4:46 P.M.
Flo Ott left the Smith family mansion on Montgomery Place.
The sky was darkening and it was starting to drizzle.
The contours of truth, to her constant assessor’s mind, were barely beginning to take shape.
In an unmarked car, discreetly parked around the corner, detective Sergeant Frank Murphy sat waiting for her.
“Ballz Busta was a busy guy,” Frank said as they rode downtown. “Already Marty’s found two more women. In Manhattan.”
Sergeant Marty Keane was the third-ranking member of their unit.
“Where’s Cecil?” Flo said, preventing a killing still her first concern.
“He left his apartment building in one of our cars. He’s back at his office. Waiting for the new DA. And us.”
“New DA already? God-awful timing.”
“Like we got control? The mayor’s just announced it. Jimmy Padino, one of his city hall deputies, hooked the brass ring.”
“I’ve never met him. What’s he done?”
“Cultural affairs, all harmless stuff. The arts-and-crafts department. He and the mayor are old college buddies from Georgetown. They say he’s a drunk. And so they put him in culture. A natural fit, no risk of embarrassment there.”
“And what did we do to deserve him?”
“He’s from Brooklyn. Lives on the other side of the park.”