CHAPTER FOUR

“Stand back, everyone, give him some air…”

Jimmy cleared the area around the table, focusing all of his attention on Casey Crais. The man’s brown eyes bulged from their sockets, but his body had ceased its violent gyrations. Relief spread through Jimmy as he realized the playwright was alive and breathing on his own, as if he was unaware of what had transpired in the last minute. Jimmy helped loosen his tie and undid the top button of his shirt. Casey heaved once, coughed up a foamy spittle that dribbled down the side of his cheeks. Jimmy felt a presence beside him. He turned to see Welly Calloway, a cocktail napkin in a hand shaking with nerves.

Jimmy took hold of it, wiping at Casey’s face. He coughed again, and then was able to sit up. He shook his head, as though to clear away the confusion he felt.

“You okay, Casey?” Welly asked.

“Uh, yeah, I think…” He stopped; Jimmy watched as the man surveyed the scene.

While everyone assembled had given them space, none had cleared out, so the apartment above the Calloway Theatre was still chock full of the cast and crew and friends of the production. All of them were staring down, none saying a word but all looking worried, perhaps scared. It was the second strange incident of the day. Drama for them should only take place on a stage.

“Can you stand?” Jimmy asked.

“Not sure. My legs feel like rubber.”

“Maybe we can help you up, get you off the floor at least, in a chair.”

Jimmy waved over two of the stagehands he’d spoken with earlier and the three of them gently took hold of Casey and led him over to a soft chair that was part of the original furniture collection. A puff of dust came off the red cushion as Casey settled down. The guys then moved away, and with Welly’s urging, suggested to the others that the party was over; it was time for all to get some rest.

“After all, that was only the first preview. We have a long run planned,” Welly, the ever-hopeful producer said.

When the man with the money speaks, everyone else listens. The old apartment emptied quickly, leaving just Jimmy, Welly, and a still shaken Casey Crais. Jimmy went over to the bar area where he poured a glass of still water, and returned with it. Casey took hold of it and drank it down without complaint. He set the glass down between his legs, sighed as he put his head back. Color had returned to his cheeks. The danger, if that was even the right word, was over. Time to find out what had gone down while Jimmy was fending off a drunken Remy’s advances.

“Can you talk, Casey?”

“Yes, yes…I…I just don’t know what happened. I mean, I’ve never fainted before in my life. To fall to the floor like that, writhe about…I must have looked a fool.”

“Do you think someone put something in your drink?”

Casey shook his head quickly. “It was a fresh glass. I hadn’t even taken a sip.”

“And besides, his champagne came from the same bottle as the one I drank from,” Welly said. “All of us who were standing there, Fitzroy, Havers our director, a few of the other actors. One of the dressers. We were about to toast to the success of the first preview…”

“When I was pulled aside,” Casey said.

“By who?”

“The doorman, Reno. He appeared from behind and tapped me on the shoulder. Then he passed me…well, this…which I suppose will explain why I reacted the way I did.” He paused, reaching into his suit jacket pocket. Casey withdrew an envelope that looked all too familiar. It had a twin, one Jimmy had back in his office.

Jimmy took hold of it, immediately noting it was the same paper stock as the earlier note. But this time there was a name across the front of the envelope, Casey Crais, appearing in a simple, even elegant black script. Nothing suspicious about it, a harmless invitation; until Jimmy slid the card out from inside the envelope.

It read in stylish calligraphy: DREAM ACHIEVED. IS ENDLESS SLEEP NEXT?

There was a smear of what could be blood beneath the letters, like someone was taunting “go ahead and find me.”

“Damn,” Welly Calloway said, vehemence behind his simple word.

“Where did Reno say he got it?” Jimmy asked.

“He said he found it taped to the stage door while he was making his nightly rounds. Just like the first.”

“But who the hell is doing this, and what are they trying to prove?” Welly asked.

Those were answers that would have to wait. Jimmy needed more information first, and he knew he had to talk with the doorman himself. He also wanted to analyze it, compare it with the first note. Why would the first note be sent without its intended receiver identified, while the second directly targeted Crais? He’d have them both tested at a lab run by a friend. Run a few tests, check for fingerprints, any dirt or residue on the envelopes or cards, confirm the red smear was blood, anything that might unveil a needed clue. Regardless of the results, though, one thing was certain: their mystery writer had amped up the threat, zeroed in on his victim. Jimmy hoped that’s how it remained: a threat, one that had no follow through.

“Jimmy, this is getting serious. I hate to even consider such a move, given all we’ve worked for, but,” Welly said with fear evident in his voice, “should we cease the show until this is resolved? For Casey’s safety…and the rest of the cast? Given what happened tonight, and let’s not forget earlier today the light that fell from the rafters. Suddenly this isn’t funny.”

“Threats are never funny. And accidents are not always as they appear.”

A firm expression settled of Welly’s face. “I’ll announce to the cast, tomorrow’s preview is canceled…”

“No!”

It was Casey Crais who spoke up, leaping out of the chair with a sudden burst of energy. “We can’t, not after only performing the first show. Think of the gossipers, the speculation on those horrible chat boards online…it will kill us, Welly. To cancel the second preview will mean we are giving in to the…pardon me, but the fear this mongrel is perpetrating. I’m the only target here: so let’s allow the play to continue.”

Jimmy said nothing. This one wasn’t his call.

“Let me think about it overnight. Now, what do you say we get ourselves out of here? It’s been a long night.”

Casey agreed to the idea of making a decision in the sensible light of day. With their arms linked, Casey accompanied Welly along the creaking floorboards, making their way to the exit. That’s when both men noticed that Jimmy hadn’t moved. He nodded for them to continue.

“Go on ahead. I just want to have a look around.”

“Jimmy, are you sure it’s wise to remain alone up here?”

“It’s what you’re paying me for. Let me do my job.” He paused. “I’ll be fine.”

Wellington Calloway nodded. “Is there something I can do?”

“Tell Reno to stick around. I’ve got a couple of questions for him.”

Both men departed the apartment, their fading footsteps like dying echoes. Soon Jimmy was alone in the apartment. This wasn’t his first visit to this space built atop the theatre, but it had been years. He remembered the stories of Harold Calloway’s ghost still haunting the place. Jimmy McSwain had seen no evidence over the years of anything remotely supernatural; it’s not that he didn’t believe in ghosts, he did, but he just never saw them floating before him. Not even his father’s. He stole a look around the room, its light fixtures from another era making Jimmy feel like he’d stepped through a time portal. If only he really could. He knew where he’d go back to. He’d tell his father on that morning after St. Patrick’s Day that they didn’t need the bagels to complete their breakfast, no need for a deli run. How life would have been different.

Or would it have been? Joseph McSwain had been a marked man, his fate determined by other men. If not the deli, then another place, another time. During a time when Jimmy would not have witnessed it.

Jimmy felt a creeping coldness wrap itself around him. Ghosts swirled in their invisible world, invading his mind. Not just Calloway, not only McSwain. Live ones, too, had invaded the space. Remy had been present tonight, conjuring awful thoughts and memories that should be tucked away. Had Jimmy really remained behind to find a clue on the T13 case, or was he facing his own past? His father, his ex-lover, both breathing down his neck. He shook them off, forcing the Case of Casey Crais to the forefront. He leaned down, his knee to the floor, where he gazed at the broken shards of the champagne glass. Welly had assured him everyone had drank from the same bottle; but was it possible something had been slipped into Casey’s glass? A powder of sorts, to cause him to drop to the floor? He recalled the foam spuming from his mouth.

Jimmy grabbed a few napkins from the table, then picked up the pieces of glass.

Something more for a lab to run tests on. Jimmy had a friend who would work fast.

Jimmy checked his watch. It was nearly one in the morning. Surely Reno wanted to close up the theatre for the night, go home or wherever his nocturnal sojourns took him. As per the union, he was required to be the last person out. Jimmy didn’t want to delay him any further. So he gathered up his clues, the glass and the note card, and made his way downstairs, turning off the dim lights behind him. A quick look back at the suddenly darkened room had him catching a flicker in the distance. He knew no one was there. No one real.

“Jimmy, what’s going on? Hear you got some questions for me.”

Reno Salazar was the night doorman for the Calloway, and he’d worked there for over ten years. He was as steady as Maggie, dependable and trustworthy. A big guy with a jovial laugh, he sat in his chair and watched the monitor, the coming and goings of those associated with the show and those who weren’t, and maybe a football game or two. Jimmy had known him for years, always a stand-up guy.

Jimmy stepped into Reno’s small office just inside the stage door entrance of the theatre. He had a small television, as well as a monitor, which showed various camera angles of the front of the theatre, including the wrought iron gates where everyone buzzed to gain entrance to the backstage area.

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you anyway, before the events of tonight,” Jimmy said.

“Welly informed me I should tell you everything. Anything.”

“The note cards that have been left for the playwright. There have only been two?”

“Far as I know. Only two, left the same way. Taped to the stage door gate.”

Jimmy nodded. “One two days ago, the other tonight. Any estimate on what time?”

“The first one I saw when I came for my shift,” he said. “The second one from tonight, it had to be sometime after the barricades were taken down. The cast came out and signed Playbills after the show before retreating back upstairs for the party. That’s when I made my usual rounds, checked all the doors at the back of the theatre to ensure they were closed. Annie—she’s the front of house security person—had just put the barricades away in the alley before gathering her stuff and saying goodnight. I was alone, right here. I could hear a little of the fun coming from the upstairs in the apartment. But otherwise, all was quiet inside until the stage door buzzed. I thought it was strange, since no one else was expected, and you know, it was after midnight. I had gotten up to do my rounds. Then it buzzed a second time, and that’s when I looked back at the monitor. On the camera, I saw a fleeting figure.”

“What kind of figure?”

“I don’t know…a person. It was dark, and they were wearing dark clothes…like a hood.”

“Can you show me?” Jimmy asked, edging forward into Reno’s space.

“Sure.”

Reno nimbly worked his computer’s keyboard, the digital picture on the monitor going backward. Pixels buffered until he’d gotten to the point he wanted. “Here, take a look.”

Jimmy did, leaning in close. He saw an empty sidewalk, the occasional passage of feet down 47th Street. Nothing out of the ordinary, just regular New Yorkers out late. But then came the shadowy figure Reno had mentioned; whoever it was slinked over to the gate and quickly attached the note card with the aid of tape already attached to the envelope. Indeed, the person seemed to be dressed in a willowy, dark cloak, with a shrouded hood covering the face. Jimmy couldn’t even see eyes peeking out; just a pair of hands, skeletal in appearance. Hard to tell whether the person was a man or a woman. The cloak masked the body’s frame.

“Can you rewind it?” Jimmy asked.

“Sure.”

Jimmy watched the action unfold again. Nothing was different, nothing new stood out to him other than confirming the fact that the person came prepared with the tape seemingly already attached to the envelope. Not only did the note’s message indicate premeditation, so too was the chosen method of delivery.

Jimmy thanked Reno for his assistance, and then decided to let the man finally close up. He slid out the backstage area, walking down the alley until he reached the iron gates. He was on the opposite side of where the mystery person had been, a fitting place right now. Because they were on opposite sides of the law, a fact Jimmy was determined to see bridged. He opened the gate and as he emerged into the dark night of a Manhattan September night, the moon captured his shadow. He saw it stretch down the street long before he could, and again he thought of the willowy figure in the dark hood. Ideas of ghosts danced once more in his head. Jimmy McSwain realized that those who dwelled in the spirit world didn’t have to be dead.

§ § §

The private laboratory Jimmy knew was in Brooklyn, he’d used them often enough, knowing they would test whatever he wanted, no questions asked. That Wednesday morning, he set off for the hipster borough, but he actually had two missions on his mind and he hoped he would have enough time to complete both before he was due back to the theatre for that night’s performance. After a few hours of sleeping on it—and no doubt a desperate plea from Casey Crais—Wellington Calloway, producer, had called Jimmy and said he’d opted to let the show go on.

Now, it was eight-thirty and Jimmy was out among the nine-to-fivers. He grabbed the #2 train at Times Square, venturing along the rails to the outer borough, getting off at the Atlantic Avenue/Barclays Center station. He emerged into a day of bright sunshine and high skies. He felt the early taste of autumn, a noticeable chill in the air. It felt good, like his lungs could fully open after a summer of stifling humidity. Downtown Brooklyn was hopping, the sidewalks filled with people whose main concern was their cell phones; no one was paying attention to whether or not someone might be in their pathway. Jimmy gratefully slipped down a side street, where he came before the offices of Atlantic Ave Laboratories, a block-like structure made of white brick. He buzzed the gated front door, waited, then heard it unlatch. Seconds later he entered a small, antiseptic reception area. A bottle blonde with a big face and bigger arms and a sour expression sat behind the chipped desk.

“Hey Merline, having a good morning?”

“As good as they get,” she said. “How’s life in the big city, Jimmy?”

“You live in NYC too, hon.”

“Nobody in Manhattan believes that.”

He couldn’t deal with her outer borough insecurities today. Instead, he slipped across her metal desk a manila envelope. Inside it was both of the threatening note cards and envelopes Casey Crais had received, each in its own plastic bag; another plastic bag held the shards of the champagne glass. “I texted Manny on my way here, he knows what to do.” Manny Marquez had done work for Jimmy over the years, most of it yielding productive results. It was amazing how careless guilty people were, careless or oblivious or both to the fact they had left behind evidence of their transgressions. He was looking for fingerprints, saliva, anything with DNA. Of course he then needed a suspect to connect it to. But it was early days in the case. First things should come first.

“Let me guess,” Merline said with a sigh. “It’s a rush.”

“When is a lab expected to be lackadaisical?”

“You know some big words for a street tough, Jimmy.”

“Word a day toilet paper,” he said, “Today’s sheet was triskaidekaphobia.”

She just snorted as she made the effort to get up from her put-upon chair. Jimmy watched as the cushion tried to right itself as her big butt turned toward him. She put the envelope in a metal tray with Manny’s name on it. “He’ll be here in an hour. We’ll see what we can do. He’ll call you later today but probably tomorrow. Manny’s nephew has football practice later.”

“We all have lives,” he said.

“Yeah, sure,” Merline said, deflating the cushion again. She looked up with blank eyes.

“You’re the best,” Jimmy said with a twinkle in his eyes.

“Bet you say that to all the girls.”

Merline didn’t know Jimmy had a different predilection and he wasn’t about to update his status now. Sometimes it was good to let others retain their imaginations. He wished her well and seconds later was back outside, breathing in the cool air after the staleness of the lab. First of his errands done, he made his way back to the subway, took the #2 back a couple of stops, where he got off at Borough Hall. He supposed he could have walked, but he was under a time constraint and Brooklyn wasn’t the only borough he wished to hit today.

He walked down Montague Street, a commercial street in Brooklyn Heights with an array of stores and restaurants, representing pretty much any ethnicity you could hunger for. What you couldn’t find anymore was an old Irish pub named Eammon’s which had gone the way of the Dodo bird. It’s where he usually could find the man he sought. Instead, Jimmy made a right turn and walked up two more blocks to a quiet, tree-lined street named Joralemon. He always liked the sound of it on his tongue. Made him think of Superman’s father. Which made him then think of his own father. All knowing, flying about the universe, strong even in death.

Jimmy approached a small brick brownstone, pushing open the gate before approaching the door to the basement apartment. He pressed a bell, heard it ring loudly inside. It was the only sound on an otherwise empty street. He didn’t even see any dog walkers or mothers out with children in strollers. He waited a minute, giving the man who lived inside time to make his way to the door. But at last he arrived, opening it with a growing smile.

“Hey, Ralphie,” Jimmy said.

“You said before noon.”

Jimmy checked his phone. It was ten-forty-two. “Which it is.”

Ralphie Henderson harrumphed. “I heard noon.”

“Sorry. Pressed for time.”

“I should suffer?”

Jimmy took note of the man’s appearance. He was dressed in a pair of gray slacks and a white dress shirt and sweater, the remaining wisps of hair on his bald head patted down with whatever product he used. He could detect the clasps of suspenders that kept up Ralphie’s pants. And most importantly, a fire was lit inside his chocolate eyes. The dark skin of his face was freshly shaven. He wasn’t fooling anyone with his words, certainly not Jimmy. Ralphie Henderson was ready for adventure.

But wasn’t he always. Even a retired NYPD detective never forgot the hunt. Even if age had slowed him down, his mind was as sharp as ever, and he was often a sounding board for Jimmy on present-day cases, as well as the voice of reason when a hyped-up Jimmy thought he discovered a lead on his father’s murder. Ralphie, more than anyone else in Jimmy’s life, represented a perfect balance of past and present. He often kept Jimmy grounded. But more often than not he encouraged Jimmy to dig deeper, where no one else dared venture. He’d upturned many things on different cases with that approach, but not always on the Forever Haunt. Joseph McSwain’s murderer still roamed free. His ex-partner, even after all these years, still sought the truth, too.

“Come in, Jimmy. Let me put the finishing touches on getting ready. Perhaps then you’ll tell me what this is all about.”

Jimmy entered the small apartment, felt the low ceilings close in on him and opted to take a seat on the arm of the sofa while Ralphie disappeared into the bedroom. “I’ll fill you in on the subway ride,” Jimmy called out to him.

“Subway, hmm. We going somewhere?”

“Queens,” Jimmy said.

There was no response to that, and that was just fine. Jimmy used the empty time to gaze about Ralphie’s apartment. It had been years since he’d been here, since they usually met up at Eammon’s. Ralphie hadn’t yet found a suitable new local, and besides, it was still a bit early to imbibe. Five o’clock somewhere, but not in New York City—not even Brooklyn, he supposed Merline would say. So Jimmy focused on what passed for artwork on the walls of the apartment. Front pages from the New York Post, their big bold headlines screaming out at him, most of them having to do with one crime or another, some of them Ralphie’s cases. Many of the earlier pages were framed and behind glass, but in later years it seemed Ralphie had given up on such decorative decorum, and he’d just taped them to the wall. They were yellowed from exposure, torn at the corners. The most famous headline still made Jimmy smile: Headless Body Found in Topless Bar. Nothing said New York better than a Post headline.

But it was a particular front page set amidst a history of NYC crimes and scandals that caught Jimmy’s eye. A recent one, the paper not yet weathered, the print not yet faded. He knew it well because he possessed it too, tucked away in a thick file in his closet. But it stared out at him now, almost taunting him. He got up from the sofa, made his way over. His fingers traced the outline of the letters, like a blind man reading braille. Or maybe allowing the letters to sink into his soul even deeper, settling in. NYPD HERO STOPS CITY CRIME WAVE. A photo of a hostage scene on West 34th Street accompanied it, as did a small inset photograph of said hero cop. None other than Captain Francis X Frisano stared back at him. Jimmy stood silently, his mind frozen. Perhaps his heart, too.

Finally, it was Ralphie who pulled him back to the moment.

“So this trip of ours today, it’s about that?”

Jimmy realized he’d been holding his breath and he exhaled. Turning, he saw Ralphie beside him, so close he could feel his breath upon his neck.

“What else?”

“You’ll tell me the details in good time.”

“On the subway. It’s a bit of a hike. You up for it?”

“Like you said. Queens. You are a man of your word, Jimmy.” He paused. “So am I.”

So Queens it was, and the unlikely duo set off, dipping down into the subway system at the Jay Street station, catching the A train for a series of stops before transferring at Broadway Junction, where they then caught a just arriving J train. Still, it was slow going on the stairs, mostly because of Ralphie’s limited mobility but never once did either complain. Jimmy did his best to slow his pace and not make Ralphie feel like a burden. He not only wanted this man on this journey, he needed him. In truth, there was only one person on this planet with whom he could discuss his father’s murder, and that was this man sitting beside him in the near-empty car. People came and went on the subway, just as in life, but it was like he and Ralphie were on an endless ride, destination unknown, not unlike the identity of his father’s killer. Stations flew by, lights in the tunnels rushing by like hurried shadows, and eventually they went from the dark trenches of the underground to the sun-specked outside, the rattling J train rising onto elevated tracks, hurtling them toward their desired stop at 85th Street/Forest Parkway. A neighborhood called Woodhaven, and it was very possible clues existed here. If he could connect with the sister of Rashad Assan.

“You say she called you? This Seetha?”

“Last month. Said she had information for me. Then hung up just as fast.”

Ralphie nodded. “And Captain Frisano told you how to find her?”

Jimmy nodded. Felt a knob of emotion hearing Frisano’s name, the same as when he’d seen his photograph on the front page of the paper at Ralphie’s place. “Trying to help. His way.”

Ralphie pursed his lips, silence filling the space between them.

“Something not to your liking, Ralphie?”

“So the cops, for them this is a closed case.”

“Rashad Assan was the deli killer. The cops stopped him.”

“Frisano killed him.”

“You have the headline on your wall.”

“Where do you keep that front page, Jimmy?”

Jimmy turned his head, checking out the approaching station. Thankfully it was the one they wanted and he was saved by the conductor’s announcement. The clacking train rolled into the station, and the two men rose, got out when the doors opened and stayed where they were as the train then rattled noisily out of the elevated station. Jimmy couldn’t imagine how the people in the apartments above Jamaica Avenue lived with the non-stop screech of wheels. Maybe the rent was that good. Maybe they grew immune to it.

Jimmy and Ralphie ventured downstairs and emerged onto busy Jamaica Avenue, a two-lane street awash with stores offering up a variety of discounted items and ethnic foods, as well as old-school bakeries, laundromats, and an array of fast-food chains and classic diners. The people on the streets offered a varied mix—white, brown and black going about their business with bustling determination. Jimmy turned down a narrow side street, walking south toward an address he had memorized. Two blocks later, they found 88th Avenue, slipping past a church named St. Thomas; Jimmy was glad to know it wasn’t St. Joseph’s. That might have been too much.

“You okay, Jimmy?”

“I just don’t know what we’ll find.”

“We may not find anything,” he said.

“Why should today be any different?”

It was a telling statement that diminished Jimmy’s hopes. Over the years, he had pursued so many false leads, too many loose ends, and none of them could be tied together. He’d found only obstacles, stumbling over them without results. Today could be more of the same. Today could come up as empty as his mother’s bed. She had loved Joseph McSwain, devoted her life to him. She’d been without him for nearly fifteen years, and while she had her job and she had her kids, and soon a grandchild, how Jimmy wished to give her the closure she sought, even when she never asked for it. Memories kept her warm at night. Still, it wasn’t just Jimmy who lived to give his father new breath.

At last they came to a two-level house along the narrow stretch of 88th Avenue, its frame attached to the house next door. That’s how they built them in the post-war period, as families expanded and the population grew. First thing Jimmy noticed was the empty porch. No chair, no flower pots, just chipped paint slats. Still, that didn’t stop him from ringing the door bell, which echoed from inside, as though the rooms were a mirror image of the porch. He listened, Ralphie staying quiet as well. He rang again, waited, then knocked. From all indications, no one was home, and hadn’t been for a while. Ralphie moved over to the front bay window, peering in with cupped hands.

“Anything?” Jimmy asked.

“Don’t see a soul. No sign of any activity in the living room. No glasses or cups left lying around. It looks almost like the place has been cleaned.”

“Wiped clean?”

“You mean trying to hide something?”

“Don’t know. I know next to nothing about this woman,” Jimmy said.

“Seems she wants to keep it that way.”

“She cleared out about two weeks ago.”

Jimmy heard the sound from nearby, turned to see a woman standing on the porch of the house next door, a narrow driveway separating them. She was a light-skinned Hispanic and wore a faded brown housecoat that matched her complexion. Her hair, tied back in a bun, was graying at the temples. A cigarette dangled from her lips, unlit.

“You know her?” Jimmy asked.

“Know her? Not in the sense of how people used to know their neighbors.”

“Seetha Assan,” Jimmy said. “We are talking about the same woman, right?”

“Seetha, yes. Never knew a last name. Real quiet. Kept to herself.”

“She lived alone, Ms.…”

“Mrs. Mrs. Reyes. Occasional guests, but otherwise, yes. She wasn’t there long.”

“Lot of space for a single woman.”

“Those people, they’re rich. All that oil.”

Jimmy assumed she meant a person from the Middle East. From all he’d read about the Assan family, they were proud Pakistanis who had come to the United States many years ago. They were naturalized citizens, their children citizens, all of them hard-working and honest. Which meant they didn’t wear rags on their heads, they didn’t drive taxicabs. Nor did they own oil fields back home. Stereotypes were alive and well right here.

“Anything else you can tell us?” Ralphie asked.

“Like what?” Her tone had gone defensive.

“Something out of the ordinary you might have noticed?”

“Wasn’t nothing ordinary about her. Only thing I knew was she was beautiful, stylish with that long dark hair. She liked clothes, always looked fancy. But like I said, probably all that money from oil. She could afford it.” Mrs. Reyes lit the cigarette, blew smoke in their direction. Thankfully it dissipated before it could reach them. “Oh, and she had a man visit her every once in a while. Young, good-looking, drove a fancy car. Clothes like hers, smelled like money.”

“A boyfriend?”

“Never saw nothing physical between them. But then again,” she said between willowy puffs, “I’m not one of those nosy neighbor types.”

“Of course not, thank you for your time, Mrs. Reyes,” Jimmy said.

“One last question,” Ralphie said, “You said she cleared out a couple weeks ago. Did she leave alone, or with her mystery man?”

“Neither,” she said, “She left with a man in a uniform.”

“What kind of uniform?”

“You know, like a cop.”

Not a cop, like a cop. Jimmy wondered if her differentiation had meaning.