They hear the music of the streets. The breaking glass and the breaking hearts. They whistle tunes from twenty years ago, and follow a haunting melody of lies, truths, and clues …

Someone played a little night music. What remained behind for the cops was the body of a woman who had once performed on the great stages of Europe, now with two bullets in her chest in the hallway of her apartment. For Carella and Hawes the long, dark night has just begun–while somewhere in the city, another woman is dying for the price of a song…

STEP RIGHT IN >>

Chapter 1

The phone was ringing as Carella came into the squadroom. The clock on the wall read 11:45 P.M.

“I’m out of here,” Parker said, shrugging into his overcoat.

Carella picked up. “Eighty-seventh Squad,” he said. “Detective Carella.”

And listened.

Hawes was coming into the squadroom, blowing on his hands.

“We’re on our way,” Carella said, and hung up the phone. Hawes was taking off his coat. “leave it on,” Carella said.

The woman was lying just inside the door to her apartment. She was still wearing an out-of-fashion mink going orange. Her hair was styled in what used to be called finger waves. Silver-blue hair. Orange-brown mink. It was twelve-degrees Fahrenheit out there in the street tonight, but under the mink she was wearing only a flowered cotton housedress. Scuffed French-heeled shoes on her feet. Wrinkled hose. Hearing aid in her right ear. She must have been around eighty-five or so. Someone had shot her twice in the chest. Someone had also shot and killed her cat, a fat female tabby with a bullet hole in her chest and blood on her matted fur.

The Homicide cops had got there first. When Carella and Hawes walked in, they were still speculating on what had happened.

“Keys on the floor there, must’ve nailed her the minute she come in the apartment,” Monoghan said.

“Unlocks the door, blooie,” Monroe said.

It was chilly in the apartment; both men were still wearing their outer clothing, black overcoats, black fedoras, black leather gloves. In this city, the appearance of Homicide Division detectives was mandatory at the scene, even though the actual investigation fell to the responding precinct detectives. Monoghan and Monroe liked to think of themselves as supervisory and advisory professionals, creative mentors so to speak. They felt black was a fitting color, or lack of color, for professional Homicide Division mentors. Like two stout giant penguins, shoulders hunched, heads bent, they stood peering down at the dead old woman on the worn carpet. Carella and Hawes, coming into the apartment, had to walk around them to avoid stepping on the corpse.

“Look who’s here,” Monoghan said, without looking up at them.

Carella and Hawes were freezing cold. On a night like tonight, they didn’t feel they needed either advice or supervision, creative or otherwise. All they wanted to do was get on with the job. The area just inside the door smelled of whiskey. This was the first thing both cops registered. The second was the broken bottle in the brown paper bag, lying just out of reach of the old woman’s bony arthritic hand. The curled fingers seemed extraordinarily long.

“Been out partying?” Monaghan asked them.

“We’ve been here twenty minutes already,” Monroe said petulantly.

“Big party?” Monaghan asked.

“Traffic,” Hawes explained, and shrugged.

He was a tall, broad shouldered man wearing a woolen tweed overcoat an uncle had sent him from London this past Christmas. It was now the twentieth of January, Christmas long gone, the twenty-first just a

heartbeat away–but time was of no consequence in the 87th Precinct. Flecks of red in the coat’s fabric looked like sparks that had fallen from his hair onto the coat. His face was red, too, from the cold outside. A streak of white hair over his left temple looked like glare ice. It was the color his fear had been when a burglar slashed him all those years ago. The emergency room doctor had shaved his hair to get at the wound, and it had grown back white. Women told him they found it sexy. He told them it was hard to comb.

“We figure she surprised a burglar,” Monroe said. “Bedroom window’s still open.” He gestured with his head. “We didn’t want to touch it till the techs got here.”

“They must be out partying, too,” Monoghan said.

“Fire escape just outside the window,” Monroe said, gesturing again. “Way he got in.”

“Everybody’s out partying but us,” Monoghan said.

“Old lady here was planning a little party, that’s for sure,” Monroe said.