“Are you okay?” I finally asked him. I had never lost a partner, but I had come close with Sampson. He had been stabbed in the back. That happened in North Carolina, of all places. My niece, Naomi, had been kidnapped. I have counseled detectives who have lost partners, and it’s never an easy thing.

“I didn’t really like Manning Goldman,” Groza admitted, “but I respected things he did as a detective. No one should die the way he did.”

“No, no one should die like that,” I agreed No one was safe. Not the wealthy, certainly not the poor, and not even the police. It was a continuing refrain in my life, the scariest truth of our age.

We finally turned off the crowded Deegan Expressway and got onto an even busier, much noisier Broadway. Detective Groza was clearly shook up that morning. I didn’t show it, but so was I.

Gary Soneji was showing us how easy it was for him to get into a cop’s home.

MANNING GOLDMAN’S house was located in an upscale part of Riverdale known as Fieldston. The area was surprisingly attractive-for the Bronx. Police cruisers and a flock of television vans and trucks were parked on the narrow and pretty residential streets. A FOX-TV helicopter hovered over the trees, peeking through the branches and leaves.

The Goldman house was more modest than the Tudors around it. Still, it seemed a nice place to live. Not a typical cop’s neighborhood, but Manning Goldman hadn’t been a typical cop.

“Goldman’s father was a big doctor in Mamaroneck,” Groza continued to chatter. “When he passed away, Manning came into some money. He was the black sheep in his family, the rebel-a cop. Both of his brothers are dentists in Florida.”

I didn’t like the look and feel of the crime scene, and I was still two blocks away. There were too many blue-and-whites and official-looking city cars. Too much help, too much interference.

“The mayor was up here early. He’s a pisser. He’s all right, though,” Groza said. “A cop gets killed in New York, it’s a huge thing. Big news, lots of media.”

“Especially when a detective gets killed right in his own home,” I said.

Groza finally parked on the tree-lined street, about a block from the Goldman house. Birds chattered away, oblivious to death.

As I walked toward the crime scene, I enjoyed one aspect of the day, at least: the anonymity I felt in New York. In Washington, many reporters know who I am. If I’m at a homicide scene, it’s usually a particularly nasty one, a big case, a violent crime.

Detective Carmine Groza and I were ignored as we walked through the crowd of looky-loos up to the Goldman house. Groza introduced me around inside and I was allowed to see the bedroom where Manning Goldman had been brutally murdered. The NYPD cops all seemed to know who I was and why I was there. I heard Soneji’s name muttered a couple of times. Bad news travels fast.

The detective’s body had already been removed from the house, and I didn’t like arriving at the murder scene so late. Several NYPD techies were working the room. Goldman’s blood was everywhere. It was splattered on the bed, the walls, the beige-carpeted floor, the desk and bookcases, and even on a gold menorah. I already knew why Soneji was so interested in spilling blood now-his blood was deadly.

I could feel Gary Soneji here in Goldman’s room, I could see him, and it stunned me that I could imagine his presence so strongly, physically and emotionally. I remembered a time when Soneji had entered my home in the night and with a knife. Why would he come here? I wondered. Was he warning me, playing with my head?

“He definitely wanted to make a high-profile statement,” I muttered, more to myself than to Carmine Groza. “He knew that Goldman was running the case in New York. He’s showing us that he’s in complete control.”

There was something else, though. There had to be more to this than I was seeing so far. I paced around the bedroom. I noticed that the computer on the desk was turned on.

I spoke to one of the techies, a thin man with a small, grim mouth. Perfect for homicide scenes. “The computer was on when they found Detective Goldman?” I asked.

“Yeah. The Mac was on. It’s been dusted.”

I glanced at Groza. “We know he’s looking for Shareef Thomas, and that Thomas was originally from New York. He’s supposed to be back here now. Maybe he made Goldman pull up Thomas’s file before he killed him.”

For once Detective Groza didn’t answer. He was quiet and unresponsive. I wasn’t completely certain myself. Still, I trusted my instincts, especially when it came to Soneji. I was following in his bloody footsteps and I didn’t think I was too far behind.

THE SURPRISINGLY hospitable New York police had gotten me a room for the night at the Marriot Hotel on Forty-second Street. They were already checking on Shareef Thomas for me. What could be done was being taken care of, but Soneji was on the loose for another night on the town.

Shareef Thomas had lived in D.C., but he was originally from Brooklyn. I was fairly certain Soneji had followed him here. Hadn’t he told me as much through Jamal Autry at Lorton Prison? He had a score to settle with Thomas, and Soneji settled his old scores. I ought to know.

At eight-thirty I finally left Police Plaza, and I was physically whipped. I was driven uptown in a squad car. I’d packed a duffel bag, so I was set for a couple of days, if it came to that. I hoped that it wouldn’t. I like New York City under the right circumstances, but this was hardly Fifth Avenue Christmas shopping in December, or a Yankees World Series game in the fall.

Around nine, I called home and got our automatic answering machine-Jannie. She said, “is this E.T.? You calling home?”

She’s cute like that. She must have known the phone call would be from me. I always call, no matter what.

“How are you, my sweet one? Light of my life?” Just the sound of her voice made me miss her, miss being home with my family.

“Sampson came by. He was checking on us. We were supposed to do boxing tonight. Remember, Daddy?” Jannie played her part with a heavy hand, but it worked. “Bip, bip, bam. Bam, bam, bip.” she said, creating a vivid picture out of sound.

“Did you and Damon practice anyway?” I asked. I was imagining her face as we talked. Damon’s face. Nana’s, too. The kitchen where Jannie was talking. I missed having supper with my family.

“We sure did. I knocked his block right off. I put out his lights for the night. But it’s not the same without you. Nobody to show off for.”

“You just have to show off for yourself,”I told her.

“I know, Daddy. That’s what I did. I showed off for myself, and myself said, ‘Good show.’”

I laughed out loud into the phone receiver. “I’m sorry about missing the boxing lesson with you two pit bulls. Sorry, sorry, sorry,” I said in a bluesy, singsong voice. “Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry.”

“That’s what you always say,” Jannie whispered, and I could hear the crackle of hurt in her voice. “someday, it’s not going to work anymore. Mark my words. Remember where you heard it first. Remember, remember, remember.”

I took her counsel to heart in the lonely New York City hotel room as I ate a room-service burger and looked out over Times Square. I remembered an old joke among shrinks: “Schizophrenia beats eating alone.” I thought about my kids, and about Christine Johnson, and then about Soneji and Manning Goldman, murdered in his own house. I tried to read a few pages of Angela’s Ashes, which I’d packed in my bag. I couldn’t handle the beautifully described Limerick ghetto that night.

I called Christine when I thought I had my head screwed on straight. We talked for almost an hour. Easy, effortless talk. Something was changing between us. I asked her if she wanted to spend some time together that weekend, maybe in New York if I still had to be here. It took some nerve for me to ask. I wondered if she could hear it in my voice.