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seemed eerily quiet. The Harlem River was hard by them, lapping away slowly. Vasquez needed two passes to find the scene, hidden behind a hairpin turn around a hurricane fence that was a magnet for trash. The old Ford’s headlights lit up some strands of crime-scene tape, waving idly where they had been broken, but still long and bright. Guthrie had her douse the lights before they climbed out, and then they stood for a minute, allowing their eyes to adjust to the gloom. Bowman had been murdered in a quiet, dark corner of the city.
    The river added a tangy smell to the garbage. Cars buzzed and whirred distantly on the bridge. In the darkness, the lined columns could have been the arched nave of a church, with the insects quietly whispering prayers. Fragments of tape formed a communion rail around the altar of a green Dumpster. Graffiti made a resplendent iconostasis along the columns and abutment. Guthrie used a small flashlight. They searched the ground around the Dumpster. Amid the broken glass and litter, a few evidence flags remained pinned around a dark stain in the thirsty dust.
    â€œSee anything else?” Guthrie asked.
    Vasquez shook her head. She kicked a bottle.
    A laugh floated from the darkness. “Expecting a party?” The voice sounded half-cracked and drunk.
    â€œIn this part of the city, a wake, at least,” Guthrie called back.
    â€œThem tight-ass micks don’t drink to the dead no more.”
    Quiet followed. A bottle gurgled faintly.
    â€œYou’re out here a lot, aren’t you?” the little man called.
    Some gravel rattled. “You ain’t no cop.”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œDidn’t think so. Cops ain’t got pretty girls for partners.”
    â€œYou got a face out there?” Vasquez demanded.
    â€œWhat? For you to punch? Too drunk for that.” More laughter.
    Guthrie kicked slowly through a pile of trash while Vasquez muttered threats.
    â€œSo? You want to know about the little girl? That’s it?”
    â€œYou know something?” Guthrie called.
    More laughter, and then the thud of an empty bottle. “She had a wad in her pocket. I been drunk all week.”
    Guthrie’s face tightened; he waved at Vasquez to stay out of it. “You came on it after, or were you near when it went down?”
    â€œThis my spot, little man.” For a minute, silence threatened. Then gravel sounded from another direction. “He came in here slow. I felt he was creeping ill, so I dee-deed. I look back, he’s already playing with the girl. He’s posing her for the fashion show. I didn’t know he had the pistol, then, bang !” Stones rattled, and something heavy slid in gravel. “ Bang! Not little firecrackers, something heavy!” Footsteps followed after cracked laughter. “He looked around, after. That kinda spooked me, like he could see or something.”
    â€œWhat he looked like?” Vasquez demanded.
    â€œLooked like?” Laughter was punctuated by gasps and rattling gravel. The voice was farther away. “I ain’t no wit-ness!”
    â€œWe gotta get him!” Vasquez hissed.
    Guthrie shook his head. “Relax, will you? Don’t chase squirrels. Squirrels come back for nuts.” The little man strolled back to the car. Vasquez hesitated a moment, then followed.

 
    CHAPTER THREE
    Early the next morning, Guthrie picked Vasquez up in front of her parents’ tenement apartment on Henry Street. The traffic on the Lower East Side was as thick as cool syrup on the streets and on the sidewalks as the workingmen walked to catch their trains. The tenements emerged from darkness as shades of gray, sparkling slowly in the sunshine. On the way downtown, the detectives drank coffee, and Vasquez finished waking. She aimed a few scowls at the little man while she searched for the bottom of her cup.
    â€œ Viejo, that was crazy to let the drunk get away,” she said.
    â€œMaybe,” he