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Bitsy von Falken. The lot where she’d been found was one hell of a bleak, unmemorable place to be dumped in.
    I wondered if her death had been a tragic act of passion; perhaps, a love affair gone awry. Or had it been a deliberate crime, as cold and heinous as the black thread that pierced her eyelids? There were always clues left behind. It was just a matter of connecting the dots. In which case, I couldn’t help but wonder what the Port Authority police might have discovered.
    I parked, still stewing over this morning’s article as I made my way into the office and sat down. The red light on my answering machine repeatedly blinked in frustration, as if worried it might be overlooked. I hit the play button, leaned back, and listened to the message.
    “I see that Bitsy von Falken was found at the seaport yesterday. That’s funny, considering I’d never have dreamt she’d be caught dead in such a place. In any case, she might have been wearing a shawl. If so, you’ll want to check it out. The thing is shahtoosh, which I understand is illegal. It’s also worth a fortune. Oh yes—by the way, she wasn’t the only Park Avenue bitch that’s wearing them around town. Those shawls could be the unofficial flag of the Upper East Side. Ta, ta, and happy hunting!” the woman’s voice cheerfully signed off.
    I copied down my “anonymous” informant’s name, along with her phone number. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t volunteered the information. It was conveniently stored on my caller ID. You’d think by now everyone would have known not to make an anonymous call from their home, thanks to shows like Law and Order and CSI . Evidently, Tiffany Stewart didn’t watch a lot of TV.
    Hmm. Although Ms. Stewart had a Manhattan area code, her accent had sounded Southern. I gave it no more than a passing thought. All I cared about right now was that I might finally have a case on my hot little hands. With that in mind, I picked up the phone and dialed Officer Nunzio, my friendly Port Authority cop.
    “This is Special Agent Rachel Porter,” I announced, once he was on the line. I only hoped the title, Special Agent, made me sound kick-ass official. “We met at the crime scene yesterday.”
    “Yeah, I remember you,” he said, sounding thoroughly unimpressed. “I’m kinda busy right now. What’s up?”
    So much for the exchange of any pleasantries.
    “I was just wondering if you could possibly answer a question,” I replied.
    But Nunzio obviously wasn’t one to waste time.
    “Probably not,” he responded.
    “Well, let’s give it a try, anyway,” I suggested, and proceeded to launch into my inquiry. “I just received a tip that Bitsy von Falken might have been wearing an unusual shawl. The wool for it is from endangered Tibetan antelopes that are protected under international law in more than a hundred and forty-seven countries,” I said, purposely piling on the facts. “What do you think? Can you help me out here?”
    I knew he was still on the line because I could hear him breathing.
    “Did she have one on?” I pressed.
    “A woman’s been killed and this is what you’re calling me about? Some goddamn shawl?” he replied. “Where in the hell are your priorities?”
    “You have your job and I have mine,” I replied, feelingslightly guilty—until I remembered the excitement in his voice at having found a dead body yesterday. “So, did you find one or not?”
    Nunzio cleared his throat of morning phlegm, as if giving himself time to think.
    “Come on. It’s not like I’m asking about the murder weapon or vital evidence from the crime scene,” I continued to plead.
    “Yeah, but you know the rules. This is an active investigation. I’m not supposed to talk about anything,” Nunzio said, as if reciting an official police handbook.
    “And I’m not the press. I’m a federal agent. I swear not to interfere or step on your toes as far as the case is concerned. So, how about it?” I would have