‘Why didn’t she turn him over to the cops?’

‘She’d never – ’ Mrs White shrugged. ‘Like I said, Gram hated the police. She’d never trust them with a child, not that one. You see, there was something wrong with the boy. He couldn’t talk, or he wouldn’t. Well, my grandmother figured somebody must be expecting him for a visit – because of the little suitcase. When she opened it up, everything was still neatly packed. He smelled bad -I think he’d messed in his pants. Gram gave him a bath and changed his clothes. Then she went from door to door, all over the building, the whole neighborhood.’

‘So you were alone with the boy when the cops showed up.’

‘Yes. My grandmother was the one who called the police, but it took them forever to get here. This awful smell was coming from next door. Gram was just frantic. She had a key to Natalie’s place, but it didn’t work. A few hours after Gram left, I heard the cops out in the hall. One of them yelled, „Oh, God, no!“ ‘

‘And you were curious.’

‘You bet. More police showed up, men in suits. One of the men in uniform was guarding the apartment and shooing people away.

I waited till he walked down the hall to talk to a neighbor. Then I went to Natalie’s door. It was wide open.’

‘And the boy was with you.’

‘I was holding his hand. Gram told me not to leave him alone. Well, I saw the body hanging there – but it didn’t look like Natalie. Her eyes and that beautiful long hair – it was just – ’ Alice White took a deep breath. ‘And the roaches – they were crawling down the rope to get at her. The men just left her hanging there while they took their pictures. Then another policeman chased us off.’

‘What happened to the little boy?’

‘That night, a man came to take him away.’

‘Did you recognize him?’

‘No, I was in bed. I only heard the voices in the other room. I think Gram knew him. Or maybe she tried that telephone number again, the one she found in the suitcase. Yes, she must’ve talked to him on the phone. He didn’t have to say who he was when he came to the door.’

‘Did you tell your grandmother what you and the boy – ’

‘God, no. Gram would’ve been so angry. She told me to take care of that boy – not give him nightmares for the rest of his life.’

Charles Butler was no stranger to Brooklyn. He frequently made the trek to this outer borough for a poker game with friends. However, like any good New Yorker, he only knew his habitual routes. Before Riker had allowed his driver’s license to lapse, every other road had been a mystery, even this broad avenue along Prospect Park.

He waited in his car as the detective crossed the street and joined two uniformed policemen standing by a squad car. They were too far away for Charles to hear any conversation, and so he eavesdropped on their body language.

One of the officers shrugged to say, Sorry. Riker’s hands rose in exasperation, and he must have uttered at least one obscenity, for now the officer’s hands went to his hips to say, Hey, it’s not our fault. Behind dark glasses, the slouching detective stared at one man and then the other, giving them no clue to his thoughts. Suddenly both officers were talking with upturned hands, offering new forms of Sorry, probably accompanied by a mollifying sir. In an economy of motion, Riker waved one hand to say, Awe, the hell with it, then turned his back, dismissing them both. He was one very unhappy man when he slid into the front seat of the Mercedes.

‘Not good news, I take it.’ Charles started the engine.

‘Natalie’s sister left town in a big hurry.’ Riker nodded toward the men in uniform. ‘And those two clowns just stood there and watched her drive away – with a suitcase.’’ His head lolled back on the soft leather upholstery. ‘They keep changing the rules on me, Charles. Apparently, if you can say the word lawyer three times without interruption, the cops have to let you go. My fault. I used the word detain instead of arrest.’

‘Bad luck. Sorry.’ The Mercedes pulled away from the curb.

‘Yeah. And I was really looking forward to scaring the shit out of that woman.’ Riker fell into a black silence until the great arches of the Brooklyn Bridge loomed up on the road before them.

Charles sensed there was more to the detective’s dark mood than a lost witness. How else to account for this sadness? When the car stopped in traffic, he turned to the man beside him. ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’

‘Yeah, there is.’ The detective stirred, then sat up a bit straighter. ‘I’ve been thinking about the Wichita Kid and that wolf bite.’

This was highly unlikely, but now Charles understood that the real problem was none of his business. ‘You want to know how – ’

‘Naw, here’s my best guess. I figure there’s a one-in-a-million chance the Wichita Kid could survive rabies without a vaccine.’

‘That’s actually true, but I don’t think Jake Swain was aware of it when he wrote the book.’ As they crossed the bridge, Charles launched into the story of Sheriff Peety’s travels from town to town, hunting an outlaw infected with rabies. ‘So he’s chatting up all the local doctors along the way when he meets one who’s heard the story of the rabid wolf that bit – ’

‘Hold it,’ said Riker. ‘Don’t tell me. The sheriff finds out that the wolf never had rabies in the first place. Am I right?’

‘Right you are. He discovers that someone else was bitten by that same wolf and survived. The animal actually had distemper. Looks the same as rabies, lots of frothing at the mouth, but it’s not transmissible to humans. However, the wound wasn’t cleaned properly, so Wichita suffered a massive infection – fevers, hallucinations – but no symptoms of hydrophobia.’

The detective politely raised one eyebrow, though he seemed to have lost interest. After a few moments of silence, Charles said, ‘You’ve had news from the hospital. Your friend – ’

‘Yeah.’ Riker turned his face to the passenger window and its view of the open sky over the water. ‘Her one good kidney is failing.’

And even Jake Swain could not have written an escape for Sparrow. However, pressed by deep concern for a friend, Charles now came up with the next best thing – an emergency epiphany. ‘There was an eyewitness to Natalie Homer’s murder. Does that cheer you up?’ The car came to a standstill in heavy traffic halfway across the bridge. Riker turned around to face him with a look of surprise, successfully distracted from pain.

Charles changed gears as the traffic moved forward again. ‘My theory works nicely with the problem of the locked door.’

The detective turned back to face the passenger window, his way of saying, Oh, that again.

‘Bear with me. Previously, I assumed that someone used a key to open Natalie’s door before the police arrived. But my witness wouldn’t need a key – not if he opened the door from the inside.’

‘And here’s the flaw,’ said Riker. ‘That would mean your witness was in the apartment for two days – watching a woman’s body rot.’

‘Yes. Now back up a bit. The night she died, Natalie was cooking a meal for two. She had no friends, and she was on bad terms with her sister. So the dinner guest was her son.’

‘Interesting,’ said Riker, which was his polite way of saying that it was not at all interesting. ‘So, before Erik Homer goes on his honeymoon, he leaves the kid with his ex-wife? No, Charles. This guy was a control freak. After the divorce, he never let Natalie see that kid, not once. This can’t work.’

‘Why not? Erik Homer was getting married again. He had a new woman to control. And this baby-sitting arrangement would be for his convenience. That’s what makes it work. And no one ever interviewed the boy. We don’t know where Junior was for two days in August or anytime after that.’ Charles could see that Riker was not buying any of this. ‘Only a small child would have stayed in that room with the body. The boy wouldn’t want to leave his mother. Dead or alive, she was his whole world.’