Murder in Greenwich Village by Lee Harris

snacks discarded by riders. Filthy slobs, Jane thought, not for the first time. As they walked, she called Defino’s name, hearing the echo, hearing Graves’s words at 137: “I hope this isn’t a wild-goose chase.” She was so tired, it was a struggle to keep going. She gave up counting rats after the fifth one. The temptation was to shoot them, for which she might lose her shield.
    They pressed northward, inspecting alcoves, climbing up to station platforms and waiting for trains to pass before returning to the track level. Jane’s voice became hoarse, and fatigue threatened to take her down. Their goal was the Fifty-ninth Street station. That would take them through huge stations like Fourteenth Street and Forty-second Street, where several lines converged and tracks branched, leaving spaces where someone might be stashed. But exhaustive searches turned up nothing.
    By the time they left Forty-second Street, Jane was starting to feel that nothing would come of the search. Graves would be furious and Defino would still be missing. She stumbled and caught herself before she fell.
    â€œYou OK?” Jennifer Quinn asked.
    â€œI’ll make it. Thanks.”
    â€œHow much sleep did you get?”
    â€œNone.”
    â€œYou shouldn’t be here.”
    â€œHe’s my partner.”
    They kept going. At the Fifty-first Street station they agreed to stop for a rest. Jane sat against a pillar and fell asleep. The cop who roused her was gentle and concerned.
    â€œYou should go home. You look beat.”
    â€œWe’ll be done soon. Then I’ll sleep.”
    He pulled her up and they went down to the tracks and picked up the search.
    She wasn’t sure what was worse: the smells of the subway or the stink of the bug spray. They combined to keep her from feeling hungry. She couldn’t remember when she had last eaten or what it was. She just knew she had to keep going. Gordon was in this fucking tunnel, and she had to find him before Manelli’s gang decided to get rid of him. He would have dropped something to guide them if he were able, but she was sure they had used his handcuffs to keep him disabled.
    It was six in the morning when they left Fifty-first Street. They had spent an hour at the Forty-second Street station. It was Saturday morning, a low traffic day, but more trains were scheduled from six on than during the night.
    At Fifty-ninth Street the deputy chief stopped them, went out in front of the line, and addressed them. “This is as far as we go. I’m sorry. I wish we’d found him. Let’s get up on the platform.” He got a signal on his walkie-talkie and said they were on their way. When everyone was accounted for on the platform, he gave the order to reenergize the third rail. The operation was over.
    Jane thanked each of the participants. If she looked anything like the way they did, she would need a scouring brush to get clean. The sympathy of the party cheered her, but it didn’t make up for their failure to find Defino. She started thinking of walking the tracks south of Astor Place. Graves would flop her back to the bag—her uniform.
    The deputy chief thanked them all and they scattered, some of them going back down into the subway to ride back to Astor Place for their cars. Jane took a taxi home.
    She slept for two hours, having set her alarm, and woke up feeling worse than when she lay down. She wanted to speak to Mrs. Morgan again, to find out where else besides the Lex her husband had worked. She showered first, and then put some bread in the toaster and coffee and water in the coffeemaker. Her mouth was parched. A large glass of orange juice helped a little.
    While she ate, she called McElroy’s number at 137. She left a message on his voice mail and hung up. Then she found Mrs. Morgan’s number. It was Saturday and probably not a workday, so Jane called the home number.
    â€œHello?”
    â€œMrs. Morgan, this is