“You sound like a commercial.”

“Hey, I really like this bike! And it got me here on time, didn’t it?”

“Sure did,” I said, glancing at my watch. It was only ten after twelve. (Time crawls when you’re scared for your life.) “Where did you get the cycle, Ab? From one of Jimmy’s friends?”

“No, I borrowed it from Fabrizio, a kid who lives down the block from us. He got it for his birthday. Told me I could use it anytime I want to.”

“Nice kid.”

“Real nice,” she said, dismounting, popping the kickstand and chain-locking the bike to a lamppost. “I owe Fabrizio one.” She straightened up and wiped her hands on the sides of her plaid pedal pushers. “Is this Binky’s building?” she asked, flipping her braid off her shoulder and nodding toward the five-story tan brick structure behind me.

“Yep!” I said, thrilling to the chase. “Let’s get going.”

Chapter 34

I RANG BINKY’S BUZZER A FEW MORE times, just to be on the safe side. He still didn’t answer.

“Okay, he’s not home,” I said to Abby, who was busy reading the other names on the mailboxes. “Let’s buzz somebody on the top floor to let us in.” Remembering how Abby had tricked Willy into letting us enter Gray’s building, I figured we should use the same buzzer tactic again. “Since Binky lives on the first floor,” I said, “we might be able to get inside his apartment before the person we buzz on the fifth floor ever gets suspicious or comes downstairs to look for us.”

“Good plan,” Abby said. “Let’s try Mrs. Lettie Forrest in 5C.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll do it. Only what should I say when she answers? Should I pretend to be a messenger of some kind? Or say I have a telegram? Or maybe I should-”

“Oh, hush! I’ll do it!” Abby nudged me aside and pushed the buzzer for 5C without hesitation. “You always make such a

tsimmis!”

“Yes, who’s there?” came a tinny female voice over the intercom.

“Is this Mrs. Lettie Forrest?” Abby asked, answering the woman’s question with a question.

“Yes,” the woman tentatively replied. “Who’s this?”

“I’m from the flower shop down the street, ma’am. I have a delivery for you.”

“Flowers? For me?”

“Yes, ma’am. Should I bring them up?”

“Why, yes, of course!” she said, buzzing us in.

That was quick.

We pushed through the humming door and scurried across the tiny foyer to the apartment marked 1A. I gave the doorknob a hefty twist, but it was locked.

“Oh, no!” I whispered. “It’s locked!”

Abby propped her hands on her hips and gave me a weary look. “Oh, really?” she croaked. “What a shock! It’s so unfair the way people keep locking their doors these days! I don’t know what this world is coming to.”

“Shhhhh, keep your voice down.”

“I didn’t bring my purse,” she said, ignoring my plea for volume control. “Do you have a nail file or a bobby pin?”

“Yes, but those things don’t work! I’ve tried them in the past so I know. They only work in the movies.”

“Hand ’em over,” she said, holding out her palm. “Maybe I’ll have better luck.”

I opened my purse and fished out the items. Then, while Abby was down on her knees wriggling the hairpin in the keyhole and trying to trip the latch with the nail file, I rooted through the rest of the stuff in my clutch bag, looking for something else-

anything else-that might be useful. “Hey, how about this?” I said, removing an empty plastic photo holder from my new red leather Dale Rogers wallet (silly, I know, but they had a half-off sale in Woolworth’s). I held the holder up for her inspection. “I bet this’ll do the trick.”

Abby rose to full height and propped her hands on her hips again. “A piece of plastic?” she scoffed. “You expect to break open a door with a puny piece of plastic? What’s the matter, don’t you have anything stronger? A piece of gum, maybe? Or a Kleenex?”

“Oh, c’mon, Abby! I’m not fooling around! I wrote a clip story for the magazine about a cat burglar who used these things to break into people’s houses at night. No kidding! He told the police how they worked, and he said they were quiet, easy to carry, and practically infallible. I titled the story ‘Plastic-Packing Papa.’ Get it? It’s a play on ‘Pistol-Packing Mama’ and it-”

“Hello, flower girl?” Mrs. Lettie Forrest shouted from the top of the nearby stairwell. “Where are you? Are you coming up? Did you get lost?”

We didn’t answer her, of course.

“Hello?” she called again. “Is anybody down there?”

We remained as quiet as mice-or cat burglars, if you prefer.

Finally, after a couple more calls and ensuing silences, Lettie gave up. She went back inside her apartment and slammed the door.

I had broken out in a nervous sweat, but Abby was giggling. “Poor Lettie,” she said. “When I get home, I’ll send her some daisies. But for now, we’d better get to work, you dig?” She stepped away from the door and made a sweeping gesture toward the lock. “It’s all yours, babe. Give that wallet thingamabob a whirl. Maybe the plastic is magic!”

And believe it or not, it

was. I sank into a squat, eased the stiff plastic picture holder between the lock and the doorjamb, gave it a wiggle and a jiggle and-click!-we were in.

BINKY’S APARTMENT WAS SMALL. VERY, very small. The kitchen was the size of a closet and the living room was so cramped Abby and I had to walk in single file to pass through it. Every piece of furniture in the room-the couch, two chairs, a table, and a television set-was set flush against a wall so as not to take up too much space. There was a separate bedroom, but all it could-and, indeed, did-hold was a small chest of drawers and a single bed.

“I don’t get it,” Abby said. “Binky’s a pretty big guy. How can he stand to live in such a tiny place?”

“I don’t know, but I’m glad he does. It won’t take us long to case the joint.” (Humphrey Bogart or James Cagney, take your pick.)

“Where do we start?” Abby asked. “You said you wanted to look for a couple of things. What things?”

“The murder weapon primarily-a butcher knife, or something like that. Also a stash of bloody clothes and a pair of bloody shoes.”

“Ick!” Abby said, making a face. “The knife I understand-it could be cleaned up and put back in the drawer like nothing ever happened. But why the clothes? If Binky was the murderer, wouldn’t he have gotten rid of anything that had Gray’s blood on it?”

“If he was in his right mind,” I said, “and if he had the right opportunity. But those are two very big ifs.” I thought of my own bloody clothes and sandals, which were still sitting in a bag in the back of my coat closet, needing to be disposed of but totally forgotten until this very moment. “We know from Flannagan that the killer took a shower and changed his clothes before he left Gray’s apartment,” I went on, “and we know from our own firsthand observation that he didn’t leave anything-either the weapon or the gory clothes-at the scene.”

“Yeah, so?”

“So what did he do with them?” I questioned. “Maybe he burned them, or buried them, or tossed them in the East River. Or maybe he was so deranged and charged-up and afraid of getting caught that he ran straight home after the killing and hid the whole kit and caboodle in his apartment, figuring he’d get rid of the stuff after the heat blew over.” (Bogart, definitely Bogart.)

“Okay, okay! I hear you!” Abby said, shushing me up with her dismissive hand gestures. “That’s enough talking. We’re wasting time. You take the kitchen, I’ll start here in the living room.”

“Hey, wait a minute! Why the big rush? You said Binky would be gone all day. There’s no reason to hurry. I think we should take it real slow and do a very careful, thorough search of the premises. This is the only chance we’re ever going to get, and we can’t afford to do a sloppy job. This is really, really important!”