"All right," Reardon said, "what's your idea of the whole thing, from beginning to end?"

"Well," Mathesson said, "I figure Petrakis was real upset. His wife dying and all, you know. And on top of his wife dying and this costing him all his money, he gets kicked out of his apartment. So that sets him off, you know? Puts him over the brink, you might say. He's real agitated by now. Crazy. So he goes to the park, maybe just to walk around at first, who knows? Anyway, he goes to the zoo and on the way he meets Bryant. He's so mad that the only thing he can talk about is his lousy landlord. Which is none other than your friend and mine, Wallace Van Allen."

"You think he'd have known who his landlord was?" Reardon asked.

"I don't know, to be honest with you. Of course, that stuff is in the public record. Anybody has access to it. Anybody can find out who their landlord is."

"But it takes a while to track it down."

"Yeah," Mathesson said, "but look at it this way: I once had a buddy who lived in a building on East 72nd Street. Now, normally he wouldn't know who his landlord was. Just some corporation, you know what I mean? But it so happened that his building was owned by some movie star * I forget who it was exactly * but a big Hollywood star, you know? So my buddy knew who owned the building. Kind of took pride in it, you know? Like it made him kind of different, kind of important or special or something, living in a building owned by a famous person."

"Yeah," Reardon said.

"Well, Wallace Van Allen is a big name, you know what I mean? So Petrakis could have known who his landlord was without going through the ha.s.sle of researching it. I'd be willing to bet that if you canva.s.sed Petrakis' old building the tenants would know that Wallace Van Allen owned the building they live in."

This made sense to Reardon. He leaned on the metal table and concentrated his attention on Mathesson. "Go on."

"Well," Mathesson said, "Petrakis goes to the zoo. Now remember, he's goofy. He takes the ax and decides to get even with Van Allen. So he kills the deer in a crazy rage. Uncontrollable, you might say."

"Why did he kill them like he did?"

"What do you mean?"

"Why did he cut one of them to ribbons with fifty-seven different wounds and then kill the other one with a single blow?"

"Maybe he was tired," Mathesson said. "What he did to that first deer would take a lot out of you. In any case, after he's through with the killing, he starts cleaning the fingerprints off the ax. He probably plans to put the ax back in the toolshed. Then he hears something, maybe that m.u.f.fled and grating sound n.o.ble heard. Anyway, he panics. He forgets about cleaning the G.o.dd.a.m.n ax and just decides to ditch it."

"On Fifth Avenue?"

"That's right," Mathesson said, visibly warming to the narrative. "But he sees he's on a city street that could have witnesses, and there he is holding a G.o.dd.a.m.n ax that's dripping with blood, so he pitches it in the sewer drain under the street. And that's it. He takes off for home." Mathesson took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, clearly pleased with his account.

For a moment there was silence, while Reardon thought about the scenario just presented by Mathesson. "So Petrakis took off toward home?" he asked finally. "Remember, we don't know where he lives since he was evicted."

"The chances are he stayed on the East Side. I'll bet when you find his new address, it'll be on the East Side."

"It may be," Reardon admitted.

"May be, bulls.h.i.t!" Mathesson laughed, shrugging off the frustration that Reardon could see building in him. "Well," he said, "we may have the clincher anyway."

"What clincher?"

"It may not be sure," Mathesson said with a teasing smile, "but it's a chance. That kid, Daniels."

"The kid with the cocaine bust?"

"That's right. I finally got through to him."

"So?"

"I got through that G.o.dd.a.m.n wall of legal eagles his rich papa hired to get the little p.r.i.c.k off the hook," Mathesson said proudly. "He's coming in to talk to us. He may have seen something."

Daniels might have the answer, Reardon thought. Cases had been broken that way before, and Reardon hoped the killing of the fallow deer and of the women in the Village could be solved quickly. He was not sure why this case disturbed him so particularly. He only knew that it did, and he wanted to escape the pressures he could feel building in himself with every hour it remained unsolved. "When's he coming in?" he asked.

"He should be here in an hour or so. Piccolini offered to have the questioning done at the kid's place, but the kid's father said that he'd rather it all be done down here." Mathesson grinned. "He probably thought we'd come roaring up with our sirens blasting, and that wouldn't look too good on Fifth Avenue."

Reardon pulled out the arrest sheet for the morning the fallow deer were killed and looked at it. "Winthrop Lewis Daniels," he said.

"His father must be scared s.h.i.tless." Mathesson popped a piece of hard candy into his mouth and started moving it from one side of his mouth to the other. "The old man probably figures we're gonna try to pin a heavy rap on his darling boy."

"Heavier than possession of cocaine?"

Mathesson flicked his hand in a gesture of dismissal. "Ah, they won't even pin that on him. This will be strictly a probation rap. You don't stick a possession charge on an Upper East Side kid. You know what I mean. This is strictly a bad bust, a lot of paperwork for nothing." Mathesson winked at Reardon. "Like the Spics say in the Barrio, *Nada, nada and more nada.'"

Reardon nodded. It had always been this way, he thought. But it was becoming more difficult for him to accept it.

Mathesson started b.u.t.toning his overcoat. "Well," he said, "have a jolly time of it. I got to be in court this morning. I got to testify against this n.i.g.g.e.r wh.o.r.e." He smiled. "She wasted her pimp * stuck a blade in his guts and pulled up on it." He thrust an imaginary blade in his abdomen and jerked upward. "Hari kari pickaninny style." He shook his head in disgust. "h.e.l.l, I don't know why they bother to charge her. Son of a b.i.t.c.h got what he deserved. He was a white dude, too * honky, ofay, you know what I mean? Probably a lot of G.o.dd.a.m.n feeling went into that blade, you know what I mean? Getting even in spades you might say." Mathesson shook with laughter and slapped his leg. "G.o.dd.a.m.n, I'm in a good mood," he said.

Reardon could not imagine why.

Mathesson told him. "I believe we busted this case. I believe we got that Petrakis cold."

"Yeah," Reardon said weakly.

Mathesson straightened his tie and stood erect. "Well," he said, "do I look * what do the lawyers call it? * credible?"

Reardon nodded.

"Well, take it easy." Mathesson started toward the door. "I'll see you this afternoon."

"Right," Reardon said. Or wrong, he thought, dead wrong.

15.

When Reardon returned to his desk, he stared down at the night update for the day the fallow deer were killed. It was full of names that ended in "a" and "o" and "ski," along with a number of names that were familiar enough; in most cases, Reardon knew, these were black names, old slave names like Johnson or Phillips. Beside these, the clean contours of the name Winthrop Lewis Daniels stood out like a silver spoon in a dung heap. Winthrop Lewis Daniels was the kind of name that had a stiff upper lip, knew its whereabouts at all times, and moved about with its own predetermined and resolute self-confidence. It was the kind of name that had an opinion on every issue and expected to be heard whenever it wished. It was not the kind of name that waited bleeding in the chaotic emergency receiving room of Bellevue Hospital or held close affection for a mongrel dog.

When Winthrop Lewis Daniels finally arrived at the precinct house, he was not alone. Reardon recognized him instantly even though he had never seen him before. Daniels was flanked on either side by two well dressed men, each holding tightly to a briefcase. Not many teenage offenders came through the precinct house doors like that. From his desk Reardon watched as the three men approached the desk sergeant, who responded to one of their questions by pointing to Reardon.

"Detective Reardon?" one of the men asked as they approached his desk.

"That's right."

"My name is Colin Tower." He was a very tall, very thin man with coal black hair slicked down flat across his head. He did not offer his hand.

The bald, stocky man on his left Mr. Tower introduced as Mr. Arington. "We are here to represent Mr. Daniels in this matter," Mr. Tower said. He nodded toward the tall, thin young man to his right.

"Have a seat," Reardon said. He did not expect this to be easy. He had dealt with lawyers of the Tower-Arington variety before. It would be part of their strategy to frustrate him as much as possible. Once they had taken seats across from his desk, however, they looked somewhat less formidable.

Before Reardon could ask his first question, Mr. Tower spoke again. "Let me begin by saying that Mr. Daniels is quite willing to cooperate with the police. He has come of his own free will and any statement which he wishes to make will be regarded as completely voluntary."

Reardon nodded indifferently. He had heard it all before.

"If at any time Mr. Daniels wishes to conclude this interview," Mr. Tower went on, "we will have to insist that it be immediately terminated. We also reserve the right to advise Mr. Daniels of those questions upon which we feel he would be better served to remain wholly silent."

"I understand that you represent Mr. Daniels," Reardon said brusquely. "As far as I'm concerned Mr. Daniels is here voluntarily. But this is a serious investigation, and I think he would be well advised to cooperate with us."

"Pardon me," Mr. Arington said, "but we will decide the extent of Mr. Daniels' cooperation."

"That's fine," Reardon replied dryly.

Reardon looked at Mr. Tower. "According to an arrest sheet for last Monday in this precinct, Mr. Daniels was arrested for possession of cocaine."

Mr. Tower chuckled. "Absurd charge."

"I'm not trying the case," Reardon said.

"Of course not," said Mr. Tower. "It's just that the charge is so ludicrous."

"Absolutely no evidence," Mr. Arington said.

"I don't care about that," Reardon said. "But the fact is that he was arrested."

"He was arrested," Mr. Tower muttered reluctantly. He glanced knowingly at Mr. Arington, then back to Reardon.

Reardon pulled a map of Central Park from his desk drawer and unfolded it on top of his desk.

"What is this all about?" Mr. Tower asked. "We're perfectly aware of where Mr. Daniels was arrested. We don't require a map."

"I'm not investigating a cocaine bust," Reardon said. "That's not what I'm doing here."

"Then what are you doing?" Mr. Tower said. "Have you lost your mind? Do you have any idea of the kind of lawsuit you're going to be facing if you persist in your hara.s.sment of this young man?"

"I haven't hara.s.sed anybody," Reardon declared. "I'm trying to investigate two murders."

Mr. Tower popped to his feet. "Murders?"

Reardon looked at Mr. Tower wearily. "I told you that this is an investigation. n.o.body is accusing Mr. Daniels of anything."

"What kind of murders?" Daniels asked quietly.

Mr. Tower leveled a cold stare at Daniels. "Don't bother yourself about it. We'll handle this." He looked at Reardon. "This is outrageous. We understood from Mr. Piccolini that some police matter would be discussed this morning. We a.s.sumed that it would pertain to the utterly false charge already made against Mr. Daniels. But we had no idea that any attempt would be made to a.s.sociate him with homicides."

"Are they homicides?" Daniels asked quietly.

"Winthrop, please," Mr. Arington pleaded. "You must let us handle this."

Reardon spoke directly, and quietly, to Daniels. "There's more than the homicides. We're not sure if they are connected with the rest."

"That's quite enough," Mr. Tower exclaimed.

Daniels looked thoughtfully at Reardon but said nothing.

"What do you think, Mr. Daniels?" Reardon asked, trying to strike through the wall of lawyers that separated them. Daniels did not appear at all like the spoiled child Langhof had described. He looked confused and a little worried. But more importantly, Reardon sensed that Daniels did know something and wanted to tell him about it.

Daniels stared quietly at Reardon.

"You saw something, didn't you?" Reardon asked.

"That's enough!" Mr. Tower exclaimed.

Daniels did not seem to hear Mr. Tower. He continued to stare at Reardon's face, and for a moment Reardon saw him not as a pampered delinquent, but as a pained young man, barely out of childhood, confronting something dreadful, confronting it fully, for perhaps the first time.

"What was it you saw?" Reardon asked firmly.

Mr. Tower grasped Daniels' arm. "I think we'd better go, Winthrop."

Daniels jerked his arm from Mr. Tower's grasp. "Sit down," he told him.

"Winthrop, stop it!" Tower said. He remained standing but did not resume his grasp of Daniels' arm.

Daniels looked at Reardon as if trying to determine something about his character, whether he could be trusted. "Was it in the park?"

"Yes," Reardon replied. "Two deer were killed."

"Deer?" Daniels asked with surprise. "Am I a suspect?"

Reardon nodded cautiously. "You might be."

"You see?" Mr. Tower warned. "You're a possible suspect."

Reardon continued. "The deer were killed in the Children's Zoo. You were near the deer cage only a few minutes after they were killed."

Mr. Tower looked at Reardon, then at Daniels. "Winthrop, please don't get yourself any deeper in this. You don't know how the police operate."

Daniels continued to look straight into Reardon's eyes. "I didn't have anything to do with killing those deer," he said calmly. "But I may know who did."

Mr. Tower slumped down in his chair. "That's it," he said. "At this point, Winthrop, I would advise you to tell Mr. Reardon everything you know about this case."

"Thank you, Mr. Tower," Reardon said politely. He looked at Daniels. "What do you mean, you may know who did?"

"I saw a man with an ax."

"When?"