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stopped.”
    He handed Struk a photo of Kathie. She was very pretty, he thought. Long, straight hair, a nice full smile.
    Struk took down Durst’s home and business phone numbers and the number to the medical school. He also asked for phone numbers to speak with Kathie’s relatives.
    “I don’t have those,” said Durst. “Her maiden name is McCormack. Her mother, Ann, lives in New Hyde Park, Long Island. Her brother, Jim, lives in Queens.”
    Durst signed a single missing-persons form, then got up from his chair.
    “Okay, Mr. Durst. I’ll be in touch. There’s a criterion that has to be met for this to become an official missing-persons investigation, and I don’t think we’ve met that yet. I’ll make a few calls and get back to you. Of course, should you hear from or see your wife please give us a call,” said Struk.
    The two men shook hands and Durst quietly left the building, his dog, a Norwegian elkhound, following at his heels.
    Struk knew plenty of guys like Durst who walked meekly into the precinct all the time claiming their wives were missing. He also knew, in most cases, the women had either shacked up with another guy or had had enough of their beloved and jumped a bus.
    After seventeen years on the force, Struk would know if someone was missing.
    He reviewed his notes and filled out an initial report, or a “scratch,” which was really nothing more than a blank sheet of paper with a name and address and phone number.
    This wasn’t a missing-persons case, he reasoned, but he’d make a few phone calls, at least make some effort to see where this woman was.
    After all, the work would keep him busy, and keep his mind off of his family.
    —
    The walk back to Riverside Drive and Seventy-seventh Street took less than fifteen minutes, and Robert Durst walked past the doorman and boarded the elevator.
    As the doors closed, another tenant entering the building called out to hold the elevator, but Durst offered a quick glance to the elevator operator, who knew to ignore the plea.
    He arrived at the door of his sixteenth-floor penthouse apartment. Once inside, he opened a bag of dry dog food and filled a bowl, placing it on the kitchen floor.
    He calmly walked into the living room, sat on his sofa, and picked up the phone, dialing a familiar number.
    “Hi, it’s Robert. There’s something I have to tell you. I just came back from the police station.”
    —
    The paint chips hanging from the ceiling caught Mike Struk’s attention as he sat with his head back. The squad room, which had been empty the last two hours, was now coming to life. Two detectives led a handcuffed teen wearing a green parka and black Jefferson Starship T-shirt into the room. One detective stayed with the teen, the other, Eddie Regan, walked over to his desk, which was behind where Struk sat.
    “Wake up,” said Regan. “You working or you sleeping?”
    “No, I’m just thinking,” said Struk, who lifted his head up and pulled his chair closer to his desk. “What did you bring in?”
    “Remember that break-in last week at the music store on Eighty-ninth? We found the kid, sixteen. Got him hanging out in Central Park. Anything going on here?”
    “Just some guy, came in with his fucking dog to file a missing persons on his wife. Can you believe these people? He brings a dog here? Anyway he tells me he thinks his wife is missing, I take down the details, he leaves, and I make a few calls. Turns out the guy didn’t tell me everything, and I’m sitting here figuring who to call next.”
    Struk picked up a yellow legal pad and pointed to his notes from an interview he completed minutes earlier with Dr. Jean Cook, the dean of the Albert Einstein Medical School in the Bronx.
    Struk had circled several words, including “failing” and “marital difficulties” and “stressed.”
    “The guy comes in here with the dog and tells me everything is all right with the world, that his marriage is okay, and his wife may have a little