"Oh, he's capable of just about anything."

"But I thought he killed women."

"Yes, but a murder like this would be different. It would be to protect himself from getting caught. But how would he know who Eddie is?"

"I don't know," Diesel said. "But maybe he tailed him into the subway and waited for his chance."

"But why? What did Eddie know? That's a big risk to take."

"Yeah, it is. I don't know what Eddie knew, because I hadn't spoken to him for a couple of days. But maybe this guy had been watching him."

"Okay," Lee said to the pair sitting opposite him, "I'm going to need some information from you."

"Anything you want, you got it," Rhino replied.

"Right," said Diesel. "If this guy did Eddie, we want to help you any way we can."

Lee shivered as another thought came into his head. For the first time it occurred to him that whoever wanted him off the case might very well be someone he knew.

Chapter Fifty-three

The SRO desk clerk was a thick, lumpy man with a face that looked like it had been hewn from an oak tree with a rusty ax. His cheekbones were set at different heights, giving his whole face a lopsided look, and his nose was flattened and crooked. Lee realized he was looking at a boxer's face. The man's clothes and haircut belonged to a different era. They reminded Lee of gangster films of the '30s and '40s.

"Excuse me, I wonder if you could help me," Lee said as he approached the desk.

The man looked up from the sports pages he was reading. "Sure, Mac, whaddya need?" Even his voice was straight out of a B movie.

Diesel and Rhino had given Lee the address of the West Side flophouse where Eddie lived, but they didn't know the manager's name. This guy had night staff written all over him, though, and a couple of twenties later Lee was seated on the bed in Eddie's room, going through his things. Word had already gotten around about what happened to Eddie, and the clerk insisted on watching while Lee went through his friend's possessions. He stood in the doorway fingering a cigarette, as if he couldn't wait to go outside and smoke it.

It was a dismal room, the stale smell of desperation clinging to the peeling wallpaper, and Lee felt ashamed that he hadn't known how close to the edge his friend was living. Any offers of help had been politely rebuked. Eddie had a way of appearing to be able to take care of himself. A single bed and an unpainted pine dresser were the only pieces of furniture, a green braided rug the only touch of comfort.

He looked through the contents of the dresser: half a dozen shirts, a couple of pairs of pants, socks and underwear, and a couple of sports jackets. The rest of Eddie's possessions were unremarkable-pens, paper, and other simple office supplies, a few cans of soup, a box of crackers, several decks of cards, well thumbed and grimy-but one thing caught Lee's eye. It was a racing form dated the day Eddie died. In the first race, a horse's name was circled in red pen: Lock, Stock, and Barrel. Lee looked at the night clerk and held up the form.

"Can I keep this?"

The man stuck the unlit cigarette behind his ear. "You can keep all of it, Mac. Poor Eddie won't be needin' it now, I guess. Unless he had family somewheres, but I don't think so."

"Did he seem depressed in the last few days?"

The man cocked his lopsided head to one side. "Naw, that's the thing-he seemed really happy, y'know? Told me he'd bet on a sure winner."

Lee held up the racing form and pointed to the circled name. "This horse?"

The man squinted to read the name and shook his head. "Don't know. Just said he had a feeling his horse was gonna win. Never saw him after that. Poor guy. He was a good egg, you know?"

Lee slipped the clerk another twenty before leaving, because the man seemed to feel sorry for Eddie. As he stepped out of the building, hot tears clouded his vision. He took a deep breath and headed out into the night.

The next stop was Eddie's bookie-another bit of information he managed to get out of Diesel and Rhino. He didn't know what he expected to find; he only knew that he owed it to Eddie to try and find out anything he could.

The apartment was in the ground of floor of a five-story walk-up, one of the rows of brick tenement buildings the lined the forties and fifties from Eighth Avenue to the river. The long, narrow "shotgun" apartments (so named because you could fire a shotgun at one end and the bullet would pass straight through to the other end) were once crammed with poor migrant families-and more recently, struggling actors and writers. But now you could buy a house in New Jersey for the price of a one-bedroom co-op on West Forty-seventh Street.

The building showed all the signs of a neglectful landlord. The hallway was drafty and badly lit. The walls were an insipid shade of pale yellow, and hadn't seen a paintbrush for years, and the tile floor was chipped and stained. Lee knocked on the door of apartment number 1C and waited. After a moment the metal peephole cover slid open.

"Yeah?" The man's voice was wary, hoarse.

"Hi. I'm Eddie Pepitone's friend."

"Yeah?" There was an echo, as though he was inside a cave.

"He made a bet with you the other day. Lock, Stock, and Barrel-trifecta in the third race."

"Yeah? So?"

"What happened? In the race, I mean."

"His horse won."

"I need to know if he spoke to you about it."

"So why don't you just ask him?"

"I can't."

"Why not?" The voice was suspicious.

"He's dead."

There was a long silence. Lee heard the sound of something frying inside the apartment. The smell of rancid oil floated out into the hallway.

"Who are you?" The voice was tighter, accusatory.

"I just want to talk to you for a minute."

There was the sound of a chair scraping over a bare floor, then the sound of many dead bolts being unlocked. The door opened a few inches, restrained by a metal chain. Lee got a whiff of bacon grease and fried potatoes. A bloodshot eye peered out at him.

"You a cop?"

"No," Lee lied. "I'm just a friend who wants to find out who killed Eddie."

"Shit," the man said. "So you weren't shittin' me? Somebody iced Eddie?"

"That's what I think. I just need to know one thing: Did he talk to you about his horse coming in?"

"Yeah. Two days ago. Said he was comin' over for the money. Never showed up-I figured something came up, y'know? How did he die?"

"He was run over by a subway train."

"Hey, I heard something about an accident on the news tonight. Shut down the whole A line for hours, they said. I thought it was a suicide or something. Didn't know it was Eddie." There was a pause, and then he said, "Hey, how did you you know?" His eye squinted through the crack in the door, studying Lee hard. "You sure you're not a cop? You're startin' to smell like a cop to me." know?" His eye squinted through the crack in the door, studying Lee hard. "You sure you're not a cop? You're startin' to smell like a cop to me."

"Look, I have no interest in closing you down-just tell me when it was you talked to Eddie last, okay?"

"Let's see...Monday. Race was Sunday. He calls me up first thing Monday, says he's coming over. Never showed up. I figured he'd show up sooner or later. It was a nice sum, five thousand smackers. Horse was a real long shot." His eye narrowed again. "Hey, you haven't come for the dough, have you?"

"No-keep it. I'm sure you can use it."

The man whistled softly through the gap in his front teeth. "Shit, man. I don't feel good about Eddie dyin' or nothing, you know."

"Neither do I."

"He was a good customer and a straight-up guy, far as gamblers go, anyway. Hey, wait a minute-on the news they said it was an accident. So are you sayin' it wasn't no accident?"

"That's what I'm trying to find out. How did Eddie choose which horse to bet on?"

"Funny you should ask. Eddie was superstitious, y'know? He always had these weird reasons for bettin' on a horse."

"Yeah? Like what?"

"Oh, I dunno. One time a coupla years ago my daughter had a baby, you know, and Eddie bets on a horse that has the same name as the baby. That kinda thing, you know? I think he had some kinda idea that the universe was givin' him messages or something. I know it sounds weird, but sometimes the horses came through for him. He did okay, he really did."

Lee held up the racing form with the name "Lock, Stock, and Barrel" circled. "Any idea why he'd choose this horse?"

The man peered at it. "No. Wish I did. All I know is he seemed sure about it."

"Okay," Lee said. "Thanks. Thanks for your help. I appreciate it."

"But I didn't really help you."

"Oh, yes, you did," Lee replied as he hurried down the dingy hallway and out of the building.

Chapter Fifty-four

"Eddie Pepitone didn't kill himself," Lee declared as he walked into Chuck Morton's office. It was just after eight o'clock the next morning, and Chuck was still on his first cup of coffee.

"Whoa there-back up a second. Who is Eddie Pepitone?" Chuck said, putting down his coffee.

"The guy on the subway yesterday. The 'accident' on the A train-held up the trains for hours. Did you hear about it?"

"Of course-everyone did. But no one saw him being pushed."

"Well, I think he was pushed."

Chuck's blond eyebrows shot upward in surprise. "What do you mean? How do you know?"

Lee tossed the racing form onto his desk.

"He had just won five thousand dollars and was on his way to his bookie's place to get it."

"I don't follow you."

"Eddie was a friend of mine. We were at St. Vincent's together-he was my roommate."

"Oh, Jeez, Lee, I'm really sorry. But what are you saying?"

"I think the Slasher got to him."

"Why would he-"

"Because Eddie was helping me in the investigation."

"Helping you? Why wasn't I in on this? Who was this guy?" Chuck Morton's face reddened, and the cords on his muscular neck stood out.

"Eddie is-was-a guy with some unusual friends. His help was strictly unofficial."

"Unofficial or not, don't you think you should have let me in on it?"

Lee rubbed the back of his neck. The room suddenly seemed stuffy and overheated.

"Eddie wasn't always on the straight and narrow side of the law."

"So what? what? You think all the cops on the force work with squeaky-clean informants? Come on, Lee, you know better than that!" You think all the cops on the force work with squeaky-clean informants? Come on, Lee, you know better than that!"

"He didn't like cops."

"What about you?"

"We met under special circumstances. Look, do you want to hear what I think about his death or not?"

"Okay, okay!" Chuck sat in his chair and twisted the phone cord between his fingers, tapping his other hand on the desk irritably.