Did attack dogs lay ambushes? Could they move fast enough to kill two healthy policemen before they even had time to unholster their pistols?
She double-parked the car in front of the 75th Precinct.
Leaving Wilson snoring lightly she hurried up the worn concrete steps of the dingy red-brick building and introduced herself to the desk sergeant. He called Lieutenant Ruiz, who was responsible for the material she needed. He was a six-footer with a trim black mustache and a subdued smile. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Detective Neff,” he said with great f formality.
“We need pictures and copies of the prints you took.”
“No problem, we’ve got everything you could want. It’s a rotten mess.”
A leading statement, but Becky didn’t pick up on it That part of the investigation would come later. Before they identified a motive for the murders they had to have a mode of death.
Sergeant Ruiz produced eleven glossies of the scene, plus a box of plasticasts of the pawprints that had been found surrounding the bodies. “There isn’t a single clear print in that box,” he said, “just a jumble. If you ask me those prints haven’t got a thing to do with it. Just the wild dogs doing a little scavenging. They sure as hell couldn’t be responsible for killing those guys, they just came and got their share after the real work was done.”
“Why do you say that?” She was examining the photographs as she talked. Why had he handed her one of the less grisly shots?
“The dogs—I’ve seen them. They’re little, like cockers or something, and they’re shy as hell. And by the way, I wonder if you could autograph that picture for my daughter.” He paused, then added shyly, “She thinks the world of you.”
Becky was so pleased by his admiration that she didn’t notice Wilson standing behind her.
“I thought we weren’t going to give out any more autographs,” he said curtly.
“When did we decide not to? I don’t remember that.”
“Right now. I just decided. This isn’t some kind of a game.” His hand moved toward the picture but Ruiz’s was quicker.
“Thanks, Miss Neff,” he said, still smiling. “My daughter’ll be thrilled.”
Becky gathered the rest of the photographs and picked up the box of prints to lug to the car. She knew without asking that Wilson wouldn’t touch it, and she wasn’t sure she wanted him to.
“By the way, it’s Sergeant Neff,” she said over her shoulder to Ruiz, who was still standing there staring.
“Let me help you,” he said.
Becky was already out the door and putting the box into the back seat of the car. Wilson followed, got in, and slammed his door. Becky settled herself into the driver’s seat and turned on the ignition.
“I just don’t want this to be a circus,” he said as they headed toward Manhattan. “This case is going to be the most sensational thing we’ve ever worked on. Reporters are gonna be crawling out of your nightgown in the morning.”
“I don’t wear a nightgown.”
“Whatever, we’re gonna have ’em all over us. The point is, it’s a serious case and we want to treat it serious.”
Wilson could be sententious, but this was ridiculous. She forced herself not to say she knew how serious the case was. If she did he would then launch into a tirade about lady cops, probably ending with a question about her competence or some new criticism of her work. She decided to ignore him and make him shut up as well. To do this she drove like a madwoman, careening down the streets, making hairpin turns, weaving in and out of the traffic at fifty miles an hour. Wilson at first sat with his shoulders hunched and his hands twisted together in his lap, then started using the siren.
“Rilker give you some kind of deadline?”
“No.” She had forgotten to call Rilker, dammit. If he wasn’t there she’d have to suffer more flak from Wilson.
She lit another cigarette. Smoking was one pleasure that she had really begun to enjoy since the doctor had made Wilson stop.
His response was prompt. “You’re polluting.”
“Draw an oxygen mask if you don’t like it I’ve told you that before.”
“Thanks for the reminder.”
She wished that she smoked cigars.
Chapter 2
« ^ »
Tom Rilker stared at the pictures the two detectives showed him. His face registered disbelief and what looked to Becky Neff like fear. She had never met him before and was surprised to discover that he was old, maybe seventy-five. From her husband’s description she had assumed he was a young man. Rilker’s hair was white and springy like frayed wool; his right hand shook a little and made the pictures rustle together; his brows knit, the salt-and-pepper eyebrows coming close together, heightening the expression now on his face. “This is impossible,” he finally said. The moment he spoke Becky knew why Dick always portrayed him as young—he sounded like a much younger man. “It’s completely incredible.”
“Why is that?” Wilson asked.
“Well, a dog wouldn’t do this. You’d have to train it. These men have been
“But it could be done.”
