had even a month ago. But her kidnapping had changed things—for the better. He knew that the dynamics of her escape were largely responsible, somehow settling their roles in her mind. She, after all, had effected her own escape, getting the drop on her abductor when he was attacked by Smith. But this opportunity would not have presented itself without Frings’s pressure on Henry. She had been able to take matters into her own hands because of his actions. This seemed to give her confidence in their relationship, and that confidence had, in turn, rekindled his attraction to her. So now, he wondered, why the hell am I riding in a cab away from her on this big night? Because the Chief owed him a favor and payback did not necessarily come at the most opportune time.
The apartment building was technically in the Hollows—it was one block north of Bolivar Street—but in an area that was slowly being annexed into the working-class blocks of Capitol Heights. Cops in blue uniforms guarded the front door, though no one was on the streets.
“I’m—”
One of the cops interrupted that they knew who he was and gestured him through the door.
“Third floor,” the cop called after Frings as he started up the stairs.
The building had partly been reclaimed from its abandonment. About half of the apartments had functioning front doors, which Frings took to mean that they were occupied. He didn’t hear any noise coming from the apartments. In this type of place it made sense not to call attention to yourself.
More cops were on the third floor, standing in the hallway, smoking and talking in low tones. One of them beckoned Frings down the hall.
“He’s in this one,” a muscular officer said, and nodded through the open door. “Back in the bedroom.”
The police had set up bright lights in all of the rooms in this small apartment, and the effect was a stage set of abject squalor. Refuse, broken glass, empty liquor bottles, a broken couch, yellowing newspapers.
In the bedroom, a uniform watched as two men in suits knelt over something by a stained bare mattress, a ragged blanket bunched at the foot.
“Mr. Frings,” the cop said, and the two kneeling men turned and stood. Frings recognized them as Detectives Olshanski and Korda. They shook hands, and Frings saw that the man lying on the floor, his head in a pool of blood, was Otto Samuelson.
Frings and Korda sat on the stoop outside the building, smoking.
“We talked to the other residents on the hall. They say Samuelson and another guy—they all mention his red hair—were squatting here for the last week or so. People on the hall weren’t happy about it either. A woman told Olshanski that she told her kid to come back in the apartment if he ever saw either of them. Anyway, it’s likely that the second man was Whiskers McAdam.”
An ambulance pulled to the curb, and Korda sent the crew up to Samuelson’s squat.
Korda continued, “Our best guess is this: They have an argument—the neighbors heard shouting, but that isn’t so unusual in this building according to them—probably over money. You figure that’s why they’re still in the City if they know that they’re the main suspects in the mayor’s assassination. Anyway, they have some kind of argument and for some reason Samuelson turns his back to McAdam, and McAdam hits him in the back of the head with a baseball bat or a club or some other blunt instrument. Samuelson bounces face-first off the mattress and ends up on his back on the floor next to the bed. It all seems pretty clear from the physical evidence.”
“You say you figure it was over money,” Frings said.
“That’s conjecture,” Korda conceded. “The force was crawling the City looking for these guys, so there must have been a damn good reason for them to stick around. Maybe they had some money stashed somewhere. Maybe they were grifting. Who knows? But we’re working on the theory that they got the money they wanted, McAdam got greedy, killed Samuelson, and blew town.”
“You think he’s gone?” Frings asked, though it made perfect sense to him.
“I would be.”
“So would I,” Frings agreed.
An hour later he eased himself into the box and took a seat in the shadows behind Nora. Pilar Rossi was singing an aria, and Nora did not notice Frings until he brushed her arm. She turned to him, startled, and gave an inquiring look. Frings winked and smiled, and Nora grabbed his hand