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himself from
     any accusations she might make.”
    “You got all that from ‘not in so many words,’” Gregory said. “Did Gillian tell you that she expected Winters to visit her
     last night? Here in this apartment?”
    “No, she didn’t,” Danny said.
    He was aware that Gregory was staring at him, trying to gauge his reaction. It was surprise. Genuine surprise.
    “Well, he was here,” Gregory said. “Apparently the last person to see her alive.”
    “She didn’t say anything about it to me,” Danny said, and he wondered if it would be too nervy to take out his own notebook.
     “Maybe he dropped by unexpectedly.”
    “And by the way,” Gregory said, reaching into a dresser drawer, “contrary to your prediction, we found these three nightgowns.”
    “I swear to God, I never saw her wear one before.”
    “Did you know Gillian was the understudy for the role of Maria?”
    “No,” Danny said.
    “I guess she forgot to tell you that, too. Yeah. Actually, what she was wearing when she died was a costume, not a nightgown.
     It was a dress from the show’s wardrobe, for the ‘I Feel Pretty’ number. A costume Trey Winters brought over last night for
     her to try on.”
    “I had no idea,” Danny said. “He brought her a costume to try on?”
    “That doesn’t sound like someone who is about to be dropped from a show, does it?”
    “Why would he bring a costume at that time of night?”
    “That was my next question, kid.”
    O n the terrace, Anthony Ryan went through Gillian’s motions again. He always walked in the victim’s footsteps. Only two steps:
     door to hassock. The hassock was short and wide with small, round wooden legs. Her white ballet shoes had been found, side
     by side, next to the hassock. Apparently she’d stepped out of the shoes, then up onto the hassock, thus destroying Joe Gregory’s
     “clean feet” theory.
    He tried to imagine the young woman in the white dress moving from the glass door to the hassock. Barefoot, Ryan stepped up
     onto the cushiony hassock. The covering felt like rough wool, the pattern varied red and beige squares and circles. His jacket
     whipped and snapped in the blast furnace of a breeze. The top of the metal rail was now even with his knees. He put one foot
     on the rail. For the five six Gillian the rail would have been at midthigh. Still easy to step over. Fall over. Be pushed
     over.
    He wobbled on the hassock as he glanced down at the chaos of Times Square. A haze of smog and dust had turned the scene surreal.
     He wondered what indescribable pain could cause a beautiful young woman to step over the metal rail and fall into space. To
     fall and fall, for a length of time his mind would not let him consider. He’d heard that people fainted, passed out, before
     they hit bottom. He hoped so. He hoped with all his heart. My God, he hoped his child hadn’t suffered.
    G regory looked up when the squat, uniformed cop appeared in the bedroom doorway, a copy of
Variety
in his hand.
    “I’m outta here,” the cop said, pointing to his watch. “It’s my meal hour, and the house informs me that no personnel is available
     for relief. So fuck it, you’re on your own.”
    Danny took the opportunity to look around the apartment, try to photograph it with his mind. Nail the detail.
    “Give us a few more minutes, kid,” Gregory said.
    “I don’t think so,” the cop said. “You guys are dragging this out like I got all day.”
    “Ask my partner to watch the door for a while,” Gregory said.
    “You mean the guy out on the terrace in deep conversation with himself.”
    The cop made a gesture, flipping his thumb toward his mouth, as if to let Gregory know that he was so streetwise, he knew
     Ryan was a drunk. Gregory rose from the bed, one of Gillian’s T-shirts in his hand, a black one from
Les Misérables
.
    “Get back in the hallway, Officer,” he said. “And plant your ass out there until I tell you to leave.”
    “Hey, don’t get your balls