SEAN MULDOON’S CELL PHONE rang, and he answered it.
“Sean, this is Bacchetti.”
“Good evening, sir.”
“Where are you?”
“Just finishing dinner at P. J. Clarke’s,” Muldoon replied. He asked for the bill.
“Good. I know this isn’t task force work, but I want you and your partner to go over to the Lexington hotel and check out a report of gunshots fired.”
“Has a patrol car checked it out?”
“I want this checked out by detectives, and report to me.”
“Yes, sir.”
Dino told him Faith’s story. “I want you to get into the building, go into that office, and see if anybody’s there, and if there is, see if he has any bullet holes in him.”
“Yes, sir, we’re on our way.” Muldoon put some cash on the table, took the receipt, and stood up. “Let’s go,” he said to Calabrese. “I’ll brief you on the way.”
CALABRESE PARKED THE CAR outside the hotel and pulled down the driver’s sun visor, to show the police ID on the back. They went to the front doors of the hotel and tried each one; the last one was unlocked, and they went inside, weapons drawn. A single work light cast its glow over the gutted room.
They moved toward the light coming from another room, presumably the manager’s office.
“Hello?” a voice called out.
“Hello, yourself. This is the police. Come to the door and keep your hands in sight.”
A man appeared in the doorway, his hands up. “Don’t shoot,” he said.
“Who are you?”
“My name is Michael Adams. I’m the project manager on the remodel of this hotel.”
They frisked him, found nothing. “All right, relax,” Muldoon said. “What are you doing in here on a Saturday night?”
“I worked this morning. I left my wallet in my desk, and I came to get it.” He reached into an inside pocket and withdrew a wallet, then put it back into the pocket.
“How long have you been here?”
“Less than ten minutes,” Adams replied. “I was going out to dinner and realized my wallet wasn’t in my pocket.”
“Have a seat,” Muldoon said. “We need to look around your office, do you mind?”
“Not at all,” Adams replied. “Something I can help you with?”
“We’re looking for bullet holes,” Muldoon said.
Adams laughed. “In here?”
The two detectives searched the room for signs of gunfire and found nothing. “Smell anything?” Muldoon asked his partner.
“Demo,” he replied.
“Are there any bullet holes in you?” Muldoon asked Adams.
Adams laughed again. “I think I would have noticed,” he said, pulling back his jacket to reveal a shirt, unblemished by gunfire.
Muldoon pointed at a radio at one end of the desk. “Have you been playing music?”
“It’s always on when I’m working.”
“What station is it tuned to?”
“WNYC, public radio.”
“Mr. Adams, do you own a set of black coveralls?”
“I do not,” Adams replied. “I have a set of white coveralls in the closet over there that I used when demo was under way to keep my suit clean.”
Calabrese checked the closet. “They’re here,” he said, “and they’re white. No black ones. Some other stuff—a raincoat and some dry cleaning, still in the bags.”
“Mr. Adams,” Muldoon said, “to your knowledge, is there anyone else in the hotel right now?”
“No, there is not.”
“Have you heard any movement, any footsteps?”
“No, I have not.”
“How did you get into the building?”
“I have a master key,” Adams replied.
“When you arrived, was there an unlocked door?”
“I opened the one on the uptown side of the front. I didn’t try any of the other doors, as I locked them on Friday evening when I closed up.”
“How long ago did you unlock it?”
“Ten minutes, I guess.”
“Where did you have dinner?”
“I haven’t had dinner yet. I thought I’d go to an Italian place around the corner and eat at the bar.”
Muldoon looked at Calabrese. “I think we’re done here. Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Adams.”
“Not at all. I’ll walk you out.”
The three men left by the unlocked door, and Adams locked it. “Good night,” he said. He walked to the corner, turned it, and disappeared.
The detectives got back into the car, and Muldoon called the commissioner.
“Bacchetti.”
Muldoon gave him a complete report. “That’s it,” he said finally.
“What was your impression of Michael Adams?”
“Straightforward, not nervous, truthful.”
DINO THANKED THE DETECTIVES and hung up. “Well, you heard it. What do you think?”
Stone shrugged. “I think there are two possibilities,” he said. “One: there was a third killer and he’s still at large. Two: the third killer was Mike Adams.”
“Kind of a coincidence that he was there, isn’t it?” Dino asked. “But is there a third killer?”
“There sort of has to be, doesn’t there?” Stone asked.
“I guess.”
“Why else would a man be at or near the murder scene, wearing black coveralls and a mask?”
Dino picked up Faith’s gun from the table, pulled back the slide, and sniffed it. “It’s been fired,” he said.
Faith spoke for the first time in a while. “I didn’t fire it at a ghost or a mirror.”
“I think you need to put Mike Adams under surveillance,” Stone said. “The building, too.”
“We’ve disbanded that task force,” Dino replied. “I’m short on manpower.”
“Do you have an alternative?” Stone asked.
“No,” Dino replied.