I was beginning to read the ads all over again, for the fourth and (I hoped) final time, when the train pulled into the Times Square station. As soon as the doors opened, I jumped out onto the platform and dashed through the underground depot to the 42nd Street shuttle. Then I got on that train, and stood-lurching and swaying from a leather hand strap near the door (not even one of the male passengers got up to offer me his seat!)-until the shuttle reached the Third Avenue stop. My stop.

A short block’s trudge through the snow, a quick dash into the lobby coffee shop for my take-out morning muffin, a fast flight up nine floors in the elevator, a brisk stroll down the hall to the third door on the left, and I finally walked into the cold, dark Daring Detective office.

As always (i.e., as required), I was the first employee to arrive. One of my primary daily duties was to make the place comfortable-turn on all the lights, warm up the radiators, open the blinds, gather up the newspapers, sort the mail and so forth-for my five male “superiors,” who wouldn’t begin rolling in until thirty minutes later.

The early bird catches the worm, they say, but in my case it just meant I got to make the coffee.

“SO WHAT WAS IN THE SHOEBOX?” LENNY asked me as soon as he stumbled into the office. He was still gasping for breath from his nine-floor climb. His black-rimmed glasses sat crookedly on his large hook nose, giving him the appearance of a cockeyed goose.

“Shhhhhh!” I hissed, holding my index finger up to my lips, jerking my head toward Harvey Crockett’s private office, where our ex-newsman boss sat swilling coffee and reading the papers-with his door (and probably his ears) wide open. “I’m secretly working on a new story,” I whispered. “I’ll tell you all about it later.”

Lenny looked like he was going to pop. “Another murder story?” His lips were murmuring, but his eyes were screaming their heads off. He was, I knew, scared that I might be getting involved in something I shouldn’t. Something perilous and catastrophic. Something that might-in some seemingly indirect, but still horribly injurious way-involve him. Like the last time.

“Don’t worry, Lenny,” I quickly replied, trying to soothe him with my soft, steady tone. “I’m not in any danger at all. This is just a simple, straightforward murder case that the police are too lazy to solve. I’m looking into it for a friend of mine, actually a good friend of Bob’s.”

“Oh, I get it!” Lenny said, in a voice so acidic it could have stripped the enamel off the side of a bus. “You’re just skipping through a field of daisies, singing ‘Little Things Mean a Lot,’ and looking for another cold-blooded killer to play hide and seek with.” His normally thin, pale face was puffed up like a pink balloon. “And there’s nothing for me to worry about because you’re doing this for a good friend, right? Oh, no! Excuse me! I’ve got that all wrong, you’re doing it for a good friend of Bob’s! Your wonderful, perfect-need I remind you, dead?-husband Bob.”

Lenny had gone too far, and he knew it. Way too far. His puffy face registered a sudden look of horror and disbelief, then melted into a soggy mass of shame. “I’m sorry, Paige,” he muttered, staring down at his feet with the intensity of a man who’d just discovered he was standing barefoot in a briar patch. “Please forgive me. That was an awful thing to say. I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.”

“I know you didn’t mean it, Lenny,” I said, quickly brushing my fingers down the side of his cheek and shoulder, then resting them on the damp sleeve of his thin black overcoat. “And I don’t blame you for being worried. But, please believe me, there’s no reason for you to… ”

The office entrance bell jingled, and in walked Mike and Mario.

“Hey, what’s going on here?” Mario cried, when he saw me standing up close to Lenny with my hand on his arm. “This is an office, not a dance hall! So ditch the tango, Zimmerman, and get to work!” Ever since Lenny had saved my life, Mario had been extremely jealous of his assistant’s newborn hero status (and of his newborn friendship with me).

“Maybe he’s not dancing,” Mike chimed in, snickering. “Maybe he’s just turning a Paige!”

They laughed like insane hyenas for a couple of seconds, then began hanging their hats and coats and mufflers on the tree. Embarrassed by their gibes (and still mortified by his own hurtful remarks to me), Lenny pulled away from me and slunk over to his desk, plopping down in his chair with his coat still on. Then, as if prompted by a slapstick comedy director with a sadistic sense of timing, Harvey Crockett stuck his big bulldog head out of his office and hollered, “More coffee!”

My workday was off to a splendid start.

Chapter 7

POMEROY SAUNTERED INTO THE OFFICE around noon, and I scooted out ten minutes later. It was foolhardy of me to even think of traveling all the way across town and back on my short lunch hour, but I was so eager to meet Mrs. Londergan and talk to her about Judy that I simply couldn’t wait until the end of the day.

Retracing part of my morning commute, I took the shuttle back to Times Square, then the IRT down to 28th Street. Two blocks south on Seventh, a half a block west on 26th, and I found myself standing on the snowy sidewalk in front of the gray stone tenement building where Judy Catcher had lived. And died. A shiver ran down my spine that had nothing to do with the cold.

Sucking in a blast of frosty air, I made my way up the shoveled but slippery stoop to the building’s front door and stepped inside. The tiled entryway was equipped with sixteen metal mailboxes and sixteen buzzers. Each mailbox had a name on it, so I didn’t have to rummage through the papers in my purse-the notes Terry had given me-to figure out which bell to ring.

Mrs. Londergan lived in 2C. I pushed the buzzer-hard. No answer. I waited a few seconds and pushed it again.

“Who’s there?” came a crackly voice over the intercom. “If you’re selling, I’m not buying. And my soul doesn’t need saving either.”

I had a feeling I was going to like this woman. “You don’t know me, Mrs. Londergan,” I said, speaking into the intercom. “My name is Paige Turner and I-”

“Oh, sure!” she broke in. “And I’m Jim Dandy. So what’s your real name and what’s your game?”

“No, really!” I said. “Paige Turner is my real name, and I’m a friend of Judy Catcher’s brother Terry. I was wondering if I could come in for a moment and talk to you about Judy? I won’t take up too much of your time.”

There was a long silence and no reply. Then, suddenly, the inner door buzzed open, and I pushed my way into the hall. The lighting was dim, but I could see the numbers on the apartment doors: 1A to my left, 1B to my right. I dashed up the stairs to the second floor and headed straight for the left rear apartment, which I figured would be 2C.

It was. I heard a rustling noise on the other side of the door, so I knew Mrs. Londergan was standing right there, probably peering at me through the peephole. Trying to mask my nosy detective face with a look of pure sweet innocence, I lifted my brows, fluttered my lashes, and lightly knocked on the door.

She opened it at once. Standing tall (very tall!) in the doorway, with one hand on the doorknob and the other one on her hip, she thrust her chiseled chin in my direction and said, “How’d you ever get a stupid name like Paige Turner?”

I giggled-not just because she had so cheekily branded my stupid name with the adjective it deserved, but also because she was the spitting image of John Wayne. I kid you not. An aging John Wayne in a red flowered dress. With a swipe of bright red lipstick and a cap of short wavy blue-gray hair. It would have made you giggle, too.