"You went through the drill, I suppose," the Chief said. "Friends, business acquaintances? Personal enemies? A feud? Business problems? A jealous partner?"

"And hotel guests," the sergeant said wearily. "And hotel staff. And bartenders and waiters in the cocktail lounge and dining room on the lobby floor. A lot of 'Well, perhaps…' and 'Maybes…' But it all added up to zip. With the jewelry show and all, the hotel was crowded that night. The last definite contact was with two other salesmen in the jewelry show hospitality suite. That was about seven p.m. Then the three men split. Puller told the others he was going to wander around, find a place that served a good steak, and turn in early. They never saw him again.

"The CSU found a lot of prints, but mostly partials and smears. They're still working on elimination prints. My God, Chief, in that hotel room you've got to figure all the people who crowded in there after the body was discovered, plus the hotel staff, plus people who stayed in the room before Puller checked in. Hopeless. But we're still working on it."

"You've got no choice," Delaney said stonily.

"Right. One other thing: The Crime Scene Unit took the bathroom apart. They found blood in the bathtub drain. Not enough for a positive make, but the Lab Services Unit thinks it's the victim's blood. Same type and also, the victim was on Thorazine, and it showed up in the blood taken from the drain."

"Thorazine? What the hell was he taking that for?"

"You're not going to believe this, but he had bad attacks of hiccups. The Thorazine helped. Anyway, it's almost certain it was his blood in the drain, and no one else's. There was no way he was going to get from that bed to the bathroom, take a shower, and then go back to bed to bleed to death. So it had to be the killer-right? Covered with blood. Takes a shower to wash it off. Then makes an exit."

"No hairs in the drain? Hairs that didn't belong to the victim?"

"Nothing," Boone said mournfully. "We should be so lucky!"

"A damp towel?" the Chief asked.

Boone smiled, for the first time.

"You don't miss a thing, do you, sir? No, there was no damp towel. But one of the hotel's bath towels was missing. I figure the killer took it along."

"Probably," Delaney said. "A smart apple."

Sergeant Boone, intent again, serious, leaned forward.

"Chief," he said, "I think I've given you everything I had on the Puller homicide in the first couple of days. If you had caught the squeal, how would you have handled it? The reason I ask is that I'm afraid I blew it. Well, maybe not blew it, but spent too much time charging off in the wrong direction. How would you have figured it?"

Edward X. Delaney was silent a moment. Then he got to his feet, went over to the liquor cabinet. He mixed himself another highball, using the last of the ice in the bucket.

"Another club soda?" he asked Boone. "Coffee? Anything?"

"No, thanks, sir. I'm fine."

"I'm going to have a cigar. How about you?"

"I'll pass, thank you. Stick to these."

Boone shook another cigarette from his pack. The Chief held a light for him, then used the same wooden match for his cigar.

From the living room and hallway, they heard the sounds of departing guests: cries and laughter, the front door slamming. Monica Delaney opened the door to the kitchen and poked her head in.

"They're leaving," she announced, "but it'll take another hour to clean up."

"Need any help?" the Chief asked.

"What if I said, 'Yes'?"

"I'd say, 'No.'"

"Grouch," she said, and withdrew.

Delaney sat down heavily in his swivel chair. He tilted back, puffing his cigar, staring at the ceiling.

"What would I have done?" he asked. "I'd have figured it just as you probably did. Going by percentages. A salesman in New York for a convention or sales meeting or whatever. He goes out on the town by himself. He finds that good steak he was looking for. Has a few drinks. Maybe a bottle of wine. More drinks."

Boone interrupted. "That's what the stomach contents showed."

"He wanders around," Delaney continued. "Visits a few rough joints. Picks up a prostitute, brings her back to his room. Maybe they had a fight about money. Maybe he wanted something kinky, and she wouldn't play. She's got a knife in her purse. Most hookers carry them. He gets ugly, and she offs him. That's the way I would have figured it. Didn't you?"

Abner Boone exhaled a great sigh of relief.

"Exactly," he said. "I figured the same scenario. A short-bladed knife-that's a woman's weapon. And the killer had to be naked when Puller was killed. Otherwise, why the shower and missing towel? So I started the wheels turning. We picked up a zillion hookers, as far west as Eleventh Avenue. We alerted all our whore and pimp snitches. Hit every bar in midtown Manhattan and flashed Puller's photograph. Zilch. Then I began to wonder if we weren't wasting our time. Because of something I haven't told you. Something I didn't find out myself for sure until three days after the body was found."

"What's that?"

"Puller wasn't rolled. He had an unlocked sample case in the room with about twenty G's of silver and turquoise jewelry. Nothing taken. He had a wallet filled with cash and credit cards.

All still there. We went back over his movements since he left Denver. His wife and partner knew how much he was carrying. We figured how much he would spend in one day and two nights in New York. It came out right. It was all there. He wasn't rolled."

Edward X. Delaney stared a moment, then shook his massive head from side to side.

"It doesn't listen," he said angrily. "A prostie would have taken him. For something. She didn't panic because she was smart enough to shower away his blood before she left. So why didn't she fleece him?"

The sergeant threw his hands in the air.

"Beats the hell out of me," he said bitterly. "It just doesn't figure. And there's another thing that doesn't make sense: there was no sign of a struggle. Absolutely none. Nothing under Puller's fingernails. No hairs other than his on the bed. The guy was fifty-four, sure, but he was heavy and muscular. If he had a fight with a whore, and she comes after him with a shiv, he's going to do something-right? Roll out of bed, smack her, throw a lamp-something. But there is no evidence he put up any resistance at all. Just lay there happily and let her slit his throat. How do you figure that?"

"Wasn't unconscious, was he?"

"The Lab Services Unit did the blood alcohol level and says he was about half-drunk, but unconsciousness would be highly improbable."

Then both men were silent, staring blankly at each other. Finally…

"You mentioned his wife," Delaney said. "Children?"

"Three," Boone said.

"Shit."

Boone nodded sadly.

"Anyway, Chief, they gave me more men, and we've really been hacking it. Out-of-town visitor in New York for a sales meeting gets stiffed in a midtown hotel. You can imagine the flak the Commissioner has been getting-from the hotel association and tourist bureau right up through a Deputy Mayor."

"I can imagine," Delaney said.

"All right," the sergeant said, "that was the first killing. Listen, Chief, are you sure I'm not disturbing you? I don't want to bore you silly with my problems."

"No, no, you're not boring me. Besides, our other choice is to go out and help Rebecca and Monica clean up the mess. You want to do that?"

"God forbid!" Boone said. "I'll just keep crying on your shoulder. Well, the second homicide was six days ago."

"How many days between killings?" the Chief said sharply.

"Uh… twenty-seven, sir. Is that important?"

"Might be. Same MO?"

"Practically identical. The victim's name was Frederick Wolheim, male Caucasian, fifty-six, stabbed to death in Room 3015 of the Hotel Pierce, that new palace on Sixth Avenue. Naked, throat slit, multiple stab wounds in the genitals. This time the victim died from that first slash. The killer got the carotid and the jugular. Blood? You wouldn't believe! A swimming pool. The-"