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type.”
    “Which way do you mean, Lieutenant? He’s not the type who’d want Beaux Arts, or Beaux Arts wouldn’t want his type?”
    “Both.”
    “We gave him thirty percent off. We needed a black in the building.”
    “Why?”
    “We had to be integrated to get federal funds.”
    “Are you sure you don’t mean a city tax abatement?”
    “No, Lieutenant. Beaux Arts Properties is smarter than that. In addition to the city tax abatement, we got federal funds for integrated, middle-income housing.”
    “This is middle-income?”
    “According to some people.”
    Cardozo shook his head. “Twenty-five. Joan Adler.”
    “She writes about politics. She’s a crusader in print, but in person she’s a mouse. Always cringing in the corner of the elevator She has a tremor in her arm. I think she may have m.s.”
    “I see twenty-six and twenty-seven have been made into a duplex for Johnny Stefano. Is that the composer?”
    Melissa nodded. “He had a string of hit shows up through the mid-seventies. He’ was late with his last two maintenance payments. He may be having some kind of money trouble. I get the impression he’s sexually kinky. He wears leather in the elevator. Of course a lot of people do nowadays. It may not mean much.”
    “Twenty-eight—William Benson.”
    Melissa Hatfield lit up. “He’s an adorable old man. Completely unassuming. You’d never know he’s built half the buildings that make New York New York. Including this building and the museum below it. Of course he’s old now and has to walk with a cane, but he puts in a twelve-hour day.”
    Cardozo found it intriguing: Melissa Hatfield had a sharp word for practically everybody in the building—yet the president of the TV network and the old architect seemed to have won her heart. He wondered how.
    He checked off floor 29, the apartment they were sitting in. Which brought them to floors 30 and 31.
    “Esmée Burns,” Cardozo said. “I see that’s another duplex.”
    “Burns makes cosmetics,” Melissa Hatfield said. “Very successfully.”
    Cardozo had a memory of dozens of small pink bottles on the bathroom shelf. “My wife used to use her stuff.”
    “Why’d she stop?”
    “She died.”
    “Oh. I’m sorry.”
    “That’s okay. I got used to it a long time ago.”
    “You’re still wearing your wedding ring.”
    “In my work you wear a wedding ring whether you’re married or not. It keeps things simple.”
    “Not a bad idea. Maybe I should try it.”
    Cardozo frowned at the list of occupants. “There’s a lot of empty space in the building.”
    “We’re one seventh vacant, Lieutenant. With the new tax laws, Manhattan real estate’s soft.”
    Cardozo folded the list and slipped it back into his jacket pocket. “What did you do Saturday?” he asked.
    “Me? Nothing special. Why? Am I a suspect?”
    “You have access to the key.”
    She rose from the sofa. She had a good figure. He could see she worked at keeping in shape. “I lead a quiet life, Lieutenant. Saturday is one of my truly dull days. I slept late. I fed Zero.”
    “Who’s Zero?”
    “Zero’s my cat. How’s that for an alibi? He’s a domestic short hair, marmalade, neutered, three legs—he had cancer last year. He’s twelve years old.”
    “I was asking about you, not Zero. Your cat’s in the clear.”
    “Sorry. I’m a cat person. Do you have a cat, Lieutenant?”
    “Street Abyssinian.”
    “I never heard of that breed.”
    “It’s more an accident than a breed. My daughter adopted him from the animal shelter.”
    “I hope he’s had his shots.”
    “He has, thanks for asking. Tell me, did you happen to go out at all yesterday?”
    “I’m sorry, I can’t help loving cats. I guess I go on about them. Yes, I went for a walk in Central Park.”
    “What did you do for lunch?”
    “I skipped lunch. Had an early dinner.”
    “Where?”
    “Where I have all my dinners—in my kitchen. Then I saw a movie.”
    “What movie?”
    “Dark Victory—