looking at the stamp on the bottom.
“Dresden,” he said, and set it back on the table where he’d found it. “Sylvia Polanski might have been a hooker, but she had good taste.”
“We don’t know she was a hooker,” Sal said, as he poked through a desk drawer for something that might give them a clue as to who Sylvia’s killer could be. “Just because Neil said it, that doesn’t make it so.”
“You don’t like him much, do you?” Paulie asked.
Sal shrugged. “He’s all right. Just got too much hair.”
Paulie grinned. “We aren’t gonna find anything here to link the two women.”
Sal straightened and turned. “Why do you say that? Have you gone psychic on me?”
“Because the two women don’t connect,” Paulie said. “Donna Dorian was a twenty-year-old university student still living with her mother. Coroner said she was a virgin before the rape. Sylvia Polanski is in her thirties, right?”
“Yeah, but—”
“I think Neil was right. I think she was a hooker. You heard what the super said when he let us in. She slept all day and was out all night. She didn’t bring anyone here. This was home. So she’s either got a place somewhere in Manhattan where she takes her johns, or she uses their places.”
“We don’t know that,” Sal said, pushing a drawer shut and opening another.
Paulie shrugged. “Well, if she is a hooker, she’s a high-class one. Lofts like these rent for a pretty penny. She was either independently wealthy or damn good at her job.”
“Hey, look at this,” Sal said, as he pulled a small leather-bound book from beneath a pile of receipts.
“What is it?”
Sal whistled between his teeth. “It’s what my old man used to call a ‘little black book.”’
“Let me see,” Paulie said.
Sal handed it over.
“Man, look at all these names and numbers.”
Sal studied it a moment and then handed it back to his partner. “Okay, so it looks like Neil might have been right after all.”
“Unless she’s their stockbroker or something, I’d agree.”
Sal turned, scanning the room for a new place to search when he saw a photo on the wall near the windows. He walked over for a closer look.
“This must be her,” he said, pointing toward the picture. “She was a fine-looking woman before that crazy son of a bitch got a hold of her.”
Paulie looked. “Yeah. Let’s take it with us. It’s a damned sight better than the one the coroner will send.”
Sal laid it beside his coat and kept on digging. A few minutes later, he turned up a small address book with what appeared to be personal phone numbers.
“I think I just found her next of kin,” Sal said. “What looks like her mother’s phone number is in here.”
Paulie frowned. “That’s the worst thing I hate about working homicide. It’s your turn to break the news.”
Sal sat down on the sofa and picked up the picture, staring intently at the woman’s face. Dark, shoulder-length hair and dark eyes—and a real pretty mouth. He laid the picture aside.
“You know, you have kids. Raise them the best way you know how, then they turn to shit like this. No woman I ever heard of made plans to give birth to a hooker.”
Paulie shrugged. “You think too much, Sal. Come on, this place is giving me the creeps. We’ve got her book. We can run the names and phone numbers from the office. Let’s get out of here.”
Two days later
Awakened by the sound of the wind, Caitlin quickly became aware of a distinct drop in the room temperature. She opened her eyes to darkness and then glanced at the clock. Almost 3:00 a.m. If she didn’t turn up the heat, it would be freezing in the apartment by morning. Reluctantly she turned on the light and then crawled out of bed, moving quietly through the house in her sock feet until she reached the living room. With instinct born of familiarity, she felt along the wall for the thermostat, upped it a couple of notches until she heard it kick on and then headed back to bed.
“Dresden,” he said, and set it back on the table where he’d found it. “Sylvia Polanski might have been a hooker, but she had good taste.”
“We don’t know she was a hooker,” Sal said, as he poked through a desk drawer for something that might give them a clue as to who Sylvia’s killer could be. “Just because Neil said it, that doesn’t make it so.”
“You don’t like him much, do you?” Paulie asked.
Sal shrugged. “He’s all right. Just got too much hair.”
Paulie grinned. “We aren’t gonna find anything here to link the two women.”
Sal straightened and turned. “Why do you say that? Have you gone psychic on me?”
“Because the two women don’t connect,” Paulie said. “Donna Dorian was a twenty-year-old university student still living with her mother. Coroner said she was a virgin before the rape. Sylvia Polanski is in her thirties, right?”
“Yeah, but—”
“I think Neil was right. I think she was a hooker. You heard what the super said when he let us in. She slept all day and was out all night. She didn’t bring anyone here. This was home. So she’s either got a place somewhere in Manhattan where she takes her johns, or she uses their places.”
“We don’t know that,” Sal said, pushing a drawer shut and opening another.
Paulie shrugged. “Well, if she is a hooker, she’s a high-class one. Lofts like these rent for a pretty penny. She was either independently wealthy or damn good at her job.”
“Hey, look at this,” Sal said, as he pulled a small leather-bound book from beneath a pile of receipts.
“What is it?”
Sal whistled between his teeth. “It’s what my old man used to call a ‘little black book.”’
“Let me see,” Paulie said.
Sal handed it over.
“Man, look at all these names and numbers.”
Sal studied it a moment and then handed it back to his partner. “Okay, so it looks like Neil might have been right after all.”
“Unless she’s their stockbroker or something, I’d agree.”
Sal turned, scanning the room for a new place to search when he saw a photo on the wall near the windows. He walked over for a closer look.
“This must be her,” he said, pointing toward the picture. “She was a fine-looking woman before that crazy son of a bitch got a hold of her.”
Paulie looked. “Yeah. Let’s take it with us. It’s a damned sight better than the one the coroner will send.”
Sal laid it beside his coat and kept on digging. A few minutes later, he turned up a small address book with what appeared to be personal phone numbers.
“I think I just found her next of kin,” Sal said. “What looks like her mother’s phone number is in here.”
Paulie frowned. “That’s the worst thing I hate about working homicide. It’s your turn to break the news.”
Sal sat down on the sofa and picked up the picture, staring intently at the woman’s face. Dark, shoulder-length hair and dark eyes—and a real pretty mouth. He laid the picture aside.
“You know, you have kids. Raise them the best way you know how, then they turn to shit like this. No woman I ever heard of made plans to give birth to a hooker.”
Paulie shrugged. “You think too much, Sal. Come on, this place is giving me the creeps. We’ve got her book. We can run the names and phone numbers from the office. Let’s get out of here.”
Two days later
Awakened by the sound of the wind, Caitlin quickly became aware of a distinct drop in the room temperature. She opened her eyes to darkness and then glanced at the clock. Almost 3:00 a.m. If she didn’t turn up the heat, it would be freezing in the apartment by morning. Reluctantly she turned on the light and then crawled out of bed, moving quietly through the house in her sock feet until she reached the living room. With instinct born of familiarity, she felt along the wall for the thermostat, upped it a couple of notches until she heard it kick on and then headed back to bed.
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