“Jill Flores. She was at my mother’s service, too. I should have mentioned her last night when you said you thought Steve had had a female visitor. But my mind just wasn’t working right.”
“No, of course not. You were in shock.”
“I...yes, I guess. But...even if you call the others, don’t you think I should talk to Jill?”
“No, you shouldn’t do anything. Really. Leave it all to us.”
She heard the quiet sound of pages being turned, then Travis Quinn, said, “Yes, she’s in his book. We’ll get to her today. As for the funeral, you could make some tentative arrangements if you feel up to it. But until the autopsy’s been done...”
The autopsy. Her stomach felt queasy. “When will that be?” she made herself ask.
“I’m afraid I don’t know. Not for at least a few days, maybe even a week or so. Things are always backed up.”
She closed her eyes, but that didn’t stop her from imagining Steve’s body lying inside a drawer in a cold, impersonal morgue.
“Ms. Langley?” Travis Quinn said when the silence lengthened. “Was there anything else you wanted to ask about?”
If there had been, the questions had entirely escaped from her head, so she said, “No, that was all.”
“Well, as I mentioned last night, we’ll be talking to you again. But if there’s anything else in the meantime, don’t hesitate.”
“Thank you,” she murmured. “Bye.”
“Bye.”
As she clicked off, Snoops turned from watching the sparrows outside and fixed her with a green-eyed stare.
“He seems very nice,” she told him.
* * *
THE ICE MAN started the file printing, then let his thoughts drift back to last night’s conversation.
“Hello. I got your number from Giovanni,” the caller had said. “I was looking for...an exterminator. He told me you’re one of the best.”
“I’m the best.” He smiled, liking that he’d had the chance to use that line again. It was a good one.
“Ah, I see,” his caller had continued. “And he said you aren’t too expensive.”
“Depends on how tough the job is.”
“It shouldn’t be hard.”
“Well, you tell me who and I’ll check things out. Call me again. Let’s say tomorrow night. If you like my price we’ll get together.”
“Good. But there’s one other thing. You couldn’t do it just any time at all. I’d have to let you know when.”
“You talking exactly when?”
“No, there’d be a couple of days’ time frame. I just don’t know which days yet.”
“Okay, not a problem.”
“Fine. Then you want to check out a woman named Celeste Langley. She lives on West Seventy-fourth.”
Celeste Langley. The Ice Man silently repeated the name he’d already grown familiar with, then glanced at the computer screen—thinking that modern technology was making his job easier all the time.
Used to be, he’d sometimes spend days just learning what he needed to know about a target. Now he could find out a lot of it on the internet.
Of course, that meant getting into the right databases. Ones with detailed information about people. And most of them were supposedly restricted. But if you knew what you were doing, privacy was a thing of the past.
He reached for the page his printer was spitting out and skimmed the facts again.
Celeste Langley. Thirty. Born and raised right here in Manhattan. Both parents dead. Separated from her husband. No car. Lived alone and worked out of her apartment.
That was going to bump his price up some.
A job was easier when the target had a regular pattern. Went out to work same time each morning and came home same time each night. Then you could just pick a place along the route.
Someone who worked at home, though... That might mean having to waste her in her apartment, and he didn’t much like inside jobs.
Oh, he did them now and then, but more could go wrong. So maybe he should have a look at her place before he decided on his price.
He glanced at the address again. West Seventy-fourth.
It would be one of those old brownstones. Three stories. Not many apartments in the building. No doorman.
After thinking things over, he decided it shouldn’t present much of a problem. So he wouldn’t bother checking it out just yet. He didn’t like to put too much work into something until he had the money in his pocket.
* * *
IT WAS A FEW MINUTES past four-thirty when Travis and Hank arrived at the NYPD crime labs for their meeting with Saban Mustac—head of the crime-scene team assigned to Dr. Steve Parker’s place.
The techs had finished up early this morning, then he and Hank had done their own search through the apartment.
After that, they’d interviewed some of Parker’s neighbors. They’d also seen Gary Cooper and gotten a list of Parker’s other friends.
Overall, they had a lot to go on now, which had Travis feeling far better about the case.
Most victims know their killers. That was rule number one in Homicide. And since Parker had let his murderer in, the rule undoubtedly applied. So after they finished with Saban, they’d get back to interviewing people. Starting with Jill Flores.
By this point, their team had established that none of the other residents in Parker’s building had had a blond female visitor on Saturday evening. Which left little doubt that their mystery woman had been there to see him. And if Flores fit the description...
Travis glanced at Hank as they stepped onto an elevator, thinking back to Celeste Langley’s call. When he’d told Hank about it, the first thing he’d asked was what Jill Flores looked like. And Travis had been really embarrassed at having to admit he didn’t know.
He should never have forgotten to ask something so basic. And he found the reason he had very unsettling. Because the reason was Celeste Langley.
The instant he’d heard her voice his brain had gone fuzzy around the edges—something he couldn’t recall ever happening with any other woman, let alone one on a suspect list.
The elevator reached six and stopped. As they started down the hall, he began wondering, yet again, whether Hank seriously figured Celeste could be their killer.
Tempted as he was to ask, he didn’t. One round of Hank’s “You like her” routine had been enough.
He hated it when his partner picked up on something faster than he did, which was exactly what had happened in this situation. He’d realized that even before Celeste had called.
After all, if he’d actually merely felt sorry for her last night, he’d hardly have woken up with her on his mind this morning.
When they reached Saban’s cubbyhole of an office, the man was on the phone. He waved them in and cut his call short, then flipped open a folder, muttering, “Let’s see, what have I got for you so far?”
Once he’d glanced at the notes, he focused on them.
“Okay, we lasered the vic for prints and fibers but came up empty. The door handles were nothing but smudges. There were a couple of prints other than Parker’s in the kitchen, but I wouldn’t get my hopes up. My read is that the shooter came in, did his thing and left. Didn’t