Patience McCoy had had a lot of bad nights over the past twelve years. There was the night that Carmen Maria Mendez, a perfectly harmless transvestite whose real name was Alonso Jorge Mendez, had managed to get her/his testicles sliced off and stuffed into her/his mouth. McCoy had responded to the call with her partner, a rookie named Johnny Johnson, a big tough white boy, and when they arrived under the highway at the scene of the crime, Johnny took one look at his first murder victim and puked all over the body.
That was bad.
It wasn't a great night either when she'd responded to a phone call from an executive at a small brokerage company down on Wall Street, Pettit and Bandier, who said that a dissatisfied client was in the office waving a gun, threatening to kill everyone who'd been involved in his latest trade, which had lost him $265,000. By the time McCoy got there, the client had become even more dissatisfied. He'd shot four brokers, killing three and wounding one seriously in the back of the right shoulder, before turning the gun on himself and blowing his brains out.
Oh, yeah. She couldn't forget the time they were shooting a TV series, a cop show, down on Hudson in front of the Sporting Club. One of the lead actors was fooling around with a prop gun that an extra had given him. He'd put it in his mouth, laughing the whole time, and pulled the trigger. He wasn't laughing by the time McCoy got there. He was dead as could be, the blank cartridge having been strong enough to go in right where he'd fired it – the back of his throat – and come out on the other side of his head.
Well, this was right up there.
For one thing, she'd promised her husband a romantic dinner tonight, just the two of them. Elmore was in charge of grilling the steaks, she was in charge of the salad and dessert. She'd already made up her mind that dessert was going to be an apple pie – she made a major apple pie, a lot of cinnamon in the crust, and some crushed coffee beans; they really added flavor and no one ever recognized what they were – along with homemade chocolate ice cream. She'd just bought one of those fancy Italian ice cream makers; she decided she wanted it for the summer. It cost a fortune but what the hell, they didn't have a lot of expenses, they both made decent money, and they both really liked their ice cream. Well, no ice cream tonight. No pie or steak, for that matter, either. Elmore would not be happy, no, sir.
So there was that.
And, more to the point, there was the fact that at her feet was one big bloody fucking mess.
Sergeant Patience McCoy of the NYPD, Eighth Precinct, Tribeca, was standing on Greenwich Street, about fifteen feet south of Duane. She was in front of one of the few tall buildings in this part of town. An apartment building that had been converted about five years earlier. There were no doormen, but there was a live-in super. He hadn't seen a thing, naturally, just heard a noise. And then some more noises – people yelling, horns honking, things like that – so he'd come out to see what had happened. He told her the name of the person lying on the sidewalk, told her that he'd moved in pretty recently, a few months ago, maybe. Nice guy. Friendly. Young guy.
Young guy, McCoy thought. He wasn't a young guy anymore. He was as old as you could get.
She was staring up at the roof of the building. It wasn't for any particular reason, it was just a lot easier than looking down at the crushed and shattered body a foot away from her.
"I'm gonna go up to his apartment," she told her partner, another goddamn rookie. She always got stuck with the white rookies.
"What do you want me to do?" he asked.
"Wait for the ambulance. Should be here any minute." She couldn't help but notice that he looked a little green. "And try not to puke, will you."
The super took her up in the elevator to the penthouse apartment. She couldn't help herself, she whistled when she stepped inside. She was not a whistler, normally; usually she thought people whistled strictly for effect, but this was impressive. Quite a view, too. She stepped out onto the small balcony; room for maybe a tiny table and two midget chairs. The sliding door that led to it had been closed, she noticed. Well, that made sense. This boy hadn't planned on coming back in.
There was no sign of any disturbance. The apartment was neat and in order. A half-empty bottle of beer, Pete's Wicked Ale, on the kitchen counter. An empty Diet Coke can on the coffee table. She poked her head into the other rooms. The bed was unmade, sheets were rumpled. Other than that, neat as a pin.
On the round dining table was a cell phone. It was already on, so she pressed "Menu" and clicked the arrow button forward until the word "Messages," followed by a question mark, showed up in the display window. She pressed "Okay" and then saw a new line appear. It said: One message. Jack Keller. And it gave a phone number. After that, it said, Play?
Sergeant McCoy clicked the "okay" button one more time and held the phone up to her ear. She heard: "It's Jack, Kid, and you are in deep shit. You'd better have a damn good excuse for not showing up. Damn good… Great celebration. Thanks."
Another line popped up on the screen. It said: Save message? Sergeant McCoy pressed "okay" again. She put the phone back on the table, then pulled out her own cell phone and dialed. When the person on the other end answered, Sergeant McCoy identified herself, gave her badge number, and said, "Yeah, you can help me. I need an address. Right away."
Exactly thirty-seven minutes later, McCoy was in another part of town completely, East Seventy-seventh Street between Madison and Fifth. She was in another penthouse apartment, sitting in a leather swivel chair in an impeccably decorated living room, staring at an original Edward Hopper that adorned the wall.
She was in the midst of having to perform her least favorite part of her job.
She was telling Jack Keller that his young friend George "Kid" Demeter had a very good reason for missing the basketball game that night. He was dead. He'd jumped off the roof of his eighteen-story apartment building.
A suicide.