‘Yes, sir.’ Paper in hand, Deluthe swooped down on the nearest vacant desk and picked up the phone.

Jack Coffey had only a few minutes to settle in behind his desk before the rookie rapped on the frame of his open office door. The lieutenant waved him inside. ‘What’ve you got, kid?’

‘The actress is Stella Small. I talked to a police aide, Eve Forelli. She says it was just a publicity stunt.’

The lieutenant nodded toward the tabloid in the younger man’s hand. ‘Did you read that article?’

‘No, sir. I thought you wanted – ’

‘Read it. You’ll find the first mention of blood in the opening paragraph. It’s a puddle on a hotel carpet.’ He leaned over the desk and ripped the paper from Deluthe’s hand, then pointed to the photograph of an unconscious woman. ‘Oh, and the dark stain on her sleeve? That’s blood too.’ He slammed the newspaper down on his desk blotter, yet his voice remained calm. ‘In my experience, very few actresses ever mutilate themselves for a mention in the tabloids.’ And now he stopped, for it was not his job to train the rookie from Lieutenant Loman’s squad. ‘At least you got her name. That’s something.’ He consulted his list of blond interview subjects and found Stella Small among them. ‘Her agent set up an interview, but Small was a no-show. Apparently this woman doesn’t watch the news or read the papers. Find her.’

‘The police aide already took her statement,’ said Deluthe. ‘The actress told her she had a street altercation with a tourist. You see, the guy hit this woman with his camera, and she needed a few stitches. That’s it. So then her agent shows up at the hospital and gets the idea to make the wound a little more newsworthy. That’s when it turned into a stabbing.’

‘A police aide did the interview? A civilian! Well, that’s just great.’ He tossed the newspaper to the rookie. ‘Get a copy of that statement from Midtown, and get that actress down here.’

‘But it’s just – ’

‘Busywork? Most of my damn day is busywork. I’m one goddamn busy man. Now can you handle this or not?’ What he had really wanted to ask Deluthe was why the man dyed his hair.

And of all the colors in the world, why choose glow-in-the-dark yellow?

Detective Janos stood at the front of the squad room and addressed the rest of the men. ‘We got a thirty-second spot on the morning news and a full minute on radio. We might get lucky with the tip lines.’ He held up the newspaper page that listed the dates and locations of open casting calls. ‘And there’s two auditions today. We got twenty minutes to make the one on – ’

‘Hey!’ Detective Desoto, who sorted the tip-line calls, yelled, ‘Listen up! A woman with an X on her back just passed the corner of Sixtieth and Lex. I got a guy calling from a payphone. He says she was headed for the subway. She’s got blond hair, and she’s wearing a light blue suit.’

‘A suit,’ said Riker. ‘I’ll bet she’s on her way to the midtown audition.’

‘It’s on the West Side.’Janos was heading for the door, issuing orders on the run. ‘Get a unit over there. She’ll make the crossover over at Forty-second Street.’

‘Maybe not.’ Arthur Wang grabbed his gun from a desk drawer. ‘If she sees that X on her back, she might pack it in. I know my wife would – ’

‘Subway!’ yelled Janos.

Every man but Deluthe was up and running. Sergeant Riker stopped to tap his shoulder, saying, ‘You’re with us, kid.’

And they were off. Lieutenant Coffey’s busywork errand was forgotten as Deluthe fell in with the gang of running detectives heading downstairs for the cars. One by one, the unmarked vehicles raced their engines. Mobile turret lights were slapped on to the roofs as they sped down Houston, zooming toward the West Side Highway.

Heading uptown.

What a ride!

The police cars were strung out in a wedge, forcing cabs to dodge and weave, and terrifying the amateur drivers. Five sirens screamed, and bullhorns shouted, ‘Outta the way! Move it! Move it? Every cross-town light was magically green until the convoy pulled to the curb in front of Forty-second Street Station.

The men left their cars at a dead run, hustling down the subway stairs in close formation, flying through the long tunnel, leather slapping cement, adrenaline rushing, hearts on fire, finally emerging in the shuttle bay.

Full stop.

Something’s wrong.

There were too many people milling around at this time of the morning.

Three detectives climbed up on a bank of concrete and scanned the heads of waiting straphangers, looking for the blonde with an Xon her back. Six men circled around to the other side of the track to search the rest of the crowd, then returned, heads shaking.

The woman was not here.

The surrounding passengers had the makings of a mob, feet stamping, voices rising, tempers close to exploding in the hot muggy air around the shuttle bay. Most had wandered away from the track, but hopefuls still stood on the edge, eyes fixed on the dark tunnel with a New Yorker’s certain knowledge that watchers, not switchmen, made the trains come.

The crowd was still growing, not conversing but growling, voices rumbling in one sentiment, Death to all transit workers – kill them all. Here and there, a passenger went off like a firecracker, screaming obscenities. It could only be a matter of minutes before the first punch was thrown. This vast space would become a bloodbath from wall to wall.

Near the police booth, a band of musicians were unpacking instruments and plugging in amplifiers. This was the city’s emergency response to impending violence among disgruntled subway riders.

Janos folded his cell phone. ‘We got uniforms at the exits. No sign of her yet.’

Detective Desoto had disappeared into the mob, and now he was running back to them. ‘The good news? A suicide. A jumper got himself smeared across the tracks. All these people are from the rush-hour crowd. That’s how long they’ve been waiting.’

‘And now the bad news,’ said Riker.

‘They just finished cleaning up all the blood and guts. The shuttles are on the way. We’re gonna lose the whole crowd in five minutes flat.’

Deluthe understood this worst-case scenario. What were the odds that any of these stressed-out citizens would miss a ride out of hell to talk to a cop? ‘Can’t we just stop the trains?’

Desoto gave him a look that asked, What hick town are you from“? ‘Maybe you didn’t hear me, kid. The last guy who stopped the trains is dead.’

‘We got five minutes,’ said Riker. ‘Deluthe, you work the passengers near the track. Hit on the women. Men are useless. They only see breasts, not backs. The rest of you guys are with me.’

The detectives moved in tandem, walking toward the small band of musicians. Their body language changed as they drew closer to the light Latin tempo intended to soothe ugly tempers with the soft strings of a guitar and a bass – and a drummer with nothing to do.

While Deluthe was taking statements of ‘I didn’t see nobody’ and ‘I don’t know nothin“, Riker was taking a guitar away from one of the teenage musicians.

Deluthe watched the action through breaks in the crowd near the track. The senior detective’s hand flew up and down the neck of the electric guitar, playing riffs of rock ‘n’ roll, and he was good – damn good. The younger passengers were drifting toward the music, fingers snapping, heads bobbing to the beat – reborn.

The musicians were playing backup as Riker was gliding and sliding, strings zinging, the crowd cheering. He ripped out notes in a one-handed frenzy as he rolled the other hand toward the band to jump up the tempo. The bassman’s fingers moved faster and faster. The drummer went insane with his sticks, smashing cymbals and beating on skins.

Janos pulled a woman from the crowd, and now they were gyrating, twirling and writhing. Other detectives grabbed strange females, danced them ragged and discarded them quickly. All the people were in motion; the place was rocking, cooking, jumping. The beat vibrated across the concrete and came up through the soles of Ronald Deluthe’s shoes.