Part 4 (1/2)

She shook the snow from it and pulled a wool hat from her head, letting her brown hair fall to her shoulders. She clomped up the wooden stairs to her second-floor apartment, leaving wet tracks from her heavy boots on the worn carpeting in the stairway.

Five minutes later she was alone in her warm cozy apartment.

Her wet outer clothes were drying above an old bathroom. tub.

India tea was brewing in the small kitchen and a Mozart piano concerto was playing softly on a KLH system. She listened to the music as she made herself comfortable. On the walls of the apartment were numerous pastel-shaded prints, mostly nineteenth- and twentieth-century European impressionists.

She wasn't a bad artist herself. Had her past and childhood not been a factor, she might have been torn between pursuing either an academic career or a career as a painter. She had her father's gifted hands, she told herself. Gifted at creation, gifted in destruction.

She shuddered at the thought of him. The source of her greatest joy, the creation of art on a blank canvas, was also the root of her deepest fear. She could never exhibit her work, at least not under current conditions. She'd had several invitations to stage private showings.

But why bother? Her own name would turn into a death sentence.

She walked to the bedroom. The cla.s.sical music from the next room was faint but still audible. She stood for a moment before the large bedroom window. The snow outside was still falling beautifully and lay untouched on the quiet street. It was illuminated by the soft light of the streetlamp.

She sighed. Snow. And she'd have to travel, anyway.

From a closet she withdrew a single suitcase. Within twenty-four hours she'd be gone, missing the last two weeks of the semester. Her professors, she hoped, would understand. If she fared well she'd be back within a few weeks, able then to see her thesis through to its conclusion.

But meanwhile, there was unfinished family business. Victoria Sandler was dead.

Leslie began to pack.

Chapter 3

Why did a man take off his wedding ring and slip it into his jacket? If there were two reasons, neither Sha.s.sad nor Hearn could think of the second one. No matter. The presence of the ring and its location in the victim's pocket indicated that there had been at least one extra woman in his life. Within the band was engraved: K.FM. R.

-6-12-72.

The report from the Medical Examiner arrived at the Nineteenth Precinct toward three that afternoon. Sha.s.sad was the first to glance through it. The report confirmed what he and Hearn had already surmised. The Seventy-third Street victim had had s.e.xual intercourse less than an hour before he'd been transformed from a live man into a butchered corpse.

”The p.e.n.i.s” said Sha.s.sad philosophically as he handed the report 'nd's tragic flaw. If this guy had kept his p.r.i.c.k in to Hearn, 'is his pants, or at least home where it belonged, he'd probably be alive today.”

”Probably,” mumbled Hearn, reading the report.

”So' said Sha.s.sad aloud and ruminatively, 'he's s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g around till three in the morning. Then he gets up, gets dressed, goes down to the street, and meets a reception committee.” Sha.s.sad paused.

”Why did he leave? Is he going to come sneaking home at an hour like that?”

”Maybe he's divorced,” offered Hearn.

”If he's divorced why does he carry the ring at all?”

”Habit?” shrugged Hearn.

”Habits are for nuns. I say he was still married Neither man was satisfied. But it was essential that they toss ideas back and forth like tennis b.a.l.l.s, keeping it up until something made sense. Knowing each other so well for so many years, they'd refined this Socratic method of crime detection to a fine art.

”Why is he leaving at three A.M.?” mused Hearn, leaning back in his chair.

”Maybe his girl friend's husband arrived home unexpectedly.”