"She did not?"
"No, sir. She did not." Treya and Zachary still slept.
Glitsky had no luck running down the car. It had not been reported stolen, and it was not listed among the city's towed vehicles. He had called around to nearby public garages, where she might have leased a parking space. Nothing. This, in itself, Glitsky thought, was provocative. Where was the darn thing? He placed a call to traffic and ran a check on the booted vehicles, and struck out there, too. Odd. Although he knew it was entirely possible that someone had boosted the car one fine day and then decided-hey, a Mercedes-to keep it. D'Amiens, being dead and all, wouldn't be likely to report it stolen.
But what Glitsky did get was an address where D'Amiens had lived at one time, when she registered her car. Embarrassed for not having discovered it earlier, when it had always been as close as a computer check with the DMV, he reminded himself that the French woman had never really assumed any prominence in his investigations. She was the invisible victim, an adjunct to Paul Hanover, nobody in her own right.
That's probably what she still was, he thought, but at least here was a trail he hadn't been down. It might take him somewhere. Or maybe it would lead him to 235 Eleventh Avenue and stop there. With something of a start, he realized that the place wasn't four blocks from where he sat at his kitchen table. In five minutes, he'd written a note to Treya, should she wake up. He was just taking a walk around the block. He'd be back in twenty minutes.
Outside, the day hadn't gotten any nicer. A thick cloud cover hung low over the city, and the fine drizzle of an hour before held visibility to a quarter mile or so. Glitsky wore his favorite weathered, brown-leather flight jacket with the faux-fur collar. He walked with his hands in his pockets, taking long strides, his shoulders hunched against the cold.
Like most ofthe other buildings in the neighborhood- indeed, like Glitsky's own-the place was an upper-lower duplex, with D'Amiens's address as the street-level unit. He went to the small covered entryway and rang the doorbell, its gong reverberating. After no one answered, he peered through one of the small glass panes in the door, and could make out some furniture, a rug and a bookshelf in a home that seemed to be very much like his own.
"Hello?" An old woman's tremulous voice with a Brooklyn accent echoed down from above and behind him. "They're not home. They're working. Can I help you?"
Looking up into the stairway that led to the upper unit, he stayed below on the bottom step. As a large black man, Glitsky knew that the welcome mat wasn't automatically out for him. He got out his wallet, opened it to his badge, and said, "I'm with the police department. Do you mind if I come up?"
"They're not in trouble, are they? They seem like such nice people." Then, with another thought. "Or dead, are they? Oy, tell me they're not dead. God, not again."
Glitsky stopped on the fifth step. "Again?"
"My last tenant, Missy. Such a nice girl. An officer comes…" She made a hopeless gesture. "And just like that, he tells me she's gone. Lost in a fire."
Until this moment, Glitsky had been under the impression that Hanover's fiancee had been residing at the house on Alamo Square. But apparently she had kept this address as well. Still, he wanted to be sure. "Missy D'Amiens, you're talking about?"
"God rest her soul."
"Yes." He touched the mezuzah on the doorpost. "You're Jewish, I see. So am I."
She squinted at him, not at all sure she believed him.
"Abraham Glitsky." He extended his hand, which she gingerly took.
"Ruth Guthrie."
"And actually, I was hoping to talk to somebody about Missy D'Amiens."
She was squinting at him. "You're really Jewish?"
"Baruch atah Adonai.. he said. Glitsky had had his bar mitzvah many years before, and he attended synagogue with his father several times a year, the High Holy Days. He could still spout liturgical Hebrew when the occasion demanded. His scarred and weathered face worked its way to a smile.
"Well, come in then out of this soup," Mrs. Guth-rie said. "Can I get you something warm? Some coffee, maybe, tea?"
"Tea sounds good, thank you."
"Go in. Sit, sit. I'm right behind you."
Taking a seat in one of the slipcovered chairs in the living room, he heard her running water in the kitchen, then the "click click click" of the gas starter on the stove. In less than a minute she appeared with empty cups and saucers, sugar and cream, and some cookies on a tray. "When the kettle whistles, you'll excuse me." She sat down.
"So you own this place?" he asked.
"Since 1970, if you can believe. My Nat bought it as an investment."
"Nat," Glitsky said. "My father's name is Nat, too."
She pointed at him. "Now you are teasing me."
He held up his right hand. "I swear to you."
After a second or two, she decided to believe him. She sat back on the couch. "All right, Abraham son of Nathaniel, how can I help you?"
It didn't take him three minutes to acquaint her with where he was. This wasn't really official. She might have even seen something about the case in the newspapers over the past months, but there were some other issues about Paul Hanover's estate that related to Missy D'Amiens. Unfortunately, all efforts to contact her next of kin had been in vain.
"I know. Some of your police colleagues came and asked me about that right after it happened. But I didn't know anybody else who knew her."
"When she moved in here, did she fill out any paperwork?"
"Sure. Nat always said trust everybody, but make sure they sign the papers."
"So she had references?"
Mrs. Guthrie gave a sad little laugh. "For all the good." "What do you mean?"
"Well, they were all in French. She read them to me in English, translated, but you know, she could just as well have made them all up. What am I going to do, call and check references? Anyway, Nat was gone and she seemed nice and she had the money. Ahh, there's the whistle."
She went again to the kitchen. Glitsky got up and followed her. "So she had a job?"
"Yes. Where was it now?" She poured the water into a kettle. "Lipton okay?"
"Fine," he said. "Her job?"
"Just a minute. It's coming." She turned and led him back to the living room. "Ah ha! Here it is," she exclaimed. "What's the name of that place? Arrgh. Ah. Beds and Linens and Things, something like that. You know the one. Almost downtown."
Glitsky did know it. It was a huge warehouse store for household goods, with perhaps hundreds of employees. Glitsky, thinking that this would be the next step in this trail, found himself asking if she paid her rent with checks.
Mrs. Guthrie thought, sipped tea, and said yes. "You wouldn't have kept any of the stubs, would you? She might have had something left in the bank when she died."
She nodded. "Another thing Nat said. You don't throw it away. You store it. God bless him, he was right. Those tax bastards. But wait, it was just last year, right? Her folder would still be right here, in my files."
In the courtroom, Cuneo was still on the stand as Rosen's witness. The fireworks from his earlier testimony were mere prologue. They hadn't even gotten to any of the evidence. But after another recess, that was about to change.
"Inspector Cuneo, were you specifically looking for something when you made your search of the defendant's home?"
"Of course. You can't get a warrant without a list of specific items you're looking for." Cuneo and the jury were already on familiar terms. Now, the helpful instructor, he turned to face the panel. "The list of items you're looking for, it's part of the search warrant."
"Okay," Rosen said, "and what did you list on the warrant for your first search?"
"The clothes she'd been wearing on the night of the fire."
"And you found such clothing?"
"Yes. In the closet and also the hamper in the master bedroom. The tennis shoes she'd been wearing, along with the pants and the blue shirt."