Sometimes it pays to be polite. My courteous and feminine (okay, totally self-deprecating) demeanor had a pacifying effect on Flannagan’s mood. His ugly frown faded, then he uncrossed his arms and removed them from his chest. Retrieving his lit cigarette from the ashtray and taking a long, slow drag, he cocked his head in my direction and tweaked his lips into something resembling a smile.

“I really don’t have to explain myself or my methods to you, Mrs. Turner,” he said, “but since you asked so nicely…” He paused for another puff on his cigarette. “I want your doctors’ names so I can contact them to verify your blood types.”

Oh, so that’s it! I said to myself. They did find more than one blood type at the crime scene. Guess they won’t be needing my bag of bloodstained clothes after all… which was a good thing, I realized, since I’d forgotten to bring the bloody stuff with me!

“After seeing the excessive carnage at the scene,” Flannagan went on, proudly launching an account of his own outstanding powers of detection, “I had a hunch the victim put up a big fight before he died. Which meant the murderer could have been wounded, too. We took blood samples from several different places in the apartment-including the bathroom, where we think the killer took a shower and changed into clean clothes before he fled-and then we rushed the samples to the lab for overnight testing.

“Sure enough,” he continued, “the tests turned up two distinct blood groups: type A and type O. Mr. Gordon, we’ve learned, was type O, so we believe the killer was type A. Therefore, if you two ladies can each swear that you’re not type A, and if your doctors will verify your statements, then we can let you both off the hook.”

That’s when Abby’s stack finally blew. “

Off the hook?!!!” she sputtered, turning red in the face. “We never should have been on the hook in the first place! Your suspicions are so absurd they’re stupid. Can’t you flatfoots tell the difference between a couple of horrified dames in distress and a savage, cold-blooded killer?”

Flannagan’s baby-soft face turned even redder than Abby’s. “The way I see it, sweetheart,” he said, glaring at her through squinted eyes, “you are as cold-blooded as they come.”

Now they were

both acting like children.

And I had to be the babysitter.

“I think I’m type O,” I said, leaping to steer the rocky situation to shore, “but I don’t know for sure. And I don’t have a regular doctor you can talk to, either. I was a patient at Saint Vincent’s Hospital a few months back, though, so maybe you could check with them. I had to have a transfusion, so they must have noted my blood type in their records.” I left out the part about

why I’d needed the transfusion. Revealing that I’d been shot would have just made Flannagan more suspicious of me.

Flannagan gave me a nod, mashed his cigarette in the ashtray, and made a few marks on his memo pad. Then he raised his eyes and aimed them at Abby. “And what about you, Miss Moskowitz?” he said, pronouncing her name as if each syllable tasted worse than the first. “Do you want to cooperate with the investigation or continue to be a prime suspect in the murder of Gray Gordon?”

She didn’t say anything (for once). She just tapped her foot on the floor and rolled her eyes at the ceiling.

Flannagan looked at his watch and vaulted to his feet. “Okay, that’s enough!” he blustered, buttoning his collar and straightening his tie. “I’ve had it up to here with your crap. I’m leaving for another appointment, so you have to decide

now. Off the hook, or on, sweetheart? It’s your call.”

“I’m AB,” Abby said, smirking, enjoying herself to the hilt. “Rh-positive. If you don’t believe me, you can ask my uncle, Dr. Seymour Katz. He’s really hip to hemoglobin.”

Chapter 13

AS WE WERE HEADING ACROSS THE lobby toward the police station exit, Abby pulled me to a stop in the middle of the floor. “Hold on a second, Paige,” she said. “I want to talk to that cute officer at the front desk again. I just got a cover assignment from

True Police magazine, so I really do need a new model, you dig? And he would be perfect for the job. I want to see if I can get him to pose for me in uniform.”

“Oh, sure,” I said. “And after that, you can see how long it takes you to get him

out of uniform.”

I thought my snippy remark would make her angry, but it didn’t. She gave me a cunning wink and replied, “Just one of the perks of my occupation.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t need me to help you plan your perking. Go ahead, Ab. Talk to Officer Longface as long as you want. I’m going home.”

“Okay,” she chirped, obviously glad to be getting rid of me. “See you later, gator.”

I was glad to get rid of her, too. Trying to conduct a serious murder investigation with Abby in tow was like standing under a palm tree during a thunderstorm, waiting for the coconuts to break off and fall on your head.

It was calmer and quieter outside than in. The streets and sidewalks were practically deserted. It was late Sunday morning on a holiday weekend, and much too hot to be out on the move. I turned right at the corner and began the two-block trek to Seventh Avenue, wondering if I could make it that far without a camel and a canteen.

I did. And when I found myself at the corner of Seventh and Christopher-at the wide-open entrance to Stewart’s Cafeteria-I staggered inside to get a glass of iced tea. And to read my morning paper. And to see if Blackie and Blondie were there. And to check out the clientele and the chicken run for suspicious-looking characters.

Blackie was there, but Blondie wasn’t. I wished it were the other way around. (Blondie had been the talkative one, if you recall, and Blackie’s lips had been sealed tighter than a pharaoh’s tomb.) I nodded to the ebony-haired busboy (there certainly wasn’t any point in questioning him again!), bought an enormous glass of iced tea at the counter, and then carried it toward the bleachers-the chairs and tables near the row of windows that looked out on the now-vacant sidewalk where, according to Abby, the chickens usually liked to strut.

There were three customers sitting in that area of the cafeteria. All of them were male. Two were together at the table nearest the door, chowing down on bacon and eggs (sunny-side-up, if you must know). The third man was sitting sideways at the very last table in the back, nibbling on a piece of toast and staring out the window in a trance. I couldn’t see his face full-on, but one peep at his pudgy, pug-nosed profile, and his thick, slicked-back blond hair, and I knew who he was.

“Well, if it isn’t Mr. Sinclair!” I said, approaching Willy’s table with a big smile on my face. (And it wasn’t a fake smile, either. For some reason I didn’t fully understand, I was genuinely glad to see the strange, funny-looking fellow.) “Remember me?” I asked. “I met you yesterday at the… uh… at the…” I didn’t know how to finish that sentence. At the bloodbath? At the slashing? At the scene of your neighbor’s hideous murder? Nothing seemed acceptable. I finally gave up and asked, “May I join you?”

Willy had turned his head toward me, but he was still in a trance. His enormous blue eyes were looking straight through me, and his mind was someplace else entirely. He took a tiny bite of his toast and chewed it vigorously, but he seemed totally unaware of his actions. Setting my tea down on his table, and my newspaper and purse down on an extra chair, I took the seat directly across from him and leaned my face so close to his I could have counted all his freckles.

“Hello, Willy?” I said, peering smack into his distant eyes. “Are you okay?”

The nearness of my voice (not to mention my nose) must have jarred his sleeping senses, because he came to in a start and focused on the first thing that came into his sight-my looming kisser.