Detective Dawgleash: Leave No Bone Unturned

Book Three
The Second Bone
Sunday 5 December -> Monday 6 December

3.1

But the day was gloomy and this case troubling. The people at Tiffany's had given her a copy of their records, a dozen silver bones were bought by a man on June 15^th last year, he gave his name simply as "Hughes," paid cash and had "The 51^st Club" engraved on all of them. Who was this "Hughes," if that really was his name, and what was his role in this case?

Phoebe Figophilus seemed their most likely suspect so far; yet her fingerprints were not on the gasoline can found at the murder site. And if she were the murder, why had Figophilus done something as stupid and self-incriminated as attacking MacLane in broad daylight? Her behavior was bizarre. Or, was the attack done on purpose to throw them off? Was Figophilus simply shielding someone else or simply unbalanced? Tooney was counting on Dr. Finch to help them with that.

It was frustrating that the mysterious bicyclist who ran into Millicent Stanhope on the night of the killing remained unidentified. Perhaps Stanhope was lying. If there really were a mysterious bicyclist who hadn't done anything wrong, why didn't he come forward? On the other hand, why would anyone want to volunteer themselves for police interrogation and public scrutiny? And if the case was never solved, then the volunteer suspect would be under suspicion of murder for the rest of his life.

This morning Tooney was to go back to the Peter Detmold park and work with forensics. The day hadn't lightened at all by the time she left and a misty rain had begun falling. Not the best weather to be working outside, thought Tooney.

She took the subway across town, getting off the E train at 53^rd Street and Third Avenue and walked the few blocks to 51^st Street and the East River. A row of police cars were neatly aligned at the end of the street. King and his handler were already down in the shed working with Chief Inspector Dingwall and NYPD crime scene specialists, the best in the business.

Tooney showed her badge and reflexively stuck both hands in her pockets to avoid touching anything that could be used as evidence. Then she walked into the shed and was momentarily blinded by a blaze of light. When Tooney's eyes became accustomed to the brightness she saw King straining at the shed's back wall as his human companions worked to remove a wooden panel. The panel lifted easily once they found the latch that fastened it to the adjoining wall. Behind it was a window leading into a labyrinth of dark corridors in what appeared to be a sub-basement carved into the bedrock under 455 East 51^st. Dawgleash came in just then and joined King, his handler, Dingwall and Tooney as they crawled along the narrow dusty corridor. They were followed by three members of the forensic team carrying the tools of their trade.

The silence was suddenly shattered by a loud melodious ringing. The sound came from a large truck, barely visible at the end of a dark hallway. Both Dawgleash and King ran over and the humans were close behind. The dogs stood transfixed in front of the trunk as Dingwall lifted the lid.

The stench was overpowering. Tooney glimpsed a hunched torso and mess of bright red hair. Dingwall dropped the lid in surprise and it fell back with a loud thud. His color quickly faded to a pale green; Dingwall was a lab man, not used to decaying flesh ——especially when it took him by surprise.

Dawgleash suddenly began digging under the trunk and came up a moment later with a silver bone, the second silver bone. It too was from Tiffany's. It too had "The 51^st Club" engraved on it. But this one had two keys attached. One presumably was for the front door of the shed, the other perhaps unlocked one of the doors further down the corridor.

3.2

Even though it was widely acknowledged that she was one of the best forensic pathologists around, Saks wasn't a prima donna. Dawgleash liked that. Dawgleash also liked the fact that Saks showed respect for the dead, no matter how grisly the murder. Most important of all though, Saks was young and, like Dawgleash, trained after the paradigm shift in forensic identification in the 1990s.

Traditional forensic identification, the kind Dawgleash was often forced to depend upon when she first joined the NYPD, relied far too heavily on untested assumptions and semi-informed guesswork. Scientists simply compared pairs of marks such as handwriting, fingerprints and the like, intuited whether or not the marks matched and that was that. Courts rarely excluded this exceedingly haphazard testimony and rarely if ever questioned the foundations of the analyst's certainty.

There were still criminologists who found it difficult to break old habits, stubbornly holding on to the central assumption of "discernible uniqueness." Simply, when a pair of markings were not observably different, they assume the marks were made by the same person or objects. This practice yielded far too many misleading match/no-match claims and wrongful incarcerations.

Newer more scientifically based technologies, DNA fingerprinting in particular, revolutionized forensic investigation. The DNA-typing epiphany came to law enforcement with a resounding thud in the late-1990s when scores of people convicted of serious crimes ——fourteen of whom had been sentenced to death—— were exonerated by this technology.

Looking back at these wrongful convictions, it wasn't surprising to learn that newer scientific methods could increase accuracy. Nor was it surprising to confirm the widely held belief that erroneous eyewitness testimonies are the most common reason for the mistaken arrests. What shocked law enforcement to its very core was the revelation that the "undisputable evidence" given by forensic "scientists" was wrong more often than it was right The time had come, everyone agreed, to replace untested assumptions and semi-informed guesswork with sound scientific methods.

Unfortunately, many older forensic pathologists and criminologists still refused to admit that theirs isn't an error-free science. One FBI examiner, seeking to preserve the illusion of perfection, told the press just last year that, "Error is a wispy thing like smoke, it changes over time."

"Thank goodness for Saks," thought Dawgleash, every time the good doctor walked onto a crime scene.

It was just after ten and Saks was examining the body, which had been taken out of the trunk and lay beside it on a plastic sheet. The dead woman may have been pretty once, but all traces of beauty were erased by the blaze of light focused on her face. The artificially bright red hair was mousy blonde at the roots. The hazel eyes were wide open and looked terrified even in death. There were bruises on the neck where a rope had squeezed the breath from her body.

Dawgleash stood quietly to the side as Saks, kneeling, worked her way slowly around the corpse, bending down to turn its head from right to left to get a better view of the bruises. Standing up, Saks gave a preliminary opinion. There was no question about the cause of death, it was obvious. The woman was strangled with a course rope. The murderer was right handed. The rope marks were deeper on the left side of the neck and there didn't appear to be any tissue fragments on the rope itself. The strangulation was sudden, there wasn't any sign that the victim was fighting to get the noose off of her neck. It looked as if the cervical spine, C2 through C5 were crushed, the hyoid bone broken and the windpipe badly damaged.

Tooney asked, "Could a woman have done this?"

"The strangler had to be strong, but surprise was more important than strength. Yes, a woman could have done it, but not a small or weak woman. As for the time of death, that's difficult to determine with any degree of accuracy right now. The basement is cool and the trunk almost airtight. I'll be able to give you a more precise answer after I do a thorough postmortem. But my guess is that she's been dead for three days at most."

Dawgleash and King looked at one another, and King asked, "Hartig was burned to death this past Thursday. Do you think both murders were committed by same person?" "Possible but unlikely," replied Dawgleash. "However, they are connected in some way."

Saks promised a full report as soon as she completed the autopsy and all the tests were back, this should take about two days. The Medical Examiner's van was parked on street level and two technicians were called down to gather the body and bring it back to the lab. Saks gently raised the arms and folded them on the girl's chest. She folded the plastic sheet over the corpse and zipped up the body bag. Then, taking off her gloves and protective overalls and putting them into a "red bag" for safe disposal, Saks accompanied the body out of the basement and up to the van, ensuring the chain of evidence.

Forensic scientists were meticulously prowling through the corridors. The silver bone Dawgleash found under the trunk was already bagged for fingerprint and DNA testing.

An officer came over with the mobile phone that had gone off in the trunk. Tooney checked the caller ID, jotted down a number and pressed the redial button. A woman's voice answered. "Judson Dance Experiments, how may I help you?"

"We just picked up your call to 646-758-9479 . What was it about?"

"It was to ask why Miriam hasn't come in to get next week's ushering schedule. Should we mail it?"

“Do you have her address?”

There was a moment's silence and Tooney could hear paper rustling in the background. "We have it listed as 520 West 87^th Street, New York City 10024, Apartment 10G."

"That's o.k. then. Sorry for the inconvenience."

Tooney put the phone into a plastic evidence bag and sealed it before handing it back to the officer.

“We’ve got a first name, Miriam, and an address for the victim. She lives on West 87^th Street. Dawgleash and I are going over now. “Colin, could you ask Brandtly to have someone meet us there with warrants as quickly as possible.”

Tooney put the phone into a plastic evidence bag and sealed it before handing it back to the officer.

"We've got a first name, Miriam, and an address for the victim. She lives on West 87^th Street. Dawgleash and I are going over now. "Colin, could you ask Brandtly to have someone meet us there with warrants as quickly as possible."

3.3

Just then the door opened wide and an energetic-looking young Hispanic woman walked quickly into the room and then stopped in surprise. "Who are you? What are you doing here?" She asked. "Where is Ms. Goldman? I've been calling her for three days."

"What is your relationship with Miriam Goldman?"

"I clean her apartment every other Saturday, but always call first to remind her I'm coming and see if she needs anything picked up on my way in. When she didn't call back I got worried and decided to come over and check on her."

"Unfortunately, Ms. Goldman is dead, we found her body this morning. We're the police," said Tooney, nodding towards Dawgleash who was trying to look sympathetic but eager to get on with the search.

“How well did you know Ms. Goldman?”

"Not well at all. Her mother hired me to make sure she had a clean place to live."

"We'll need her mother's name and address. We should inform the next of kin. And a telephone number please."

The woman took out a notebook, copied the information down on a slip of paper and handed it to Tooney. "Could you please give us your name and address as well?" The woman was visibly shaken but did as she was asked. "You can leave now if you'd like, " said Tooney. "Thank you so much for your help. May an officer question you further later this week?" The woman nodded her head and left far less purposefully than she had come in.

As soon as she'd gone, Tooney called the dead woman's mother. The address was on Park Avenue and the call answered by someone who was obviously a member of the staff. "Mrs. Goldman and her husband are at their house in the Hamptons. The staff has been instructed not to give out the number."

"This is Detective Tooney of the New York City Police Department. My badge number is 200T421 and I can give you a phone number to call if you'd like to verify my identity. But it's better that we don't waste time, we need to speak with Mrs. Goldman as soon as possible."

"Could you please hold on a moment, Detective Tooney." A moment later, the voice came back with a Long Island telephone number. Tooney dialed it and a man's voice answered angrily. "Who is this?"

"It's Detective Diane Tooney of the New York City Police Department. We have to speak with Mrs. Goldman."

"This is very inconsiderate, we're trying to spend a quiet weekend away from New York. If there's been another attempted robbery in the apartment our staff can handle it."

"It's about Mrs. Goldman's daughter, may we speak to Mrs. Goldman please."

"What in God's name has that brat been up to now? She's not a child, she's nineteen, my wife isn't responsible for her any longer. That girl has been nothing but trouble since the day she was born."

Then Tooney heard another voice, a woman's voice. "I'm Mrs. Goldman. Please forgive my husband, he's not Miriam's father and she is a handful."

"Mrs. Goldman, we have bad news. Your daughter Miriam was found dead this morning." There was a gasp and then a silence on the other end of the line. Then the man got back on the phone, "This isn't some kind of a sick joke is it?"

"No sir, I can assure you it isn't. You can verify the information by calling Detective John Botuky at the 17^th Precinct. Miriam Goldman was found dead early this morning. It took us a few hours to identify her. I'm sorry. This must be a terrible shock."

"Yes it is, it certainly is. We'll leave right away and should be back in Manhattan by mid-afternoon. We'll take the train, it will be faster. Not that we think there's anything useful we can tell you. Neither of us has seen Miriam for months and months. She didn't approve of her mother marrying me. Besides, she had her own life and didn't want us interfering. Do you have any idea who could have done this?"

"Not yet."

"She was working for a rather shady character for a while. I think he went to jail. God knows what he was involved in. I didn't approve at all."

"We don't know the killer's identity yet, but we will. I can assure you, we will."

"Who's in charge?"

"Detective Windsor Dawgleash is the lead detective and we're working closely with Detective John Botuky from the local precinct." Tooney thought it best to keep Interpol and the FBI out of this for now."

"Windsor Dawgleash, the name is very familiar. Wasn't she involved with the Mafia murders out on Staten Island?"

"Yes, she was. And so was I. We'd like to come over and talk with you as soon as possible."

"Early tomorrow morning would be best. Come at eight, we'll be expecting you," said the man who finally identified himself as Norman Girmente. And the receiver was banged down.

Tooney turned to Dawgleash who'd been listening intently. "I'm glad we didn't tell him that Miriam was murdered right away, we wouldn't have known how rancorous their relationship was. But I feel sorry for the mother. It's too bad they didn't come to terms before Miriam died," said Tooney, thinking about the aunt who had raised her. They hadn't ever made their peace. Tooney made a mental note to call her aunt that evening and went back to collecting evidence in the dead girl's apartment.

3.4

Dingwall was working his way along the corridors inch by inch. It was a discouraging job because he didn't really know what he was looking for. But if Dawgleash's instinct was correct, which it probably was because she had a nose for evidence, there were things in these walls that would help solve the two recent murders.

The murder victims were very different, but Dawgleash thought their deaths were linked by more than a community dog run where they had died. Even more important to Dingwall, there could be secrets in these walls that would help him finally catch up with the elusive international child trafficking ring he'd been tracking for the past two years.

But the job was dirty and monotonous. And so far Dingwall had found nothing; however, Dawgleash's hunches were famous throughout the police world and invariably rooted in reason. It was a depressing task nonetheless.

At a little past nine Dingwall gave up. He'd spent as much time in the dungeon as he could stand for one day. But as depressing as the murder site was, Dingwall still preferred it to his cramped hotel room. He was home sick for London. And he missed Natasha. She was in New York and it took all the will power he could muster not to pick up the phone and call. It would be humiliating and of no use anyway. She was his first real commitment. They'd bought a small house together just outside London a few years ago. But he was solitary and she gregarious. The house was always crowded with an army of her Eastern European relatives who slept on his couch, ate his food and made long-distance telephone calls on his phone. And on those rare occasions when they weren't surrounded by her homeless entourage they fought.

To make matters even worse, Dingwall was compulsively neat and Natasha untidy. Her dishes lay in the kitchen sink until he washed them, which he invariably did. In fact, nothing got cleaned by Natasha except herself about whom she was fastidious. The bathroom was almost always piled high with her wet towels.

One day Natasha suddenly announced that she was going to New York. An old boyfriend invited her and sent a one-way ticket, first class. "You and I don't seem very well matched any more. Something has gone very missing, don't you think?"

"Yes, my savings," He answered without thinking. But it was true; he'd paid most of the monthly mortgage installments and for all of the furniture. But Natasha had better financial sense than he could ever have predicted. She insisted that he buy her share of the flat at the original purchase price which was worth much more then than now. "I'll leave you the furniture," she said. But everything of value had already disappeared. What Natasha left was the junk and a crippling mortgage. There was also a huge telephone bill with charges for almost daily New York calls and lawyers fees that she had no intention of ever paying. Yet he missed her. Did he want her back? Never. But he couldn't get her out of his mind and that irritated him.

Dingwall made his way out of the underground tunnel and climbed through the window into the shed. He told the officer on duty that he was leaving for the night and to please make certain that nothing was touched. Then he walked to the spigot at the far end of the dog run to wash the dirt off his hands and called Diane Tooney. "I'm just leaving the murder site, want to have a beer or even some dinner if you haven't already eaten?" There was a few seconds of quiet at the other end of the phone, followed by a "I'd like that," she said.

"Where should we meet?" Tooney suggested Billy's, an old pub on 52^nd Street and First Avenue. It was one of her favorites and she could be there in about 20 minutes or so. Why didn't he go over and reserve a table and wait for her by the bar.

3.5

Dingwall was staring down into his Guinness. Tooney asked, "Where did you grow up Colin?" The question took him back to the dismal, rainy north of England. "Newcastle," he answered. In those days Newcastle was more like a village than a city. "I was a rector's son," said Dingwall, "and not very happy. Even as a child I'd never been able to believe in heavenly gods, magic and immortality. Religion was a nice show, that's all, one accompanied by good food and kindly ladies making a fuss over me. Which is, I suspect, why I didn't follow my father into the ministry. I had to find some other line of work. I needed to look for a higher power in some other place."

"Biology was more to my liking. I was good at science but it took a while to find myself. I had a misspent youth but eventually I did an undergraduate degree in biochemistry at the local university; however I didn't graduate until I was almost thirty."

"No happy memories at all?"

"One or two."

"What was the best?"

"Ryton Willows," he said without hesitation. "When I was about nine I became friends with Jimmy Wade. He had bright copper-red hair and we shared the same dubious honor of being consistently bottom of the class in all subjects. Jimmy had discovered a place called Ryton Willows and said he went there every Saturday to swim in the river which was clear and cool and where fish played between the rocks. This was precious to me because I'd only ever been to the public pool and could hardly get into the water, the smell of chlorine and noise were so suffocating. I pestered Jimmy into taking me with him. I'd close my eyes and feel myself gliding through the water, exploring the rocks and petting the shimmering smooth fish."

As Dingwall drifted off into memories, Tooney asked was it was like swimming in that river.

"The swimming was a fiction. But Ryton Willows became our home for many Saturdays and we walked the overgrown paths, discovered open islands in the sea of trees, kicked along railways lines in the stones between the rails hot in the summer heat and smelling of oil and coal. We found a green covered pond deep in the undergrowth and threw rocks in to make the black water underneath the algae burst through. It seemed very sinister to us."

"Was there a river at all?"

"Yes, although not one that easily lent itself to swimming. But there were house boats in it and the river became my other world of water and travel and small secret places. They were my first romance and the love of boats has never left me. Ryton Willows is the only place in my past so very special."

"How did you get into forensics?"

"I was well into my thirties and had almost given up the idea of doing science when Alec Jeffreys at the University of Leicester advertised for a technician. I applied and was invited to interview. I was happy just being in the same room with someone like Dr. Jeffreys. Getting the job was a bonus."

Jeffreys, a classic geneticist by training, was looking for inherited variations in human DNA. "With the advent of molecular biology," explained Dingwall, "genes became real, physical things. We could 'see' them. Play with them."¹

It was Jeffreys who found the first variation in human DNA. DNA can be "cut" in key places with enzymes and there are individual differences in the lengths of the fragments. The technique is known as "restriction fragment-length polymorphism" analysis or "RFLP" analysis. Jeffreys predicted there would be 15 million different-length DNA pieces and called them "single nucleotide polymorphisms" or "SNPs." Dingwall, laughed. "Jeffreys told us that he actually predicted 30 million SNPs, he'd made a twofold error ——but said that no one's perfect!"

"If anyone came close to perfect though," Dingwall said, "Jeffreys did."

We know that genes have physical locations on chromosomes called "loci" which are very specific. RFLP analysis identifies regions of DNA where relatively short segments are connected to one another and repeated. Jeffreys felt that these "tandem-repeat" DNA loci would provide a rich source of markers we could use as reference points. His hunch proved right and we began looking for these loci ————which he dubbed "minisatellites"—— within complex genomes. Jeffreys called the repeated sequences, "variable nucleotide tandem repeats" or "VNTRs.".

Eventually we began using "hybridization" techniques to look for genetic similarities in a family group. Grabbing a handful of forks, knives and spoons, Dingwall said "Our DNA is naturally double stranded and tagged single DNA strands can be sent out as probes to identify and bind to, or "hybridize," target VNTRs." With this, Dingwall threw the utensils down on the table and said, "look Di, imagine we've tagged this fork and send it out looking for its partner. When it finds it," he said moving one fork next to another, "we have a match. Same goes for the knives and the spoons."

"At the end of a day of research," said Dingwall, "we'd stand at the autoradiographs and were amazed to see, emerging from the gloom, bits of DNA that seemed unique to the specific human family we were studying. We'd stumbled on a DNA method with the potential for individual identification. "It was a fantastically exciting time."

"In fact, Jeffreys told the world that DNA fingerprinting was officially born on the morning of Monday, September 10^th 1984." And shortly afterwards, Jeffreys decided it was time I got a PhD. He arranged for me to do it at Leicester and continue to work in his lab. For this I will be eternally grateful."

Then, a decade or so later, a summer internship at Interpol was advertised in Nature. They were looking for a someone with a background in DNA forensics to work in Lyon. It seemed like a nice way to practice my French and drink a lot of good beer so I applied. After a few years in France I was asked to head their forensic lab in London and the rest you know.

"How about you, Di? How did you get into the NYPD and onto Dawgleash's uniquely privileged homicide team?"

"It's so awesome, I still can't believe I'm here. There were no happy Saturdays in my past which probably made me work all the harder. I earned this job. My mother died right after I was born and an aunt got me. In return she got put at the head of the line for public housing. The police department was my way of escape. But first I went to the John Jay College of Criminal Justice, which I could just about afford with a fulltime job. Then the Police Academy. Eventually it will be law school, but that can wait for a while."

"And your best memory Di, what was it?

"Getting out of the projects. There's no doubt about that. The day I moved was a day of triumph. It was an awful place of foul-smelling halls and elevators, stepping over crack addicts on my way to school. Shots in the night. I hated it."

"A law degree would be your ticket to higher rank, Chief of Detectives maybe. Why not go for that now?"

"Someone has to be the first woman Chief Detective and maybe even the first woman Chief of Police, but I'm not sure the department is ready for that yet. And the experience I'm getting with Dawgleash is invaluable. I'm lucky. She picked me out of what must have been almost a hundred applicants. I could never learn in school what I'm learning from her."

Dingwall said, "It's not luck. You'll get whatever you want if you try, you're good."

Tooney suddenly said, "Do you think we'll get this murderer?"

"I think it's more complicated than just a couple of murders. The trick is getting everyone and not just the least intelligent."

"What exactly is Interpol's interest in this case?"

"Operation Blackbird, have you heard anything about it?"

"Just the name, not the specifics."

"It's kind of nasty, even for Interpol. A few years ago bodies of little girls, many of whom had been sexually abused, began turning up all over the world. Interpol has a large DNA unit and we traced the dead girls to various countries in Africa, but mostly the Sudan and Democratic Republic of Congo ——which may be a lot of things, but none of them democratic. We know that warlords kidnap children from their villages, use the boys as soldiers and sell the girls to the highest bidders. Unfortunately, the warlords are out of our jurisdiction. We're looking for the people who head the trafficking ring and it operates out of New York City. That's all we know so far. I'm in charge of Operation Blackbird, and we have the full cooperation of all our member states and their law enforcement arms ——which is why NYPD and the FBI got involved. The Secret Service is keeping an eye on the United Nations for us as well, this is a full-scale operation."

"I can't tell you how happy I am to have you and Dawglesh on our team."

3.6

The Girmente's city apartment was on Fifth Avenue in the low 90s. A white-gloved doorman scrutinized their shields, checked in a book to make certain the police were expected, and ushered Dawgleash and Tooney into small elegant elevator at the end of the hall. It was wood paneled and fitted with a low padded seat of forest green velvet at each end. The attendant rang up to say they were on their way. The ascent was smooth but slow and when they finally reached the fourteenth floor the door opened silently onto a small vestibule. There were five Modigliani sketches on the sapphire blue walls and an ornate gold-leafed mirror with two matching chairs.

There was only one apartment on each floor and the front door opened immediately. A severe-looking woman walked towards them.

"Detective Dawgleash? You're expected. Please come with me." Tooney was ignored. They followed the woman, a personal assistant no doubt, into a large drawing room and were announced as "Detective Dawgleash and a colleague." That done, the woman turned and left carefully closing the door behind.

The room had high ceilings and French doors that opened onto a manicured terrace facing Central Park. They were high enough to see the reservoir through the trees and at this hour it was filled with runners getting a few miles in before work. Tooney wished she was out there with them.

The room, obviously the work of a very expensive decorator, looked as if had materialized in entirety from the pages of Architectural Digest. There was little in it to indicate personal taste. A large oriental carpet with rich reds and blues dominated the room. The sofas and armchairs with their needlepoint and satin pillows reflected these colors. The walls were a deep scarlet. Of course there was a fireplace and over it hung a large portrait of Mrs. Goldman and Mr. Girmente. She matched the room in a ball-gown of midnight blue velvet with scarlet rubies around her neck and on her ears.

The woman in the portrait was sitting on a couch in the middle of the room. As soon as Dawgleash and Tooney came in Mrs. Goldman got up and came toward them hand outstretched. Her step was unsteady and the extended hand shaking. A large broad-shouldered man with course features; her husband, Norman Girmente, stood up, took his wife's arm and helped her back to the couch. Looking at his face etched with lines of perpetual annoyance, Dawgleash knew this sort of man, she had seen others like him. He knew how to make a great deal of money but had very little skill or intelligence beyond that talent. Mr. Girmente might be impressed by the Mayor, especially the most recent one who was a self-made millionaire, but he was much too rich and arrogant to be impressed by the police.

Just then a maid dressed in starched black dress and white apron came in with a large tray holding an ornate silver tea and coffee service. The china cups and saucers had a delicate cornflower design and the silver was an understated Georg Jensen. The well-trained servant put the tray down on a small table between two opulent sofas and left as quietly as she came in. Mrs. Goldman served Tooney hot freshly ground coffee with cream and Dawgleash sat quietly, ignoring the tea biscuit that had been put on her plate. Mrs. Goldman took tea with a brown sugar cube and milk while her husband drank his strong coffee black.

Mrs. Goldman thanked them for coming so quickly and apologized to Detective Tooney for not knowing she would be there as well. Tooney said, "I'm so sorry we had to give you the terrible news of your daughter's death over the telephone, but we thought it best you hear about it from us first. We don't have very much information about how Miriam died yet, but I can assure you that the investigation team is being very thorough and we should have more details within the week. I'll tell you what we know so far."

Norman Girmente said, "The news could have been given with a little more grace. I should have been told just how important the call was immediately."

"If the call wasn't important we would have left a message with someone on your staff here in New York City. The NYPD doesn't have the time or inclination to track people down for trivial reasons."

Harriet Goldman moved to the front of the couch, sitting very straight. "Please tell me what you know so far. I still don't believe Miriam is dead, I keep thinking she'll show up and tell me all this is a mistake. We weren't very close, my daughter and I. She wasn't happy that I married again after her father died. But I thought she'd come around eventually. We made certain that Miriam had a decent place to live and were always there if she needed us. But her father's death was emotionally difficult for Miriam. They were very close. Much closer than she and I ever were. I was hoping that would change with time. I never imagined we would run out of time so soon."

Dawgleash suspected that Mrs. Goldman's distress wasn't genuine. Her manner was so affected, so theatrical, that it was difficult to believe she wasn't acting. The look of falseness was intensified by her dress; somehow Versace doesn't go with mourning. And her make-up was perfect. Shaking hands could never have drawn the meticulous outline of her lips or beautifully applied eye liner.

Perhaps Mrs. Goldman drew comfort from looking her best in the face of adversity. Maybe it gave her the courage to live through her only daughter's untimely and brutal death. Who was Dawgleash to judge. When her father suddenly died a few years ago, Dawgleash felt surprisingly little. She had been raised by others and he had grown increasingly distant as time passed. Dawgleash never had to face a personal tragedy of this magnitude. Nonetheless, except for a similar taste in expensive hooker-chic clothing, Dawgleash saw very little that could have provided a bond between mother and daughter.

"It's unnatural to have a child die before her mother. Please don't make me make me see her. At first I thought I wouldn't, couldn't believe Miriam was dead unless I saw her. But now, I don't think I could bear it."

Her husband said, "Of course you don't have to identify Miriam, I can do that."

Mrs. Goldman asked, "Please find out who killed Miriam and why she died. Promise me you will," she sobbed in a manner that was almost convincing.

Tooney said, "We will continue to do all we can but we'll need your help. We have to know more about your daughter's life. Who were her friends? What was she interested in? We found her near Peter Detmold park. Do you have any idea what she was doing there? Did she have friends in that area?"

Mrs. Goldman looked seemed unable to reply. Her husband said, "I've told you more than once Detective, my step daughter lived entirely apart from us. She had her own apartment and her own life."

"Where did Miriam live before she moved to her present apartment?"

Norman Girmente answered once again. "She stayed in our Long Island house for a while, but never here."

"Did you know any of her friends?"

Mrs. Goldman said, "I don't think the people who spent time with Miriam were friends. I never met any of them. Her latest fantasy was to become a professional dancer. But it was too late. I sent her for dancing lessons as a child, but Miriam didn't like them. However, I thought dance would give structure and discipline to Miriam's life and encouraged her to study now, even if she could never earn a living at it. She really didn't need to earn a living anyway."

"Norman and I have season tickets for American Ballet Theater and New York City Ballet. But Miriam was more interested in what she called experimental dance."

"Mr. Girmente mentioned that Miriam worked for someone shady for a while, someone who is now in jail. Do you remember his name?"

Mrs. Goldman said, "Irwin something. Norman, do you recall his last name or the name of his business?"

Her husband said, "Cohen. It was Irwin Cohen. I looked him up one time but couldn't find out exactly what it was he was doing. I wasn't surprised when I heard he ended up in jail."

"A woman named Phoebe Figophilus, a dog walker who takes her charges to the Peter Detmold park, also worked for Irwin Cohn. Do you think it's possible that Miriam went there to meet Figophilus?"

"Miriam never mentioned this Phoebe fig-something person. It seems unlikely that she'd be meeting a dog walker in a park somewhere."

Someone else was murdered in the park on that same night, his name was Peter Jacob Hartig the Third. There may be some connection, but so far we haven't come up with anything useful."

Girmente narrowed his eyes and looked as if he were trying to remember something. "I've met Hartig, he was a lawyer. Specialized in international patents or something like that. His family has been in New York forever. Hartig had an office in a building I was trying to acquire a few years ago. I was willing to buy him out, but it wasn't necessary in the end. He moved his practice before I could even suggest it. As I remember he was retiring to write a book."

"We met him at a ballet gala last year, didn't we Norman?"

"Yes, that was Hartig. Liked the man. I'm sorry to hear he's dead, but I can't imagine he and Miriam had any connection. He never mentioned meeting her and he certainly would have said something to either me or my wife if he had. We mentioned that we had a daughter who was interested in dance. Even told him her name. That's the sort of things people talk about when they're jammed together in the Patron's lounge."

Tooney looked at her watch and then at Dawgleash. It was time for them to go downtown. "When we find out more about Miriam's death, we'll let you know at once. Our immediate impression is that the cause of death was strangulation"

"She didn't suffer, did she?" Mrs. Goldman looked very upset. "It looked to be a very quick death, she'd be more surprised than hurt," said Tooney. What else could you say to a mother about her child's final moment which must have been one of absolute terror.

Girmente, looking very uncomfortable, asked when the body would be released for burial. "That's for someone in the Medical Examiner's office to decide. We'll make inquiries and get back to you as soon as we know anything at all."

Mrs. Goldman asked her husband if they could have a small church service. He said absolutely not. "She didn't ever go to church while alive, why should we subject her to religion just because she's dead and can't object. Besides, it will attract too many curious people with nothing better to do, not to mention gossip sheets like The Post and The Daily News.

"If you think that's best Norman," said Mrs. Goldman. He seemed the boss in this relationship, if only in public.

Norman Girmente walked Dawgleash and Tooney to the door and rang for the elevator. He said nothing.

3.7

They were in the conference room adjacent to Brandtly office and his assistant had brought pot of very strong coffee, sandwiches and fruit as well as biscuits for the dogs. King was there with his handler as were Detectives Dawgleash, Tooney and Botuky. Inspectors O'Rourke and Simpson would be a little late but Dr. Saks and Inspector Dingwall were already present and having an animated discussion at back of the room.

Dr. Saks' postmortem results were available but not the DNA findings. The demands on the City's forensic laboratory were heavy and there were a number of other priority requests. However, she did have some preliminary information to share. Dr. Finch, who walked in a little late, said he hadn't finished his interviews with Figophilus but promised an interim report some time during the next week. His schedule was full and he needed the weekend to work on it. But he let them know now that she was in some sort of partnership with a man who hadn't as yet been named. The man had a dog, a Bearded Collie and Dawgleash might want to start making inquiries.

The Fire Department's arson investigation was still underway and Inspector Dingwall would be talking with colleagues at Interpol that afternoon or early tomorrow morning; Lyon, the agency's information hub, was hours ahead of New York.

The case was little more than a week old so none of this was disappointing. In fact, the amount of information they already had was encouraging.

Tooney told the group about Miriam Goldman's apartment. "It's small, but in a good neighborhood. At today's prices, that apartment is probably worth about $750,000. It may have been bought by Ms. Goldman's mother as an investment as well as to give her daughter someplace to live. The mother also hired a housekeeper to make certain that the apartment was well kept. There's a living room, bedroom and a full kitchen but no sign that anyone ever cooks. The only food in the refrigerator was sour milk and a jar of peanut butter sprouting a fetching blue/green mold. Fortunately for us the housekeeper hadn't been in for more than two weeks. The place was a mess which gave us a better look into the victim's life. Clothes were thrown all over and the closets stuffed with a lot of Dolce and Gabbana black leather punk-chic. Her desk was cluttered and we got the impression that Goldman didn't pay her bills on time or answer letters, even those from her lawyer. From the looks of her checkbook, Ms. Goldman went through money very quickly. There was an inheritance from her birth father and maybe an allowance as well, an occasional job in an experimental dance theater wouldn't go very far. Her mother did say that her daughter didn't need to work. Oh, and there's a superintendent and around-the-clock doormen in the building, although we can't be certain how vigilant they are."

Brandtly asked, "How about lovers, did it seem as if there were any?"

"We've sent her sheets to the lab. There were stains which may or may not be semen. But that's all we found. There was an unopened packet of condoms in the bathroom cupboard, but no signs of a man around anywhere. As for drugs, there wasn't anything except for a little grass and some wine, nothing exceptional for a girl of her age; especially one with Manic Panic Scarlet hair and a nose ring. There were photographs of Miriam in tights and leotards as well as receipts from dance classes, acting coaches and Pilates training sessions. Surprisingly, there wasn't any sign that she had friends. And the superintendent says that he rarely if ever saw anyone visiting. There wasn't a diary or address book in her apartment. But she may have had them with her, in which case her murderer could have them if they haven't already been destroyed. There was only that one message on her cell phone, the one from the dance theater, and no messages at all on her home phone. It seems as if she was a very lonely woman, I feel sorry for her."

Dingwall said it was hard to feel sorry for someone with all that money. A half-way decent looking girl with an independent income doesn't have to be lonely for long. But Tooney disagreed. "There was something wrong. Even with her money nothing seemed to be going on in Goldman's life. Men may have pegged her as bad news."

Dawgleash whispered to King sarcastically that "…if Dingwall manages to get himself done in, which certainly isn't all that unlikely considering his job, I hope the investigating officer who rummages through his personal belongings won't be too judgmental."

"Dingwall undoubtedly keeps his apartment exceedingly neat, replied King, "…he seems a tad anal." Then King's mind wandered back to Sarah MacLane, which is where it was wandering much more than he wanted it to these days.

Dawgleash was very uncomfortable. She hated the absolute lack of privacy accorded someone just because they got murdered. Worse even than stripping away life itself, murder takes every shred of privacy. The body is cut up, examined, tested and parceled out to various labs. Address books, confidential letters, diaries are opened and the contents scrutinized. Phone calls are traced. Strange hands are into everything. This woman's life, seemingly privileged was in truth, very pathetic. Miriam seemed friendless and vulnerable. In the end, she was killed and thrown away in a cold, dark basement.

"Tooney seeing Dawgleash becoming maudlin, interrupted. "The apartment has been sealed and we'll be, Dawgleash and I, questioning Goldman's housekeeper later this week, although I don't expect she can tell us a whole lot."

"We also didn't learn all that much from interviewing the mother and her newest husband. Neither seemed to know Miriam very well. However, we did discover that Miriam worked with Phoebe Figophilus in Irwin Cohen's - that's his last name, Cohen-- office for a short time. Neither Miriam's mother nor step father think she would meet Figophilus in a dog run after dark. But as I said, they didn't seem to know their daughter very well. Interestingly, the parents had met Hartig, but only briefly. They didn't think he knew Miriam and that seems reasonable."

Dr. Saks took out her notes and said her postmortem findings so far confirmed what she'd thought on her initial examination, Ms. Goldman had been strangled. "A rope was tightened around her throat by a right-handed person, fracturing the spinus processes C2 through C5 as well as the occipital bone. A small bruise on Goldman's forehead suggests she'd been forced face first against a wall or floor during the strangulation. Larger bruises directly under the scapula, which could have been made by the attacker's knees, make the floor more likely. But there didn't appear to be much physical contact between the murderer and the victim. The girl did try to fight back, there was tissue under her fingernails. We're processing that now. Goldman's blood-alcohol level was high enough to make her an easy target. She may not have been sober enough to put up a good fight."

Dingwall said his investigators had found evidence of suspicious activity in the basement behind the dog park shed. Maybe the girl was murdered simply because she happened to be there when Hartig was set on fire. The killer may have seen someone watching from the shed. At that moment, Goldman's fate was sealed. She had to die. Goldman runs back into the sub-basement, the killer follows and traps her against the wall. Grabbing a rope, on the way in perhaps, the killer strangles Goldman and stuffs her into a trunk. He or she then comes back through the shed, pulling the wooden panel over the window on the way out."

"By that time," said Detective Botuky, "people in the buildings above would be looking out of their windows and the fire department on its way."

"O.K. Maybe the killer has another route out of the basement, one that leads up into 455 East 51^st Street and then he or she may simply have left through the front door at street level. There is another possibility, there may be a corridor leading into the back garden of 455 East 51^st Street and from there the killer could escape through the fence into the Rockefeller garden to its north and leave via 52^nd Street. The Rockefeller garden isn't as heavily fenced off from its neighboring building as it is from the dog park. That area of the fence is somewhat porous. We're looking into all three possibilities. Because, as I said before, something else is going on behind that shed that probably has ties to Interpol's investigation."

Detective Botuky asked, "Why was Goldman there at all?"

"That's a key question," said Tooney. "And Colin, I think you've been watching too much television. If the both murders were committed by the same person, Goldman would probably have been killed first. The police switchboards would have lit up like Christmas trees the minute Hartig was set on fire. This neighborhood has a good working relationship with the police and notify us when anything at all suspicious is going on. But I do think there is more than one way to get in and out of the building's sub-basement and that far more is going on there than meets the eye."

At that moment Tooney's phone rang. Millicent Stanhope was downstairs asking to see Detective Dawgleash. "It must be important for her to come all the way down here. Hopefully she's recognized the man on the bicycle who ran her down the night of the murders." Dawgleash jumped forward, pointing towards the small interview room just to the right of Brandtly's office. They would speak with Millicent in there just as soon as Tooney could escort her up from the front desk.