Up on the patio, one of the guests let out a peal of laughter that sounded exactly like that of the Wicked Witch of the West. Fox glanced over his shoulder then turned back to Robin. His voice lowered, as did his manic energy. He leaned closer. “Whatever you’ve heard about me, New Hope, I want you to know that only half of it’s true. Swear to God.”

In the wee hours of the morning, as Robin bunched her pillow under her chin and opened herself to the oncoming sleep, a voice in the deep recesses of her mind thought to ask the right question.

Which half?

9

THE COFFEE WAS COLD long before it was gone. I poured the final inch onto the snow. A squirrel that had been clinging stock-still to a nearby tree scampered down to investigate. He sniffed at the mocha snow then looked up sharply at me. With attitude. That’s your New York squirrel.

A light snow had started to fall. I was halfway across the park when my cell phone rang. I fished it out of my pocket.

“Where are you?” It was Charlie Burke.

“You’ll never guess. You caught me on a beach in Tahiti. I wish the girls back home would take up this whole grass-skirt thing. It’s a winner.”

“You wish. Come on, where are you?” He sounded urgent.

“I’m in Bryant Park.”

“Well, you want to get up to Central Park right away. To the Boathouse.”

“And why do I want to do this, Charlie?”

“I spoke with Margo earlier today. She told me you’ve been helping that girl that got killed last night.” He paused, and I expected him to say that Margo had also told him we’d had an argument about it, but he didn’t go there. “She says you’re nosing around in the girl’s murder.”

“I never said that.”

“Right. Margo mentioned that, too. But she can tell. My kid’s got good instincts, Fritz. Besides, you don’t always hide things too good.”

“There are people who might consider that a virtue,” I said. “So what’s happening at the park?”

“I’ve been monitoring.” Ever since losing the use of his legs, Charlie had transformed the office in his house into what his wife called the House of Wires. Charlie was more up to speed on computers and the Internet than I’d ever be. He also had two television sets; he kept one tuned to NY1 and used the other for channel surfing. Plus, he monitored the police and fire department frequencies religiously. He went on, “Your girl with the cut throat? Looks like she’s got company.”

I stopped in my tracks. Literally. “There’s been another murder?”

“Somebody out there is a very busy boy,” he said dryly. “Not to mention a very angry one. This doesn’t look good, Fritz.”

“Who says it’s related to Robin Burrell?”

“First officer on the scene got a little too excited just now. Called in a thirty-c then started blabbing, ‘Same as last night, same as last night.’”

Thirty-c is police code for homicide by cutting. I switched directions and angled toward Sixth Avenue. “You said the Boathouse?”

“That’s what I’m hearing.”

“And you got this when?”

“It’s fresh, buddy. Not two minutes ago. You hurry, you’ll beat the mobs.”

I pocketed the phone and took off running.

THEY WERE STILL STRETCHING the tape when I arrived. A crime-scene photographer was leaning against a police van, fiddling with his camera. The snow was coming down a bit harder, and he was shading the camera from getting wet. The body was just off the trail leading up from the small parking area of the Boathouse Café into what’s called the Ramble. If you want to take a curvy path through the woods of Central Park, or if you want to go see rats the size of small dogs, or if having sex with a fellow anonymous adventurer of the same sex is your bag, then the Ramble is your place. The person who had happened upon the body and phoned it in was a pasty-faced blond man with a walrus mustache, a faded Greek fisherman’s cap and leather chaps. I don’t know, maybe he was looking at the rats.

Joseph Gallo was conferring with one of his officers. His long camel coat hung on him beautifully. Of course. He and his fellow officers were standing next to a large boulder, the trail twisting out of sight behind it. Atop the boulder, a pair of crows were pecking angrily at the snow. I waited next to a small tree until Gallo looked up and saw me. He said something to the uniformed cop then stepped over to me.

“Let me guess. You were just cutting through the park on your way to the ice rink.”

“Those aren’t the kind of guesses you can build a career on.”

“You seem to be my brand-new shadow, Malone. What gives?”

“Charlie Burke plucked the thirty-c out of the air. He says it smells like Robin’s killer.”

“Yeah, I was just giving Officer Loudmouth over there a talk about that. I told him next time why don’t you just call the media directly.” He shot his cuffs to tap a finger against his watch. “I give them five minutes tops.”

“You could seal off the park.”

“Haven’t you ever heard of the precious First Amendment? What do you take me for, a stinking Commie?”

“Sorry, Joe. Must’ve confused you with someone else.”

Gallo grunted a laugh. “Believe me, after today I’m going to wish I was someone else. Goddamn back-to-backs not more than eighteen hours apart. This is most definitely not the way we’re supposed to start the New Year.”

“And we’re talking the same killer?” I asked. “You’ve already determined that?”

“We haven’t determined a thing. I only beat you by five minutes. I haven’t even introduced myself to the corpse.”

The lieutenant brushed at the snowflakes settling on his shoulder. “If you want to make yourself invisible, feel free. You’ve got to keep out of the perimeter. I like a clean crime scene.”

I pointed at the boulder. “How about that rock?”

“If you feel like mountaineering.”

Another cop was using a tree next to the boulder as one of his corners for the crime-scene tape. I ducked under the tape and scrambled up to the top of the boulder. With the leaves gone, I had a nice view of Central Park Lake below me, the row of overturned rowboats running along the south shore, the cast-iron Bow Bridge arching over the lake. The intensity of the snow was already increasing, and in just a matter of minutes, the overturned rowboats had already started fading to white. The lake itself was partially covered with a thin film of ice in a shape reminding me of a piece from a jigsaw puzzle. Directly below was the large flat rock where people like to go sunning in warm weather. It was abandoned now, of course, except for a trio of uninterested mallards.

The body was lying about twenty feet from the base of the boulder. I couldn’t see much at first, as a pair of forensics experts and someone in a long black coat were squatting on either side of it. I could see pants legs and a pair of men’s brown dress shoes. Through the legs of the forensics cops, I could make out a large area of bloodstained snow and leaves. As Gallo approached the scene, he looked up to where I was standing. “How’s the view?”

“It’s a man,” I said.

Gallo tapped the side of his head. “We could use a natural like you on the force. What else can you see from up there?”

“Nothing. Your men have the better seats.”

The figure in the long black coat turned and looked up at me. “Some detective.” She rose and gave her lower back a solid stretch. Like the two forensics cops, she was wearing a wool NYPD cap, her short hair tucked in so that none of it would become part of Gallo’s crime scene. Her smirk arrived as if on wings.

“Hello, Detective Lamb,” I said.

She squinted up at me. “Fritz Malone. Long time no see.” Maybe not the strongest Long Island accent I’ve ever heard, but strong enough to defend itself.

“I guess we’ve just been haunting different corners of the city.”

“Yeah, well. No shortage of corners.”