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painting, get a nine-to-five. Willie close to tears. Elena, taking his hand, speaking in her soft but authoritative voice. “You paint for yourself. It’s important what you do, Willie, your painting. And someday people will see that. It’s real, Willie. It’s who you are. Hold on to that.” Elena looking at him, total belief, confidence in him, right there in her eyes, on her face. The beauty of that moment. He’d replayed it often, whenever he was frustrated, close to quitting.
    For a moment Willie was still in the middle of that perfect moment with Elena, desperately trying to hold on to it.
    Curiosity seekers had filled the block. A couple of uniforms kept them at bay. Lots of cop cars, double-parked, flashers going. More uniforms and suits with cameras, bags, cases, surged up the stairs past Willie, into the tenement.
    Elena. Murdered. At once so real and totally unacceptable. He should have insisted Elena get the hell out of this lousy neighborhood. And he had. Lots of times. But Elena always did what she wanted. Willie banged his hand against the wall, felt no pain.
    “Hey, you. Tell me this: Exactly what the fuck were you doing here?” This from that guy on the upper landing, with the little NYPD notepad, now staring into Willie’s face. He was maybe thirty-five, with a flattop, in plain clothes–if you could call a maroon paisley bow tie plain clothes.
    But suddenly Kate was there, too, laying her hand on the guy’s shoulder. “I asked him to meet me here. What’s the problem?”
    Bow Tie turned to face her. “And you are . . . ?”
    “Name’s Katherine McKinnon-Rothstein.” She thought fast. “Friend of Chief of Police Tapell’s.”
    She saw the name register in the guy’s eyes, could feel him giving her the once-over–her clothes, Prada bag, even her uptown hair. The whole time he was making a sucking noise, as if he were trying to get his tongue unstuck from the roof of his mouth. “Randy Mead,” he said, not offering his hand, “Chief of Homicide, Special Task Force. And you’re here . . . why ?” His eyes, which were already small, narrowed to horizontal slits.
    “Because I know the girl,” said Kate.
    “Well, the kid here was the first on the scene. He’s gotta give a statement. It’s procedure.”
    “I know all about procedure.”
    Mead’s bow tie did a little blip over his bony Adam’s apple. “Oh, really?”
    “I was ten years on the force, in Queens,” said Kate. “Astoria. Homicide and missing persons my specialty.”
    “Assstorrrria.” Mead rolled the word around derisively.
    Willie was quiet, watching Kate, a look on his face as if he was either impressed or in shock. Had she ever told him she’d been a cop? She couldn’t remember.
    “ Very impressive,” said Mead.
    “Some people thought so.” She crushed out a Marlboro under her heel. Mead, at about five feet ten, was practically cowering under her.
    “Listen, man,” Willie interrupted. “You gotta do something about–”
    Kate cut him off. “I’ll take care of this. Go wait in my car, Willie. Please. ”
    She led Mead back to the front of Elena’s building. He sucked his teeth like a pissed-off rattlesnake. “You might remember,” he said, “that he who finds the body is often the perp.”
    “Don’t give me that Cop 101 crap, okay? I told you. It was all arranged. He was meeting me here. And the girl . . .” Kate stumbled a moment. No. Not just some girl. She could feel her emotions lining up at the starting gate, kicking up their heels like anxious Thoroughbreds. She took a deep breath. “And Elena,” she said calmly, “has been dead for some time. I’m sure you can see that.”
    “Friend of our esteemed Chief Tapell’s, huh?” Mead offered up a low-rent smile.
    “Look,” she said softly, “I don’t mean to step on your toes. I know you’ve got a job to do. I’m just trying to help, explain a few–”
    “Well, that’s real sweet of you . . . Mrs. Rothstein, was it? But I