7:47 A.M.
Frank Murphy stayed busy on a cell phone call to Sergeant Marty Keane, the third member of their homicide team.
Flo Ott sat in the backseat next to Senator-elect Cecil King.
Frank turned around. “You all right back there?”
“Yes,” Flo said. “Why?”
“Just got a hit. Nothing to do with the Double-A Committee, Senator. But it’s near you, Flo. Some crazy perp right around the corner from where you live. Bashed a guy’s head in on Twelfth Street. You know the factory condos?”
“Sure.”
“In the courtyard, maybe four, five o’clock this morning. The body was discovered at five-thirty by a lady going early to work. A bond trader.”
Flo said, “Senator, how about we drop you back at the office and meet you there later? A lot of people we got to talk to on Twelfth Street. And they’re going to be very pissed off. They all want to get to work. Not to mention what a bashed-in body does to their condo values.”
“Who was he?” Cecil said.
“Owen Smith,” said Frank. “Anyway, that’s his legal name. His business name was Ballz Busta. You know that rap guy in the Russian vodka ads? Him. A star. He lives, or lived, up the other end of Park Slope with his wife, three kids, and her mother. In a big brownstone on Montgomery Place. Servants, the works.”
“What’s he doing on Twelfth Street?” Flo said.
“One of his girlfriends, according to Marty. Busta kept her in an apartment he owned there in the factory condos. And now she’s going bananas. Better hang on. With the press all over this, the block will be crawling with jerks.”
“In that case,” Cecil said, “I’ll definitely meet you back at the office.”
A murder scene was no place where the new senator-elect relished being hounded by media.