in the storm, after the local police had arrived.
“Don’t worry, if there are tracks, we’ll find them.”
I’m sure Roy O’Rourke meant to sound competent and reassuring, but to me he sounded tired and dulled by routine. I wondered where he’d gained his world-weary manner. Thinking of Quinn, I took a guess.
“Were you, by any chance, an officer in the NYPD, Sergeant O’Rourke?”
The man’s head dipped slightly. “Twenty years,” he replied. “I worked homicides in South Brooklyn, Washington Heights, the Bronx. Gang and drug violence, mostly.”
“Those are tough areas.”
“I’ve solved more than a few murders, ma’am, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I’m just wondering…aren’t the cases out here different? Different than the crimes in the city, I mean?”
“Every case has its own rhythm, but the work’s the same. Find the weapon and you’ll find the killer.”
I blinked. “It’s that simple?”
O’Rourke sighed. “Finding the weapon isn’t so simple, Ms. Cosi, believe me. But when you find it, the DA’s office usually has what it needs for a conviction. You follow, don’t you?”
“Yes, Sergeant. I follow.”
I halted just then. We had come to the spot. There was no longer any crime-scene rope around the scrub grass. The storm had blown it down, which wasn’t surprising.
“I found the shells right here,” I told the Sergeant, pointing to the spot. With a gesture, O’Rourke’s men fanned out, no doubt to seek out more clues.
“No sign of tracks here,” the man noted, looking around the dune.
“They weren’t here,” I corrected. “They were twenty yards down. But I’m sure the storm and the tide washed them away.”
“Maybe. Let’s see what the others find,” he replied. Ten minutes later, Detective Melchior sidled up to his partner. He was a foot taller and a decade younger than O’Rourke. Thin to the point of consumption, Melchior possessed a prominent cleft chin which jutted from a head seemingly too large for his scarecrow frame.
“Good line of fire from these dunes,” the detective observed, pointing to David’s bathroom window, clearly visible almost forty yards away.
O’Rourke squinted against the glare. “You said you saw tracks, Mrs. Cosi? Big shoe prints or little ones? Or were they bare feet?”
“Well, actually, Sergeant,” I replied. “I believe they were made by webbed feet.”
“Webbed feet?” O’Rourke repeated, a bit taken aback.
I nodded.
“What do you mean?” he said. “Like a duck’s?”
I instantly regretted my choice of words. “Like scuba diving gear,” I corrected. “You know, the webbed flipper fins divers’ use?”
O’Rourke exchanged an unreadable glance with his partner.
“Maybe I should draw you an example,” I quickly suggested. “You know, in the sand?”
“Good idea,” said O’Rourke.
I set to work, crouching down and using my finger to recreate the tracks I’d found. Soon all the officers gathered around to watch. I was lost in concentration, searching my mind in an effort to recall the image. Were there three toes, or four? How big were they exactly? And how far apart? I made a few marks in the sand, erased them and started again. Halfway through the exercise, I looked up to find the policemen clearly suppressing laughter.
“Looks like we’ve found our culprit,” Sergeant O’Rourke quipped, folding big arms over his barrel chest. “The Creature from the Black Lagoon.”
Everyone laughed. Even the polite young policeman who’d brought me my robe couldn’t suppress a chuckle. I rose to my full (albeit rather puny) height.
“A decent clue is no laughing matter,” I snapped.
“No it isn’t, ma’am,” Detective Melchior said, obviously stepping in quickly to sooth my ruffled duck feathers. “So why don’t you take me back to the house. You can help me put together a list of everyone Mr. Mazzelli worked with and who you saw him conversing with last night. Let’s see if we can’t narrow down some clues the old-fashioned way and find out who may have had a beef with the victim.”
“But that’s just it,” I said, hands on hips. “Treat Mazzelli wasn’t the intended victim. I believe that the shooter was after David Mintzer.”
O’Rourke and Melchior exchanged glances again. This time I didn’t get the impression they were amused.
“Ma’am, if you know something, it’s important that you tell us,” O’Rourke replied.
“I agree.”
We entered the kitchen a few minutes later. David was awake and completely pulled together. Clearly he’d had a good sleep. His color looked good, a deep tan against white teeth. And, as usual, he was dressed impeccably: tailored ivory slacks, a pale olive shirt, and Italian leather sandals. With a smile, David shook Sergeant O’Rourke’s hand.
“Some coffee? It’s a very special blend, truly delightful. Please help yourselves,”