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trying to get out of the life. Run by Martine Toussaint, an ex-hooker. Haitian. You may know her.”
    â€œDoesn’t ring a bell. But she’s proof there’s life after prostitution. Something to think about.”
    â€œPlease skip the sermon.”
    â€œYou’re right. Another Chance,” I said. “I’ll look into it.”
    â€œDo me a favor.”
    â€œName it.”
    â€œDon’t mention my name. Martine and I didn’t get along. Bad feelings on both sides.”
    Seemed to be a lot of that going around.

7
    I was on my way to Feeney’s when Luce called.
    â€œWe got lucky with one of the vics in the basement,” she said.
    â€œDental records?”
    â€œBetter. Guy had a pacemaker. We tracked the serial number to the hospital, and the doc who did the surgery.”
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œLed us to Martin Donnelly. Wife was interviewed.”
    â€œAnything useful?”
    â€œNot really. I spoke to the detectives who met with her. Basic stuff. He was an insurance agent. Loving husband. Coached Little League.”
    â€œSounds like a wonderful guy. But not much.”
    â€œTheir hearts weren’t in it, Jackson.”
    â€œMind if I have a go?”
    â€œBe my guest.”
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    T he Donnellys lived in a stately Tudor in the hilly Fieldstone section of the Bronx. Fieldstone was an odd little community filled with judges, politicians, and heavy-duty money, which disavowed all connection to the city, and especially to The Bronx.
    I rang the bell.
    A few seconds later, Helen Donnelly answered the door with a drink in her hand. She seemed a bit unsteady.
    â€œMy name is Steeg,” I said, handing her my card. “I’m investigating your husband’s murder. Could I have …?”
    She barely glanced at the card before slamming the door in my face.
    Not a surprising reaction when someone who looks like me shows up on your doorstep.
    I rang the bell.
    â€œMrs. Donnelly? All I need is a few minutes of your time.”
    Her voice drifted out from behind the door.
    â€œI’ve already spoken with the police. Piss off!”
    â€œI know you have.”
    â€œThen stop bothering me.”
    I rang the bell again.
    It was time to appeal to her softer side.
    â€œAn innocent man may go down for his murder.”
    â€œWhy should I give a damn?”
    At this point, most people would have either stopped talking or called the police. But Mrs. Donnelly kept the conversation going. No doubt about it, I was making headway.
    â€œBecause it’s my brother.”
    There was silence. As it dragged on, the more my prospects dimmed.
    Then she said, “You’re still there, aren’t you?”
    â€œI am.”
    â€œAnd you’re not going away.”
    â€œNope.”
    â€œPersistent son of a bitch. Do you drink, Mr. Steeg?”
    â€œUsed to.”
    â€œSocially, or vocationally?”
    â€œThe latter.”
    â€œMe too. And still at it. Screw the twelve-step tango.”
    The door swung open. “What the hell,” she said. “Come on in. Could use the company.”
    First time alcoholism ever worked for me
, I thought.
    Helen Donnelly was a tall, attractive woman in her early forties. The little makeup she wore was expertly applied.
    She led me to an L-shaped sofa in the living room, ordered me to sit, and perched herself two cushions away. A half-empty bottle of Cristal sat on the coffee table.
    â€œTell me again,” she said, refilling her glass. “What’s your interest in Martin’s death?”
    Her cheeks were boozy pink, but her speech was tight and controlled.
    â€œI’m a private investigator. My brother’s been accused of your husband’s death. Wrongfully, I believe.”
    She emptied her glass. “The police said they had a suspect.” Her lips curled into a wry smile. “Thought it would comfort me.”
    â€œDoes