HEMINGWAY AND Phelps flanked Dr. Neal Winslow’s door with two uniformed policemen. Alfred, the building manager, was along to make sure they didn’t cause any damage.
Phelps gave one grave robotic nod and pushed the buzzer. A long peal of songbirds broke out on the other side of the oak door.
Phelps rolled his eyes.
They waited thirty seconds.
No footsteps.
Phelps pressed his finger to the button again. Another peal of songbirds.
Followed by more silence.
“So you’re not sure if he’s home or not?” Phelps asked Alfred.
“We don’t keep tabs on our residents; this is America.”
Phelps rolled his eyes just as Hemingway’s phone vibrated. She answered.
“Detective Hemingway, Ed Schlesinger. I just finished with Judge Lester and you have your warrants. I’ve e-mailed it to you.”
“Thank you, sir.” She hung up, fired up her e-mail, and held the warrant out for Alfred to read.
“Which means?” he asked.
“That we are going to open this door.”
———
Hemingway, Phelps and the two uniformed officers swept through the place. Alfred stood by the door. When they finished, they met back in the living room, amid the glass-eyeballed birds.
Hemingway pulled out her phone and dialed Alan Carson. “Yeah, it’s Hemingway, can you get a lock on Dr. Wins-low’s cell phone? I’ve got an arrest warrant for him.”
“Hold on.”
Hemingway nodded off the seconds while Phelps looked around.
He opened desk drawers, looked behind paintings, doing a fast inventory of the place. He quickly branched out from the living room, one of the uniforms following him.
Carson came back on. “He’s moving too fast to be on foot right now. Fifth Avenue and East Sixtieth.”
“Keep somebody on him. We’re on the wa—”
From somewhere deep in the apartment, Phelps hollered, “Hemi!”
He was in the kitchen, standing in front of one of the floor-to-ceiling Sub-Zeros. The uniform was puking in the sink.
Phelps held a shoe by a lace and it dangled in his hand, spinning in the weird light cast up by the open freezer drawer. In his other hand he held a knapsack with a Canadian flag patch sewn to it.
Even from the other side of the room, Hemingway could see the dark crescent on the leather sole of the shoe.
But the big news was the freezer.
The cop was still letting go, his supper coming up in spasms.
Hemingway stepped forward and looked down into the lighted box.
Inside, neatly wrapped in cellophane, were parts of children.