The hand released her and she pulled her foot back through the flap. She was gulping for air.

‘My name’s Abby,’ she said. ‘I’m just sixteen. I’m scared. I miss my home. That’s all, mister. I just miss my mom, my dad, my nana, my friends.’

There was no reply. The flap shot up and was locked.

Apartment, East Harlem

March 7, 5.55 p.m.

Harper crossed to the desk to sign out a department saloon. He needed to head up to the morgue and get the autopsy report. Dr Pense had said it’d be ready after 6 p.m. The guy on the desk raised his head and checked out Harper’s face. ‘Don’t tell me, I should see the other guy!’ he joked. Harper nodded, unsmiling, and took the keys without a word.

Harper walked down towards the car. He turned into the lot and stopped. Ahead of him, Erin Nash flashed a big cheap smile. The Daily Echo’s crime reporter looked lithe and purposeful, leaning on the hood of a parked SUV with one foot up on the chrome grille. Something about her had changed since he’d last seen her. He didn’t know what it was at first. Maybe it was wealth. She had made a lot of money selling her stories.

‘Erin, it’s nice to see you. You spot an opportunity to fuck us over again?’

‘Now, listen to you. I’ve come by to see how you are. Saw you at the crime scene. You look like shit. I was concerned.’

‘Concerned enough to ride straight to the victim’s grieving girlfriend and offer her money.’

‘Harper, you know that’s not ethical.’

‘That’s never stopped you before. I know it was you.’

‘You’re playing down the political angle on this murder, is that ethical?’

‘I’m playing the percentages. If someone’s targeting the government, then it’s the government’s problem. I’m just trying to solve a homicide.’

‘What about the coke? You seriously think he was shot while trying to score?’

‘I think the drugs might be relevant.’

‘I guessed you would.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘We’ve all got skeletons in the cupboard, right, including you, Tom Harper. A journalist’s job is to sniff them out.’

‘Yeah, well keep sniffing, I’ve got nothing to hide.’ Harper stared at Erin Nash and felt the anger coming in spurts. ‘What do you want?’

‘I’m not into scandal-mongering, Detective, but an old friend of yours tells me that you were in rehab for something a few years back. Amphetamine addiction, maybe.’

‘How much did you pay for that?’

‘Listen, I don’t want to make trouble and I wouldn’t want to do harm to an investigation, but give me something. This Capske guy was dealing, am I right? Maybe he got in over his head.’

‘I’m busy,’ said Harper.

Erin Nash let out a little light laugh. ‘Wouldn’t it be nice if we could just walk away like that? You want me to run a drug story on you or on your victim? Nice simple choice.’

Harper stopped. He was running things over in his head. ‘If you’ve got something to say about me and you’ve got the evidence, then print it. If not, go back to the sewer.’

‘I wouldn’t get so hung up, Tom.’ Erin paused for a second. ‘I wouldn’t want to harm you just yet. You’re a hero, Harper; people want to hear more about you. New case, first major one since your big moment.’

Harper looked to the ground. ‘You want to know about David Capske, not me.’

‘Come on, Harper. Just want to know what you’re thinking? Trail a cop who’s trailing a killer, that kind of thing.’

‘Get this, Nash — it’s a no. If you can’t read it, put it in 72-point Helvetica like the rest of your headlines.’

‘His father’s a pretty important guy. A judge. This is going to run and run.’

‘I got nothing for you, Nash.’

‘Why were the media called this morning? What’s the connection?’

‘Not sure. Whoever killed Capske wanted a big audience and he knew how to get one.’

‘Gun lobby would love the attention,’ Erin said.

‘You’re a dog with a bone and you know I can’t say anything, even if I knew something. Which I don’t.’

‘You know nothing, right?’

‘And just for the record — you can’t quote me on that.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it, Detective.’ Erin Nash took out a card and handed it to Harper. ‘Just one more thing — here’s my number. You scratch mine and I’ll avoid pulling you off that great big pedestal.’ She looked at him and locked eyes with his. ‘So, soon as you get anything on this case, just holler.’

Erin Nash nodded and walked away. Harper watched her go. For a second, he wanted to reach out and shake her. Then his head started to pound again and he reached in his pocket for his painkillers, threw two pills down his throat and headed for his car.

Harper called Dr Pense from the car as the rain started to pound down again. ‘Hey, it’s Detective Harper. How’s it going with my corpse?’

‘Hell, Harper,’ Dr Pense said. ‘Well, it’s not nice, but I’ll be ready in thirty minutes.’

‘Anything I should know?’

‘I’ll tell you in thirty minutes.’

Harper looked at his watch. He needed a shower, a change of clothes and some more painkillers, and since he had a few more minutes before heading to the morgue, he pulled out and headed for home.

Harper climbed up the stairs and entered his two-room apartment. He never used heating, and as a result the apartment was constantly damp. He took a quick shower, saw the extent of his bruises for the first time and was shocked at how he’d let himself get beaten up. He dressed and found more painkillers. Well past their sell-by date, but he figured they’d work as good as any. He went to the window, took a quick look across the street. The hookers were huddled out of the rain, trying to peer into cars from a distance. It wasn’t working for them or the curb crawlers.

As quiet as Harper was, he found it hard to attain silence. His mind rarely stopped working. When he was on a case, that driven, tireless mind found a home and, for a time, his trait had a worthwhile outlet. As he was staring out into the rain, several thoughts passed through his mind. Each case was a puzzle that kept returning, and he knew that his mind was going back every few minutes to try to solve it afresh.

The shrill ring of the buzzer broke into his thoughts. He pushed open the window, took in the fumes of gasoline and rain and looked down to the ground floor — but whoever was there was taking cover from the cold sheets of rain. The ringing continued.

He walked to his buzzer. ‘Hello.’

‘Tom.’

Harper paused. ‘Denise?’ He felt his pulse rising with unexpected excitement.

‘Yes, Tom, it’s me.’

A line of heat ran along the underside of each of Harper’s eyes. He pressed his head to the cold gloss of the door. ‘Denise.’

‘It’s raining, Tom.’ There was a silence. ‘Tom, I’m getting soaked down here.’

‘Denise,’ he said again. He felt like a man encountering a ghost. It had been a long three months and she’d been in his thoughts every day. ‘I just don’t believe I’m hearing you. I called you — I left messages. You’ve never replied. I didn’t expect to hear from you.’

‘I got all your messages, Tom. Please believe it, and open the door. I’m freezing.’

Tom was on the stairs, heading down as fast as he could. He reached the front door and stared out. She was framed by the red wrought-iron bars that crossed the glass panel in the door. Her blond hair was shorter and plastered to her head, her face was charged with something he didn’t yet understand, she had lost some weight, but it was Denise. He watched her a moment and opened the door.

‘I can’t believe I’m actually looking at you.’

‘I’m sorry, Tom.’

‘For what?’

‘For being so… out of touch. I couldn’t cope with you.’ Denise’s eyes fell to the ground. ‘Sorry.’

‘Forget it,’ he said. He suddenly felt like the pieces of a puzzle he’d been struggling with for months had fallen into place. He was wide open. More open than he’d felt in months. Here she was. Denise Levene. He smiled.