Chapter One

When I heard the commotion in the hallway outside my door, I opened the door a crack and looked out. Cops, white-coated CSI workers. They were talking to each other, but it was so muffled that I couldn’t understand what they were saying. I guessed someone had died.

We were in the middle of a thunderstorm, an almost every-afternoon phenomenon anywhere near the Hudson River or New York harbor in the sweltering summer humidity. Zeus was slinging thunderbolts right, left and center, and the giants were bowling in the sky, creating rolling peals of ear-splitting, bomb-like explosions. It was the kind of storm that throws boats onto dry land and smashes sailing vessels against rocks and piers. Fortunately, these summer storms usually come and go fairly quickly, and then the sun comes out to dry the streets and sidewalks.

The apartment the CSIs were filing into was occupied by a young man whom I had not met, mostly because he had just moved in. Because it was still summer, I was trying to keep windows open when it wasn’t raining and frequently propped the front door to the apartment open with a small but heavy fake-marble lion statue I bought at the Metropolitan Museum some years back. A cross-draft is a blessing in a New York heat wave. So, I had seen the young man going back and forth when he moved in. Never said hello.

He was boyishly handsome with almost shocking rock-star hair of a chestnut-auburn color, a fashionably scruffy almost-beard, enormous dark eyes and the regulation Levis and black t-shirt but with black leather lace-up shoes. He had a problem with his right side, holding his right hand in a cupped position that was at odds with the angle of his arm, and he almost dragged his right leg when he walked but didn’t use a cane and walked in a straight line. Looked like a long-term problem, not the consequence of a recent fall off a motorcycle.

He wore a headset and was clearly listening to music or a radio show, was smiling and occasionally laughing quietly. Not talking on the phone. He looked happy. I paid attention because for some reason I was surprised that someone who looked to be crippled was in such a good mood on moving day, which I surmised must have been difficult at best for him. I considered introducing myself, but he seemed to be busy, so I thought I’d wait.

Well, it turned out I missed my chance to say hello because when the CSIs arrived a couple of days later, he was dead. Couldn’t possibly have been over thirty, maybe as young as twenty-five.

My name is Hugo Miller, and I’m mostly retired from a business I started that specializes in public relations for sports teams and players. But I am also a civilian criminalist with the NYPD—mostly an honorary designation that lets me work on cases assisting a detective I know in the Midtown North precinct of Manhattan, Mike di Saronno. I kinda fell into this because of a homicide case in Manhattan where I was potentially a witness of something relevant. That was several years back, and since then I’ve worked with Mike on four or five cases.

That’s all well and good, but I live in an area of Queens called Long Island City that’s on the East River directly across from the east end of 42nd Street and the United Nations. My Manhattan credentials don’t carry much weight with the local cops. To be fair, I used to live in the theater district on 48th Street—until I got priced out of Manhattan by skyrocketing rents. And although I continue to work with Mike when he calls me, I hadn’t introduced myself to anyone at the 108^th precinct that was a couple of long blocks up my street.

I called Mike, who poked around and told me what he found out. The victim was Ned Savage, twenty-seven, an Equity actor who had worked on Broadway and in smaller theaters in the area. Went to acting school in Los Angeles where he grew up but had lived in the theater district for several years. He rented the studio apartment on my floor and told the leasing agent he would be living there alone. Apparently, someone had conked him over the head with a brass candlestick.

“Must have happened quickly,” I said. “My apartment is directly next door, and I think we share a wall in my guest bedroom. I never heard anything, so there must not have been much of a scuffle.”

He said he thought the detectives would be knocking on my door to ask me some questions since my apartment shares a wall with Mr. Savage’s place. As it happens, though, my apartment is a large two-bedroom, and I sleep on the opposite side of my floorplan from the hall or that apartment.

“Still, I think if there had been people throwing things or yelling, I would have heard some noise,” I told the detective who was now asking me questions. “And since it’s been hot, I’ve been keeping the sliding glass door open to the balcony to catch some breeze.” I showed him and his partner the living room, with the sliding door open, a screen door keeping bugs out, and balcony directly upstairs forming a ceiling that kept it mostly dry during rainstorms. “If the balcony in that apartment was open like mine, I would for sure have known what was going on.”

They were there to get information, not to give it to me, so I didn’t bother to ask them anything, because I knew they’d clam up if I did. Figured Mike could find out and let me know.

I don’t trust coincidences, but Mike told me Ned had moved into the apartment next to me from a high-rise across the street from where I used to live on 48th Street. I’d been living in Long Island City for almost five years and when I heard that, I tried to remember if that building was even ready for occupancy when I moved away. Anyway, he had to be well-off to live in a new luxury building in that area, because rents were sky-high; through-the-roof ridiculous. When I moved out of the theater district my rent was almost five times what it had been when I moved in ten years earlier.

“For sure I don’t remember seeing him when I lived on 48th Street,” I said. “I would have remembered. Very striking fellow. Combination of rock-star and person with disabilities. Like somebody who had fallen off a trapeze with no net, or been thrown from a horse jumping over a hedge.”

Mike suggested it might be good if he and I could get together. It was almost mid-day so I suggested we meet for a quick lunch at Ariana, a hole-in-the-wall Afghan restaurant on 9th Avenue at about 49th Street that combined good food and cheap prices. He agreed.

To get from my place to Times Square is easy. Take the 7 train from my subway station, three stops—maybe eight minutes—and you’re at Times Square, exiting onto 43rd Street. It was a warm day, no rain, so I could walk to Ariana in ten minutes. I took a quick shower, decided I didn’t need to shave, and was on my way, tapping on my cellphone to retrieve text messages from relatives in California.

These days there is free WiFi on the subway platforms, so I stood and texted until the train pulled up, about three minutes after I got there. I was at Ariana before Mike, who only had to walk five blocks from his office. Go figure.

I’m fond of Mike, though we are not friends in a social sense. He lives right near where I used to live and before I met him professionally, I would see him in this and that restaurant or bar from time to time and never knew he was a cop. But I have a good memory for faces and after a couple of sightings, I recognized him, but we never were introduced or shook hands. So, when I did meet him, it was a shock that he was a police detective. Very normal-looking, Italian features, slightly bronze, even in the winter, good symmetrical features, hazel eyes, taller than normal but not as tall as me.

I grabbed the table in the front bay window so I could watch for Mike and stare at people who walked by. I am a born voyeur; there’s nothing more fascinating than watching people, even if they’re just walking by. It’s a little like watching a fire in a fireplace, very calming and I can’t take my eyes off the parade of people meandering or scurrying by.

Mike was all apologies for being late.

“You’re not late. I was early. No prob.”

He told me before he looked at the menu that he was going to be working on the Savage case. The guy had been directing a production of Twelfth Night at an off-Broadway theater just off 8th Avenue in the 40s. Talk was that he was a wunderkind, a young prodigy. The kind of charismatic genius that everybody loves, especially in show biz.

“He looked really young, almost like a kid.”

“Maybe you’re getting old, Hugo. I never met him, but his photos don’t look like a kid to me.” He told me some of the things the CSIs had found. First of all, Savage didn’t seem to have any immediate family, or at least there were no entries on his computer or in an old address book. They packaged up a drawerful of manila envelopes with papers in them and took them to the lab to make copies. At that point there was no next of kin to notify.

Second, the apartment had not been ransacked. Savage’s body was found on the floor between the coffee table and the front door. The cushions on the couch that was also a pullout bed were rumpled, so it appeared that he might have been sitting there before whatever transpired that left him on the floor. The candlestick that appeared to be the cause of his death was on the floor but closer to the door than the body. It had blood and bits of hair on the base, indicating it had been grabbed by the top. The wound was on the right side of Savage’s head, indicating that if the person holding the candlestick was facing Savage, he or she was left-handed. If he or she was behind Savage, then the indication would be right-handed. The M.E. would have to make the determination as to where the assailant was standing or sitting.

Mike went on to say it seemed logical that I help him on this case if I had time. Since I had an official tie to the department, there would a modest paycheck attached to the assignment. Enough to cover expenses and maybe go out to eat—once.

“Got nothing but time, Mike,” I said. “Okay if I talk to Ruth and Gabriele?”

He smiled a friendly grin and nodded vigorously.

I texted Ruth and Gabriele on my way to the subway to see if we could meet up that evening for a drink. “The game is afoot,” is how I ended the texts. It’s a quote from Sherlock Holmes, and it actually comes from what the Brits call “shooting.” The “game” are the birds—grouse, whatever—the shooters are after. And they can be heard running around in the brush, so “the game is afoot.” I always thought it had something to do with a game, like a game you play. Nope. Brits are different from Americans.

Yes and yes. We agreed to meet at Dominie’s Hoek, a watering-hole on Vernon Boulevard about a block and a half from the subway station on the 7 line. It’s an old Dutch name for the area from before the Brits took over in 1664. Kind of a silly operetta of a take-over. The Brits arrived in the harbor and signaled to the Dutch that they were going to lay siege to the city, which was then just a cluster around what we call Battery Park. The Dutch figured they were joking, said no, go away. Then the Brits signaled that if the Dutch resisted they would “sack” the city–in other words, burn it, steal everything they could find, and rape the women. Seemed like an over-reaction, so the citizens of New Amsterdam refused to defend the city from the English ships. They gave up, much to the chagrin of Peter Stuyvesant, who had been the director-general and autocrat of the colony of New Netherlands for eighteen years. He was known to history as Peg Leg Pete, because he lost a leg in a naval battle somewhere in the Caribbean. Even though he was no longer in charge, he hung around on his big estate on the East River and died in Manhattan in 1672, so it couldn’t have been a terribly hostile time between the two Protestant powers. He was buried in St Mark’s in the Bowery, which was built on the site of the Stuyvesant family chapel.

Anyway, Dominie’s Hoek is a place where you can get a good drink and sit outside in warm weather in a garden-ish patio in the back. They make burgers and such. Mostly it’s a noisy neighborhood bar where you can wave at people you recognize, even if you don’t know their names. Just about everybody is in a good mood.

Gabriele was early and arrived downstairs at my building at about six. The concierge called up, and yes, of course, send him up. He rang the bell, and when I answered, he was gesturing at the yellow crime-scene tape that was all over the end of the hallway just feet from my door. I nodded and he came in.

“Kid just moved in a day or two ago. Young guy, apparently in the theater business, directing a Shakespeare play near Times Square.”

“What happen?”

“Well, I guess that’s what we’ll be trying to find out. Mike is heading the investigation because the kid was working near Mike’s precinct and used to live in that zombie Irish building on 8th Avenue, the tall, super-skinny one. You remember it?”

He nodded and hugged me. He’s a hugger. He’s from Capri, with a lot of relatives in Naples; not sure, it seems different from time to time. He and his cousin, Dante, have a popular white-tablecloth restaurant in downtown Manhattan called Ora di Pranzo (“dinnertime”). Heavenly food. Gabriele is one of those confident Italian guys who attracts every eye in every room he walks into. I always look at his hair, since I am thinning/balding myself, but remember how nice it was to have hair when mine was still brown. I met him because he was a person of interest in a fairly sordid homicide several years back. He didn’t do it, and we found out who did do it. Gabriele and I have been fast friends ever since. He says he’s in love with me, which I try to smile through, but secretly it pleases me. Myself, I’m a two-time loser, two ex-wives with assorted kids, all on the West Coast. Limited contact. Not interested in hooking up again, but if I were, I would be aiming at Ruth, not Gabriele.

I live on the tenth floor; nice view of the Chrysler Building and the UN. Also that crazy tall Trump building that’s across from the UN. Since he was early, we had a very short snort of whisky at my apartment to get loosened up and then walked over to the bar to meet Ruth.

Ruth is a fashion plate for the modish set who are into “classic” looks. In Ruth’s case, that means older Chanel clothing, nubby fabrics that approach Turkish toweling at times, kinda Joan Crawford shoulders sometimes, usually worn over fairly tight tailored jeans that made it clear she had Betty Grable legs. Ruth is comfortably well-off, a widow with some family issues–her husband’s ex-wife and her own brothers. Her father was a rabbi, and Ruth was observant, at least at the important times of the year. “Acerbic” would describe her personality, but smiley and sweet on top of the film-noir attitudes. She was a picture in Chanel pink that evening, with pink and white Vans. Gotta love a woman in comfortable shoes. I read somewhere that an average woman in spiked heels exerted the same amount of pressure on the floor under the spike as a full-grown hippopotamus. Impressive.

She does good entrances and paused in the doorway at Dominie’s Hoek to be silhouetted by the sun.

“You did that on purpose, didn’t you?” I asked as I bussed her on both cheeks like a European.

“Did what?”

“Stood in the doorway with the sun behind you.”

“Pish-tush,” she said, pulled out a chair at one of the tables and sat down. She made me smile every time I saw her. I re-appreciated that she didn’t carry three handbags, which is what a lot of New York women do. Men use pockets more, and women use pocketbooks, purses, or backpacks, sometimes all three.

So I briefed them on what Mike had told me about Ned Savage. “I guess there was no real evidence of any kind of tussle, so the assumption is that either he was surprised or he knew whoever it was that hit him and didn’t feel in danger. Nothing yet on next of kin, or whether he had any close relatives.”

“Did you say he was an actor?” Ruth asked.

“What I was told was that he was directing a production of a Shakespeare play,” I said. “I think it was Twelfth Night, in some off-Broadway theater.”

“WSR,” she said. “West Side Rep. I’m on their mailing list. I’ve met him. He was Bottom in their Midsummer Night’s Dream a year or so ago. Good looking, has a limp.” She pulled out her cellphone and tapped on it. “Here,” she said, flashing a picture of Savage. “Brings out the mother instinct in me,” she smiled.

“Yeah, that’s him,” I said. “Small world?”

Gabriele grabbed the phone from Ruth and looked at it. “He come Ora di Pranzo maybe two times, con amici. Parl’ Italiano, ma bruto. Ѐ una brava persona.” (He brought his friends and spoke Italian, but not well. Good man.)

I wouldn’t say that’s why I love both of them, because it’s not. I’ve loved them for years on their own merits. But the fact that Ruth is involved in what seems like every arts charity in Manhattan and Gabriele owns a restaurant that you have to reserve a month in advance to hope to get in–it don’t hoit, as they say. There I was, living next door to an apartment where a man was murdered a couple of days before, and both of my best friends knew him. Go figure. What? Eight million people living in the five boroughs? I live in Queens. Ruth lives in Manhattan. Gabriele lives in Brooklyn. All three of us turn out to know this one guy, and I had only seen him, never met him even though he lived next door.

I made a mental note to look up West Side Rep and see what I could find out. A waiter took our orders. Glass of red for me, glass of white for Ruth, dirty vodka for Gabriele. It felt good to be sitting with them on a warm summer day and to be working together on a puzzle. When I was a kid, my favorite thing was to work on jigsaw puzzles–big ones, lots of little pieces, lots of areas of color that look the same on the boxtop. You find all the edges you can find, and work your way in toward the middle. There’s a lot more in the way of blind alleys and dead ends when you’re dealing with a homicide—don’t get me wrong—and it’s a good deal more somber than trying to fit the pieces together in a picture of bright seas and sailboats.

Gabriele said that Savage had been to Ora di Pranzo at least twice, both times with a group of young people, probably actors or people he was working with. I asked if they were well-behaved. He said something noncommittal, like he didn’t remember.