screech of hangers. Gladys had been standing at the back of the shop next to three tall mirrors. She was speaking to another woman, about Gladys's age, who also looked like a salesperson.
When Gladys saw Don Flack, she stopped talking, folded her arms and watched him approach.
'Doesn't look like you're too busy,' said Flack. 'Maybe we can talk now.'
The other woman, dark, Mediterranean, Italian, Greek? looked puzzled.
'He's a policeman,' Gladys explained. 'My daughter was murdered this morning.'
The other woman's mouth opened.
'I'd better talk to him.'
'Yes. Yes. I'm…' the other woman stammered.
'It's fine,' said Gladys. 'Please.'
Myra headed off in the direction of the lone customer.
'Mrs. Mycrant- '
'Gladys, if you are going to be polite and pleasant. Mrs. Mycrant, if you plan to be officious and threatening.'
'Polite and pleasant,' Flack said.
'Good.'
'We don't know anything about your daughter,' he said. 'We don't know why anyone would want to kill her.'
'I suppose it can't be a random killing,' she said.
'Not during a rainstorm on the roof of your apartment building after she got a phone call and hurried out.'
'No, not likely is it?'
'What can you tell me about her?'
'Patricia was smart, willful and hardworking when she had something to work hard at,' Gladys said, meeting his eyes.
'She must have had some friends, people she knew, things she was interested in,' he tried.
'She wasn't allowed to meet with the few people she knew.'
'Wasn't allowed?'
'It was a condition of her parole,' said Gladys. 'My daughter was a convicted sexual predator, as you no doubt know.'
'He walked funny. Like this,' Dorrie said, demonstrating how the limping man had looked.
She had seen him coming down the corridor.
'He smiled at me like this,' she told Mac, showing a sad smile.
'Was he young? Old?'
'Old like you mostly,' she said.
They were sitting on the steps to the second floor. Dorrie was alone for the day with her ball, her toys, the television.
There was no school today. Her mother was working at Jack the Steamer's, six blocks away. Jack the Steamer operated one of a few dozen illegal shops that prepared meat products- hot dogs, gyros, souvlaki- for illegal pushcarts.
Jack the Steamer operated out of the back of Wargo's Electronics. Today the carts were not coming by. Even the most desperate pushcart men who had families to feed and no green card for other work couldn't see the point in getting swept away. Besides, who would buy knishes in a deluge?
When the uniformed cop named Kovich who knew the neighborhood had come through the door, Jack the Steamer was sure that this was the final nail in his palm on the worst day of his life. Kovich, however, was not there to make a bust or get a free fake kosher red hot. He had come to fetch Dorrie's mother, Rena Prince.
In the apartment building where Mac and Dorrie sat six blocks away, a voice boomed down from above, a man's voice, vigorously arguing in a language Mac didn't understand.
'That's Laird,' Dorrie explained. 'He's crazy. He makes up his own words.'
'He talk to himself like that a lot?' asked Mac.
'A lot.'
'Did he do it this morning before you found…?'
'Yes. He doesn't hurt anybody. When he comes out of his apartment, he's very sad, very nice.'
'Sad like the limping man?'
'Yes.'
'You know anyone really old, older than me and the limping man?'
'Oh yeah. Jack. He's a nice guy. When I go to work with my mom, he gives me stuff to eat. You want to know a secret?'
'Sure,' said Mac.
'I think it smells bad at Jack's and the food tastes like shit.'
With that Officer Kovich and Rena Prince appeared.
The woman was no more than twenty-five, skinny, pale, smooth, pretty face with hair held in place by a rubber band.
'I don't leave Dorrie alone,' she said, moving in front of her daughter and taking her hand. 'Do I, Dore?'
'Nope. Just when school gets closed and you can't get me to Tanya's in Brooklyn.'
'Officer,' Mac said. 'Mind taking Dorrie back to her apartment?'
'Sure thing,' said Kruger. 'Come on, Dorrie.'
He held out his hand. She shook her head 'no' to the hand but followed the officer down the hall.
'We're not here to arrest you for neglect,' Mac said when they were out of earshot. 'Timothy Byrold in One-A was murdered a few hours ago. Dorrie found the body.'
'Oh,' said Rena. 'I've got to- '
'This will just take a few seconds,' Mac said gently.
'Was it-?' she began and halted.
'It wasn't good,' said Mac. 'Dorrie seems to be handling it pretty well.'
'She's seen too much. A kid shouldn't see what she's seen.'
Mac had a feeling the woman was talking not just about what her daughter had seen, but what she herself had seen and experienced.
'You know Mr. Byrold?'
'A little. Dorrie talked to him more than I did. Seemed harmless, but who the hell really knows, you know?'
Mac nodded. 'He have any friends, visitors?'
'He lives in that apartment. I mean, lived there. Once a week, Wednesday's I think, he went to some meeting downtown. No visitors. Well, I did see some guy knocking at his door about a month ago when I was going to work.'
'What did this guy look like?'
'Nice looking. Maybe thirty. Clean slacks, nice pullover. Built like he worked out.'
'You got a good look?'
'Yeah. I thought he might say hello. I don't see many good-looking, clean guys in my life.'
She looked around the hall as if to illustrate the boundaries of her existence.
'Byrold let him in?'
'Yes. He knocked. Tim said, 'Who is it.' He said…Don? Dom? Who remembers?'
'Only visitor?'
'Only one I ever saw. Tim opened the door. Guy limped in.'
'Limped?'
'Yeah, I figured he hurt his leg or something.'
'And you could recognize him again if you saw him?'
