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  “Seems a bit obvious, doesn’t it?” I replied.

  “Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. They aren’t all mysteries.”

  “But they are tragedies,” I replied, “especially when someone dies like this. Strung up and tortured. We’re dealing with a real sicko here.”

  O’Brien pointed toward a radio alarm clock on the floor next to the bed. “I’m guessing he started cutting on her around three-thirty.”

  I glanced at the time on the radio.

  The killer had used its cord to bind his victim’s hands. The dial was stopped at 3:35. “Nice observation,” I said.

  “I have my moments. Let’s go talk to the super.”

  “Give me a second.”

  I looked at the dead woman. It was so sad. A life snuffed out. Why? And why so cruelly? I wanted to make sure I remembered every cut, every piece of missing flesh, every torture that her killer had inflicted. I wanted to be able to describe this scene to jurors so vividly that they would understand how much this woman had suffered before she’d finally welcomed death.

  “I just made a New Year’s resolution,” I announced, when I walked out of the bedroom and joined O’Brien. “I’m going to make sure this fucking bastard doesn’t get away with this.”

  3

  Roman Mancini met us at the door of his first-floor apartment wearing a sweat-stained wife-beater T-shirt, baggy brown pants, and well-worn slippers.

  “Me and my wife, Maggie,” Mancini said, “have been managing this building for fifteen years and never had no trouble like this.” His apartment reeked of cigarettes, old coffee grounds, and booze. He nodded toward two threadbare chairs in a musty living room and plopped himself down on a lime-green couch across from them. Two long-haired cats were curled up on the sofa.

  “My wife’s not feeling well,” Mancini explained. “She’s got respiratory problems. Asthma. She went to bed early tonight, around ten, so she don’t even know nothing happened. If it’s okay, I’d rather not get her up.”

  “Let’s start with you,” I said, sitting in the blue chair. The yellow one had a third cat sleeping on it. O’Brien made eye contact with the feline as he walked over. He scooped up the cat and placed it on the floor before the pet could react. Mancini was short, stocky, and hairy everywhere but on his bald head. The stench of alcohol in the room implied a drinking habit.

  “What can you tell us about the woman upstairs?” I asked.

  “Not much. I mean, whenever I saw her, she always just said ‘hello’ but nothing more. I knew what they was doing up there, though.”

  “Doing up there?” I repeated, playing dumb.

  “Her and that man—meeting there for sex twice a week.”

  “When did these trysts start?”

  “Trysts?”

  “Meetings.”

  “Oh, sex. Three months ago. This young fellow comes around and looks at the apartment. Now, I run a respectable place. Most tenants are older. We don’t attract a young crowd in this building. The kids want someplace modern.”

  Based on the Mancinis’ unit, I guessed the place hadn’t been remodeled since the 1940s.

  Continuing, Mancini said, “I asked this young fellow why he wanted to move into our building. That’s when he tells me, it ain’t for him. He works at this law firm and he’s renting it for a boss. He says the boss works late and needs a place to stay. The check he gave me didn’t bounce, so I figure, what the hell?”

  “I’d like a copy of the rental agreement,” I said.

  “I already pulled it out of the file. Now, my wife, she’s the one who keeps track of the paperwork. I fix things up around here and keep the place running, you know, unclogging toilets, putting in lightbulbs, that sort of thing. In this job, I get to know all our tenants and which ones are okay and which ones are never happy.”

  Mancini fetched a manila file folder from a nearby desk. Inside was a standard rental agreement filled out on October 1, 1979, and signed by Alberto Bianchi. Under the renter’s address, Bianchi had written: Gallo & Conti, LLP, Attorneys at Law, 50 S. Broadway, Yonkers, New York, 10701.

  “Did Alberto Bianchi ever show up here again?” I asked.

  “That kid? Naw. A couple days after he rents the place, a moving company brings in a double bed and mattress, but I don’t see them hauling in any other furniture. Then this woman—the one upstairs who’s dead now—she shows up carrying towels and sheets and pillows. When I see her, I figure she’s either a secretary at the law firm or the boss’s wife fixing it up for him, you know?”

  “You didn’t think she was the law partner?”

  “C’mon,” he said, breaking into a grin. “A woman attorney in charge?”

  He suddenly realized that he was speaking to a woman attorney in charge and said, “I mean, no offense, but, I just figured she was a secretary. Anyway, I did notice she had a wedding ring on and she dressed way too nice for a maid service or any other service—if you get my drift.”

  “I don’t,” I said. “You assumed she wasn’t an attorney because she was a woman so you immediately decided she either was a secretary, the boss’s wife, or what? A hooker?”

  Mancini twisted uncomfortably in his seat. “Yes, I thought she might be a hooker, but then, I got to thinking that hookers don’t bring their own satin sheets.” He grinned, revealing a crooked row of cigarette-stained teeth.

  “Did you learn this woman’s name?”

  “She told me it was Vicky but I didn’t buy it because one day when she was walking up the stairs, I called, ‘Hey Vicky,’ and she didn’t turn around or nothing. Then she must’ve realized it because she looked down at me and said, ‘Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.’ ”

  “Tell me about her boyfriend.”

  “The front entrance to our building is right next to our apartment so I keep a pretty good eye on who comes and goes around here. The neighborhood has gone to hell recently so the tenants appreciate the fact that I just don’t let people wander around our halls.”

  “I get it. You notice strangers,” I said, trying to hurry him up.

  “Damn right. Strangers stick out and this guy stuck out.”

  “In what way?”

  “Vicky comes in every Tuesday and Friday afternoon at exactly two o’clock. Fifteen minutes later, a limo arrives and a man gets out and goes up to the apartment. We don’t get many limos coming here.”

  “A limo?”

  “The same one every week. Anyway, around four o’clock, this man comes out of the apartment and gets in the car and leaves. Then Vicky would come down a few minutes later. You could set your watch by them two. Twice a week for two hours.”

  “Did he ever tell you his name?”

  “No. He never said ‘boo’ to me. Now here’s the odd part. He always showed up here dressed in a long coat wearing a hat and sunglasses and he kept his collar up. It was like he was trying to hide his identity. One day, I made a point of being in the hallway when he comes in and I tried to talk to him. I said, ‘How’s it going, buddy?’ ”

  “What did he say?”

  “Nothing. He walks right by me and doesn’t say a goddamn word. Not even ‘hello.’ I told my wife, ‘Hey, they pay the rent each month and they aren’t causing no trouble so why should we care if they’re cheating on their spouses. It ain’t none of our business.’ ”

  O’Brien joined our conversation. “Tell her about the car.”

  “My wife and me thought it didn’t make sense. Here’s this guy who wants to keep his face covered and won’t tell us his name, but he arrives every Tuesday and Friday in the same damn limo with the same damn driver and the driver always parks directly in front of our building by the entrance. I went out one day and tried to speak to him, you know, engage him in a bit of polite conversation. But all he said was he was from the law firm.”

  O’Brien said, “Go on, tell her what else you thought.”

  “I thought he was one of those guys—you know.” He raised his index finger up and pressed it against the
side of his nose.

  O’Brien said, “You mean connected.”

  “Yeah,” Mancini said. “A mobster. That’s exactly what he looked like. But it’s bad luck to say it.”

  “Did the driver ever tell you who his passenger was?” I asked.

  “I didn’t ask.”

  “And you never saw the passenger’s face?”

  “Not until today.”

  “You saw his face this afternoon before the murder?”

  “That’s right. Vicky shows up right on schedule at two o’clock and she even wishes me a happy New Year. She’s got a bottle of bubbly and seems like she’s in a great mood. I check my watch and she’s right on time. Two o’clock.”

  “It’s good that you know the exact time,” I said encouragingly.

  “Yeah, I was working on one of our building’s front porch lights. I had my ladder next to the door and I notice the limo hadn’t arrived when it usually did. It always showed up at two-fifteen but it didn’t show up until two-thirty. Same car, same driver, only this time they’re fifteen minutes late. And this time when the man gets out of the backseat, he’s not wearing his trench coat or his hat and he doesn’t have his coat collar turned up. I was able to get a real good look at his face.”

  “Can you describe him to us?” I asked.

  “I sure as hell can because I was surprised by what I seen. He was older than me. Must have been in his seventies and he’s got a real ugly scar down the left side of his face and he’s fat. He looked like someone I should have recognized, you know. Like I’d seen him before, but I couldn’t place his face and it probably was just as well.” Again, Mancini raised his finger next to his nose.

  I shot O’Brien a knowing glance.

  Mancini said, “I looked down from my ladder and said, ‘Happy New Year,’ but he ignored me and went inside.”

  “Did you see him later, when he came out of the apartment?”

  “No. Maggie and me went down the street to a little place that serves an early-bird special. It was having an all-you-can-eat New Year’s Eve dinner for ten bucks. Drinks were half price. The only limit was you had to clear out by seven to make way for new customers. We both got a bit tipsy and by the time we got back here, the limo was gone.”

  “What time was that?”

  “We got back around six-thirty.”

  “When did you find the victim’s body?”

  “Just before midnight. Actually, it was exactly eleven-fifty-five. I know because I’d fallen asleep here on the couch with my cats when I got a phone call. I’d left the television on and there was a clock in the corner of the picture tube counting down the New Year. The time on the television was eleven-fifteen—that’s when I woke up.”

  “Why’d someone call you that late?”

  “It was old lady Miller. She’s a widower and she’s always calling to bitch about something. She’s in her eighties and has cats, too. She called because her toilet was clogged and overflowing and she needed me to come right away.”

  “You got her call at eleven-fifteen?” I repeated. “Seems late for a woman in her eighties to be awake.”

  “Not old lady Miller. She stays up all night and sleeps during the day. She’s afraid of someone breaking in on her at nighttime. Besides, it’s New Year’s Eve, remember?”

  “You went up to check her toilet?” O’Brien said.

  “Yeah, I got up to her apartment and there was a good inch of water on the floor. I’ve shown her before how to use the shut off value under the commode, but them old ladies, they don’t remember and they’re too old to get on their knees and reach under the toilet. Anyway, I shut off the valve, unclogged the toilet, and then mopped up the water. I checked my watch when I left her apartment because I wanted to see if I had missed the ball drop in Times Square. That’s how I know it was exactly ten minutes before midnight when I left that old lady’s apartment.”

  “Did you go straight to your apartment?”

  “No. Old lady Henry lives in 406, directly above Apartment 306. I decided to check to see if water from Miss Henry’s place had leaked through the floor down into Vicky’s apartment. I was planning on just peeking inside because I knew no one stayed there overnight. If the place was flooded, then I would need to mop it up.”

  “You used your master key to get in?” O’Brien said, leading him along.

  “That’s right. I opened the door and went directly to the bathroom because I was in a hurry. I didn’t even look in the bedroom, which was dark anyway. The apartment was quiet and, like I said, I didn’t think anyone was in there. I turned on the bathroom light and checked the ceiling and sure enough water was dripping down. I’d left my mop and bucket in the hallway so I turned around to go get them and the bathroom light shone into the bedroom and that’s when I saw her. Vicky. Hanging there all bloody and cut up. I couldn’t believe it. I thought maybe I was hallucinating because of the drinks from dinner but it wasn’t any damn dream. I ran down to our apartment and called the police right away because Vicky’s apartment don’t have a phone and besides, I wanted to get the hell out of there.”

  “You didn’t wake up your wife and tell her?” I asked.

  Mancini shook his head, indicating no. “Truth is, my wife likes to take a little nip now and then. She was pretty loaded when we got home. I’m not sure I could have gotten her up.” He hesitated and then added, “In fact, I could really use a drink now, too, if you don’t mind. My nerves are shot.”

  “We’re almost done,” I said. “What happened next?”

  “The Yonkers cops arrived. I took them up and then you came,” he said, nodding at O’Brien. “I talked to you and you told me to come back here and wait and that’s what I’ve been doing. There really isn’t any more for me to tell you.” He started to fidget.

  “Thanks,” I said. “We’ll be in touch.”

  O’Brien and I didn’t talk to each other until we were outside on the sidewalk.

  “You know who that super described, don’t you?” he asked me.

  “Yes,” I replied. “The ugly scar on his cheek is a dead giveaway.”

  O’Brien said, “Nicholas ‘the Butcher’ Persico.”

  “Mr. Untouchable himself,” I replied. “Seen visiting Vicky—our New Year’s Eve corpse.”

  4

  O’Brien dropped me off in White Plains, where I live in an older craftsman-style house that will be mine after I make another twenty-nine years of monthly payments. Rather than going inside through the front door, I walked to Wilbur’s pen in the backyard.

  Wilbur was only a few weeks old when I got him. He’s a Vietnamese potbellied pig, with upright ears, a straight tail, and a swayed back because his big belly drops within inches of the ground. Wilbur is always hungry. Always. My neighbors think it’s odd for someone to own a domesticated pig, especially in wealthy Westchester. But Wilbur has proven himself to be smarter than most dogs and he is as clean as any cat—that is, until he begins rooting for snacks. Once he gets a sniff of food, nothing slows him down.

  Wilbur greeted me with a chorus of excited grunts and then happily waddled behind me into my kitchen—the only room he’s allowed to enter. While I fixed him a bowl of pig pellets, he wiggled at my feet and listened intently as I described my morning.

  “This could be a big homicide case if we discover that Persico killed that girl,” I explained. I avoided using Persico’s nickname out of deference to Wilbur. I’m certain the Butcher had carved more than one pig into cutlets inside his family-owned shop.

  Wilbur grunted, which I took as a sign of agreement. I placed his bowl on the tile floor. Now that he was gobbling his breakfast, I was free to take a shower and get dressed for work. As I passed the refrigerator, I grabbed a Dr Pepper and a half-eaten box of Junior Mints. I’m lucky to be able to eat just about anything and still weigh in at 105 pounds at five feet, five inches tall. Sweets are one of my vices and I would kill for dark chocolate, but then again, I still go for a run most mornings to even things out. I’m les
s lucky in the hair department. I have naturally curly black hair that has a mind of its own.

  By the time I emerged from the shower and returned to the kitchen, Wilbur was ready to go outside for a nap. I was ready to nap, too, but it wasn’t in the cards. It was nearly 8 a.m., which meant I was going to be late. That happens a lot.

  I got behind the wheel of my racing-green Triumph TR-6 sports car, which I will own after twenty-six more months of payments. But when I turned the ignition, nothing happened. “Damn it! Start!”

  I turned the ignition again and this time the Triumph fired up without hesitation. Who knows why? As I backed down the driveway, I thought about my father. Having had no sons, he’d done his best to teach me about cars. I’d bought the Triumph shortly after he died from cancer. It was a silent tribute to him because he’d always loved English sports cars.

  The 8 a.m. news came on the radio.

  “The body of a still-unidentified young woman was found in a Yonkers apartment on New Year’s Eve,” the newscaster breathlessly announced. “According to Yonkers Police Department sources, the woman was found naked and tortured.”

  I sped up. This was going to be a major news story and that meant that my boss, District Attorney Carlton Whitaker III, would be itching to preen before the cameras. He’d want to be briefed ASAP.

  Our offices in the Domestic Violence Unit are located across the street from the main Westchester County Courthouse. Moving outside the courthouse had been my idea. Battered women don’t want to traipse through the courthouse to file complaints: they would feel embarrassed and intimidated.

  In the past, many of them had gone to the police or sought help from judges only to have their complaints minimized and dismissed. They would be sent right back to their abusive husbands. But, as Bob Dylan put it, “the times they are a-changin’.” I’d made our lobby into a welcoming place that looked more like a living room than a traditional prosecutor’s office, with sofas and playpens to keep children occupied while their moms recounted the hell their husbands put them through.