorcing his wife so he could marry you. You oughta know better, Jan. He’s already trying to bust it off, isn’t he?

Curiosity was working on her. Where did you—

Get all that? Trade secret. Maybe I’ll tell you some more later—after we make love.

Her face paled as the import of his words sank in.

Just keep in mind, he went on, everything’ll be fine, long as you cooperate. But if you don’t… He raised the pistol, aiming it at her. Then this thing starts coughing.

Listen, couldn’t we talk about it? I mean—

His tone grew harsh. We are talking about it. I’m telling you what I want you to do, and what your choices are.

She said nothing, and he stepped close to her and pressed the muzzle against her forehead. His finger tightened on the trigger. Decision time, Jan. What’s it gonna be?

Her voice was small. All right. Please don’t hurt me.

He moved back. That’s better. Now here’s the deal. I promise you, it’s just this once. After tonight, I’ll never bother you again. But I want this to be really nice. You understand what I’m saying?

I think so.

Good. You got any candles?

Yes.

Okay, get ’em out. A pair of ’em. And candleholders.

She didn’t argue. Instead, she turned and rummaged in a drawer, coming up with two long white candles. She set them on the counter, then opened a cabinet, and took out a pair of white ceramic holders.

That’s fine. Next we need some whiskey. Bourbon. And a bucket filled with ice.

She opened another of the cabinets, retrieving a bottle of Wild Turkey and a crystal bucket and setting them on the counter alongside the other things. Next she went to the freezer and scooped ice cubes into the bucket.

Excellent, Razek said. And glasses. Can’t forget them.

She got out two squat glasses and put them down as well.

Okay, now let’s take this stuff into your bedroom. You carry what you can, and I’ll get the rest.

She gathered up the vase and the ice bucket and the whiskey, and Razek followed her out of the room. He kept the pistol in his hand as he carried the candles and the candleholders and the glasses, cradling them against his chest.

Her bedroom was next to the living room. The furniture in here was also modern, a pale cream color. There was a queen-size bed, a chest of drawers, a chaise longue, and a tall cabinet opposite the bed. Deep, chocolate-colored carpet covered the floor, and drapes of the same shade were drawn over the windows. One wall contained closet doors that were covered with mirrors, and across from them was another door, leading into her bath.

They put the things down on one of the bedside tables, pushing the lamp aside to make room.

Razek said, You got a stereo?

She pointed to the cabinet. In there.

Show me.

She padded over to it and opened the double doors. Inside was a TV set and on shelves above it were an amplifier and a tuner and a CD player, along with racks of CDs.

You got any Mozart?

No.

I thought maybe you might not have.

He took off his backpack and lowered it to the floor. Squatting, he opened the flap and took out a CD. He straightened up and handed it to her. So I brought some. Put this on, and keep the volume low.

She complied, and seconds later the melody of the Andante from Piano Concerto no. 21 in C Major floated in the air.

Razek tilted his head, listening. That’s Horowitz playing, he said. The man was great, wasn’t he?

I—yes.

The best there was, in his time. Maybe the best in this century. Died only a few years ago. Shame.

He listened intently for a few moments, then noticed there was another telephone in here, on the other bedside table. He stepped over to it and took the jack out of the wall socket.

Coming back around, he laid the pistol on the chaise longue. Then he took off his raincoat and dropped it to the floor. Light the candles, he said, and make us a drink.

She set the candles in the holders and opened a drawer in the table, got out matches. As she obeyed his orders, he sat on the chaise and removed his sneakers and his socks. Rising, he pulled his T-shirt over his head and tossed it aside, and lastly shrugged out of his jeans. His jockey shorts he left on.

Standing there, he caught sight of his image in the mirror on the other side of the bed. What he saw pleased him. He was wiry and athletic, with broad shoulders, slim hips. Big, but not bulked up, the muscles sharply defined. He scowled menacingly.

Dynamite, the thing in his head said.

Damn right, he replied. Don’t anybody fuck with me. Be the end of him, real quick.

Peterson was staring at him. He grinned at her and she flushed, and then he held out his hand and she passed him a glass filled with ice and whiskey. Keeping an eye on her, he went to the wall switch and turned out the lights. Now the only illumination in the room was the candlelight.

He sat on the chaise. Take off your robe, Jan.

She stiffened, but he knew the tone of his voice would convince her that opposing him would be a mistake. Untying the belt, she opened the garment and let it drop to the carpet.

Razek studied her body. She really was gorgeous, by God. Just as he’d pictured her. Nice big tits, nipples the size of half-dollars. Tight belly, good legs. And skin that was smooth and pink, as he’d known it would be. Immediately, his cock became fully erect.

Sit down, he said.

She sank onto the edge of the bed, and he extended his glass. Cheers.

Picking up the second glass, she touched the rim to his, continuing to peer at him with the same wide-eyed, fearful expression. Looking at his face, though—not his dick. Keeping her gaze away from that, although he was sure she could make it out through peripheral vision.

They both drank.

Horowitz was playing Concerto no. 27 in B-flat now, and again Razek turned toward the stereo. He was brilliant, wasn’t he? They say his hands could span an octave and a half. Can you imagine?

She didn’t answer, and he said, Hey, relax, will you? And drink with me. Good for your nerves. Talking to her, he partly lost his erection.

Peterson raised her glass and swallowed half the contents, and he knew his remark would give her an idea—make her think maybe the booze would upset his plans. The notion would be bolstered by seeing out of the corner of her eye that he was no longer as hard as he had been. She’d be wondering if she went along and helped get him drunk he might lose interest or pass out or something.

So he’d give her another reason to think she could be right. Reaching into his pack, he got out the vial packed with methamphetamine capsules and shook one of the yellow cylinders into the palm of his hand. He put the capsule in his mouth and knocked back his drink, chasing the meth.

Man, that’s some great shit, the thing said. You feel the rush?

Of course I feel it.

Peterson continued to stare at him with the same dumb look on her face. He grinned again and handed the glass back to her. Let’s do that again, okay? And easy on the ice this time. Ice is bad for you, ruins the flavor of good whiskey.

She smiled weakly at his joke and went about making them fresh drinks.

You know, he said, I’m still a fairly young guy, but lately I notice I can’t drink nearly as much as I used to. Reinforcing her train of thought. Puts me to sleep.

Is that so?

Yeah. How about you?

She gave him back his glass, now brimming with amber liquid. I get woozy, she said.

Sure. Know just what you mean.

She drank, watching him over the rim of her glass. Then she said, You seem like a very bright man. Obviously well-educated. Am I right?

It was funny as hell, hearing her try to joust with him. Thinking she was being clever, when she hadn’t the faintest fucking idea of what she was up against. But that was part of the fun, too. Knowing he was way ahead of her, that he was in charge, controlling the moves.

Oh, yeah, he replied. I’ve got two degrees. Of course, I already know about yours. B.A., right? From Michigan. History major.

There was nothing phony in her reaction now. She frowned, looking even more perplexed than she had earlier. How can you know so much about me?

Actually, it’s all just part of the game.

The game?

Uh-huh. Games are my hobby.

You mean like chess?

Yeah, and mah-jongg, checkers, lots of others.

She drank off her whiskey and again reached for the bourbon. Razek liked the way her tits swung out when she leaned forward, bending over to grab the bottle.

I’ll bet you’re good at them, she said. Trying flattery again.

At games? Very good. I’ve even invented some.

Really?

Yes, really. Christ but she was obvious.

What are they?

The best one is based on people.

That sounds interesting. How is it played?

We’re playing it now.

We are?

Uh-huh.

She topped off his glass, then did the same with hers.

He took his glass from her and drank. The booze and the meth had him way up there, but he was totally in control. Peterson, on the other hand, was already a little drunk and getting sloppy. Her speech was slurring, and her eyes weren’t quite as bright as they had been. Perfect.

In fact, he said, it’s time for me to make my move. He reached over and set his glass down on the table, then stood up. He was hard again, and this time she looked. His cock was pushing out the front of his shorts, and she had to be surprised he could still get it up, after all the bourbon.

Hooking his thumbs in the waistband, he took off the shorts.

She raised her gaze to meet his. Listen, couldn’t we—

No, we couldn’t. We’re gonna do exactly what I told you. We had a deal, remember?

She gulped more whiskey. I’d rather drink for a while first, if it’s all right with you.

It’s not all right. But I’ll tell you how much of a gentleman I am. I even brought a condom. Okay? He didn’t expect her to answer that, and she didn’t. Bending down, he opened the backpack once more and got out the foil package, tearing it open and taking out the condom, then rolling it on.

Stepping closer, he said, Lie down, baby. And move over. Give a man some room.

When he was beside her, he held her in his arms and kissed her hungrily. It was like pressing his mouth on a board, but he’d expected that too.

Coming up for air, he said, Hey Jan, let’s get this real clear, okay? You know what we’re gonna do, and I know it too. There’s no way it won’t happen, so be sensible. I promised you if you cooperated, I wouldn’t shoot you. So you give me what I want, and then it’s over and that’s that. I’ll leave right after, and you’ll never see me again. Okay? You understand me?

She nodded.

Good. Now let’s get you nice and juicy, okay? He put his hand between her legs and began gently manipulating her. It felt strange, with the gloves on.

Within a short time she was thoroughly wet. Maybe it was because she’d made a decision, he thought. Concluded she’d rather be fucked than shot. Or maybe it was the booze. Or maybe she was just hotly sexed and now she wanted him too. After all, he did have a great body, and he’d seen her staring at his dick.

Whatever, it worked; she was good and slippery. He eased himself onto her and her legs parted and then he was inside her, moving with a slow, steady rhythm.

It was delicious, he thought. Even with the damn rubber. She was moving with him and he was sure there was nothing fake about her response. He bit his lip, trying to make it last as long as possible, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to hold back.

She moaned, and the sound rising above the pounding piano chords triggered his orgasm.

The sensation shot through him like an electric charge. He arched his back and slammed into her, again and again. When at last he was spent, he flopped down like a rag doll.

Lying there, he could feel her chest heaving, her heart thumping against his. He waited for a time, until he’d caught his breath.

Then he lifted his head and looked into her face. Her eyes were closed and there was a faint sheen of perspiration on her forehead and on her upper lip. She was still breathing heavily, but except for that, her body was limp.

"Now! the thing in his head screamed. Let me have the bitch. I want her now!"

Razek’s hands clamped her throat in a powerful grip. Her eyes popped open and her mouth twisted in horror as she understood what was happening. She struggled convulsively, kicking and bucking like a wild mare, grabbing his wrists, trying desperately to tear the choking hands away from her.

It did no good; he hardly felt her efforts. His thumbs dug in under her larynx, crushing her windpipe. The thing in his head went on yelling, so loud it made the inside of his skull buzz, but he couldn’t understand the words; they ran together in a jumbled stream of sound.

It didn’t take long. He held her in that viselike grip until her struggles subsided and she was still. Her eyes were glazed, and her tongue protruded from her mouth. He held her a while longer, and finally he let go and got up from her.

When he did, the thing in his head at last grew quiet. He was still high from the whiskey and the meth, but at ease. Going into the bathroom, he took off the condom and flushed it down the toilet, then washed himself and came back into the bedroom, where he got dressed.

Next he went into the kitchen and put the telephone back on its cradle. Returning to the bedroom, he again dug into the backpack, taking out his laptop and the modem. He put the phone jack back into the socket, attached the modem and the computer, and sat on the chaise longue. The numbers were all in the forefront of his mind. He keyed them rapidly, and when the data appeared on the screen, he went to work.

Thirty minutes later, he was finished. He unplugged the equipment and put it in the backpack, then took out cotton swabs and the notepad and a ballpoint. Sitting down on the bed, he dipped a swab into the whiskey in his glass and meticulously cleaned the underside of Peterson’s fingernails, one at a time. Later, when he was through in here, he’d find a mop or some rags in the kitchen and get rid of the mess made by his wet sneakers. Most likely there’d also be a vacuum around; he’d use that as well. When he was satisfied with the condition of the nails, he put the swabs into a pocket of his jeans.

Now for the interesting part. Going back into the pack, he got out his knife. He couldn’t test the edge because of his gloves, but that would have been perfunctory anyway; he’d honed the blade with great care before setting out tonight.

Turning to Peterson’s body once more, he looked down at her. I told you it was a game, didn’t I? And I explained it was played with people. You said you thought I was good at games, you remember saying that? Well let me tell you, I’m not just good at this one. I’m the best there is.

The blue eyes stared back at him blankly, pupils dilated, the whites tinged with red from where blood vessels had burst.

You know why I am? Because I can think a dozen, two dozen moves ahead. So what does that mean to you? Nothing. You weren’t even my opponent, although you thought you were. See, what I didn’t tell you was that you were just a pawn. And like everybody knows, pawns are expendable. What you do is, you sacrifice them, to get where you want to go.

He patted her arm affectionately. Kept my promises, though. Didn’t shoot you, and after tonight, I’ll never bother you again. Right? But before I leave, there’s a little something I want to take along. Two of ’em, in fact.

Holding the knife, he bent over her body.

2

Lt. Ben Tolliver of the NYPD drove his Ford sedan west on 37th Street. The morning was bright and sunny and the air had a nice snap to it, typical of October. Brisk weather was what made this the best month of all, he thought. Especially after a summer with the temperatures busting ninety and the humidity so thick it felt like you were wrapped in wet gauze. Even September had been hot, at least in the daytime.

Tolliver liked being outdoors, in any season. Despite his more than twenty years on the force, he still managed to look less like a detective than a man who spent most of his time in the open air. He was tall and muscular and deeply tanned, and with his ice-blue eyes and brush mustache and thatch of curly black hair, he might have been a construction worker or an engineer. Anything but what he was, a veteran investigator who’d worked on hundreds of homicide cases.

This morning he had on his usual work clothes, a navy blazer and gray flannels, and a white button-down open at the throat. Unlike most of his colleagues, he hardly ever wore a tie.

With him in the Ford was Detective 3rd Tina Morelli, a dark-haired young woman who’d only recently earned her gold shield. Morelli was attractive, even pretty, although she spoiled the effect by rarely smiling. She was also generously built, but she hid that as well under straight-cut business suits, like the gray one she had on now.

Tolliver spotted an open space among the cars parked parallel to the curb and pulled the Ford into it. He turned off the ignition and picked the police placard off the floor, dropping it on the dash.

Why are we stopping here? Morelli asked. The scene is in the next block.

That’s your answer, Tolliver said. There’s a whole bunch of vehicles up there. This way, we won’t be jammed in.

They got out of the car, and after Ben locked the doors, they walked together along the sidewalk.

You know much about this area? he asked.

Yeah, sure. From when I was in a patrol car. She was matching him stride for stride, one hand holding the strap of her black shoulder bag.

I meant its history. Why it’s called Murray Hill.

No, I don’t.

He knew she didn’t care for his constant lecturing, but he went ahead anyway. It’s because it really was a hill at one time. There were a lot of them, all over Manhattan. Then the land was leveled to make it easier for developers to build on. The original owner here was a rich man named Robert Murray. His house was up ahead, on Park. A number of wealthy people lived along there, including J. P. Morgan. Back this way is where the servants lived.

So?

So it’s a good thing to know as much about the city as you can—every part of it.

Yeah, I realize that. But I make it a point to screen out the trivia.

Okay, so she was a little stiff-necked. As if he’d been condescending, which wasn’t his intention at all. He understood, however, better than she would have thought. Very much the modern woman, Morelli was aggressive in her pursuit of equal rights, and she resented the constant put-downs she got from the department’s male veterans. Which was no easy path to follow. Regulations and directives from the PC to the contrary, female cops still had to put up with a lot of shit.

Ben, on the other hand, had nothing against them. He’d worked with a number of good ones, in fact. Found them brave and willing in tight situations that would have caused some men to fold. For that reason, he made it a point to be patient with Morelli, cutting her more slack than he normally would a rookie detective.

At present attached to the Special Investigations Unit in the Manhattan district attorney’s office, Tolliver had been sent up here today at the request of the Sex Crimes Bureau, because of his expertise in such cases. Morelli had been assigned to him only a couple of weeks before. He was finding her intelligent enough, and he was sure she’d lose the rigidity in time. Just a matter of gaining confidence, coming to terms with the give-and-take that went with the job.

As he’d observed, the street in front of the address was a tangle of blue-and-whites, a crime-scene van and a meat wagon parked in among them. Cops had erected sawhorse barricades to hold back the rubbernecks, and had stretched yellow tape across the front of the house. Two uniforms were trying unsuccessfully to shoo away the curious.

Tolliver and Morelli took out leather cases containing their shields and ID and clipped them to the front of their jackets, then went up the steps to the entrance. There they gave their names and rank to the officer keeping the log.

As the man wrote down the information on his clipboard, Ben looked around. The houses along here were typical of the ones you found in many residential areas of Manhattan, brownstones cheek by jowl with their neighbors, all of them more or less similar in appearance. The narrow old structures in this vicinity appeared to be well maintained, however; they were too valuable not to be.

He and Morelli stepped into the small vestibule, and Ben took note of the number of apartments in the building and the names beside the buzzers on the intercom. Then they went on through the front door.

Inside, the apartment was swarming with cops. Tolliver’s nostrils were immediately stung by acrid fumes from DB-40 crystals, intended to neutralize the odor of decaying flesh but not doing a very effective job; the stink hung in the air like a shroud. He saw that a hallway ran front to back, with a couple of large rooms off that, and a kitchen at the end. The rooms were decorated with expensive modern furniture.

Where is it? he asked one of the cops.

The guy hooked a thumb over his shoulder. In the bedroom, Lieutenant.

He went in there, Morelli following.

Techs were busy taking measurements and dusting for prints and shooting photographs, the camera flashes emitting bursts