Dance Of Death

He turned away from the crowd and headed in the opposite direction. All big apartment buildings like this had a service entrance.

He followed the facade of the building up Broadway until he finally reached its end, where a narrow alley separated it from the next building. Thrusting his hands back into his pockets, he turned down the alley, whistling jauntily.

A moment later, his whistling stopped. Up ahead lay a large metal door marked Service Entrance-Deliveries. Standing beside the door was another cop. He was staring at Smithback and speaking into a small radio clipped to his collar.

Damn. Well, he couldn't just stop dead in his tracks and turn around-that would look suspicious. He'd just walk right past the cop like he was taking a shortcut behind the building.

"Morning, Officer," he said as he came abreast of the policeman.

"Afternoon, Mr. Smithback," the cop replied.

Smithback felt his jaw tighten.

Whoever was in charge of this homicide investigation was a pro, did things by the book. But Smithback was not some third-rate line stringer. If there was another way in, he'd find it. He followed the alley around the back of the building until it turned a right angle, heading once again toward 65th.

Yes. There, not thirty yards in front of him, was the staff entrance to La Vielle Ville. Deserted, with no cop loitering around outside. If he couldn't get to the twenty-fourth floor, at least he could check out the place where the man had landed.

He moved forward quickly, excitement adding spring to his step. Once he'd checked out the restaurant, there might even be a way to get into the high-rise. There had to be co

Smithback reached the battered metal door, pulled it ajar, began to step in.

Then he froze. There, beside a brace of massive stoves, several policemen were taking statements from cooks and waiters.

Everybody slowly turned to look at him.

He put a tentative foot in, like he was going somewhere.

"No press," barked one of the cops.

"Sorry," he said, flashing what he feared was a ghastly smile. "Wrong way."

And, very gently, he closed the door and stepped back, walking back around to the front of the building, where he was once more repelled by the sight of the vast herd of reporters, all waiting like sheep to the slaughter.

No way, not him, not Bill Smithback of the Times. His eye cast around for some angle of attack, some idea that hadn't occurred to the others-and then he saw it: a pizza delivery man on a motorbike, hopelessly trying to work his way through the crowd. He was a ski

Smithback approached him, nodded toward the carrier mounted on the back. "Got a pizza in there?"

"Two," the man said. "Look at this shit. They're go

Smithback cut him off. "Fifty bucks for your two pizzas and the hat."

The man looked at him blankly, like a complete idiot.

Smithback pulled out a fifty. "Here. Take it."

"But what about-"

"Tell them you got robbed."

The man couldn't help but take the money. Smithback swiped the hat off the man's head, stuck it on his own, opened the rear carrier on the motorbike, and hauled out the pizza boxes. He moved through the crowd toward the door, carrying the pizzas in one hand and jerking off his tie with the other, stuffing it in his pocket.

"Pizza delivery, coming through!" He elbowed his way to the front, came up against the blue barricades draped in crime scene tape.

"Pizza delivery, SOC team, twenty-fourth floor."

It worked like a dream. The fat cop ma

Now for the triumvirate at the door.

He strode confidently forward as the three cops turned to face him.

"Pizza delivery, twenty-fourth floor."

They moved to block his way.

"I'll take the pizzas up," one said.

"Sorry. Against company rules. I got to deliver directly to the customer."

"Nobody's allowed in."

"Yeah, but this is for the SOC team. And if you take it up, how am I going to collect my money?"

The cops exchanged an uncertain glance. One shrugged. Smithback felt a glow. It was going to work. He was as good as in.

"They're getting cold, come on." Smithback pressed forward.

"How much?"

"Like I said, I have to deliver directly to the customer. May I?" He made one more tentative step, almost bumped into the large gut of the lead cop.

"No one's allowed up."

"Yes, but it's just for a-"

"Give me the pizzas."

"Like I said-"

The cop reached out. "I said, give me the damn pizzas."

And just like that, Smithback realized he was defeated. He docilely held them out and the cop took them.

"How much?" the cop asked.

"Ten bucks."

The cop gave him ten, no tip. "Who's it for?"

"The SOC team."

"Your customer got a name? There're a dozen SOC up there."

"Ah, I think it was Miller."

The cop grunted, disappeared in the dim lobby carrying the pizzas, while the other two closed rank, blocking the door. The one who had shrugged turned back. "Sorry, pal, but could you bring me a fifteen-inch pie, pepperoni, garlic, and onions with extra cheese?"

"Up yours," Smithback said, turning and walking back to the barriers. As he squeezed through the press of reporters, he heard some snickers and someone called out, "Nice try, Bill." And another shrilled out in an effeminate voice, "Why, Billy darling, that hat looks dreamy on you."

Smithback pulled the hat off in disgust and tossed it. For once, his reportorial genius had failed. He was already getting a bad feeling about this assignment. It had barely started and already it was smelling rotten. Despite the January frost in the air, he could almost feel Harriman's hot breath on the back of his neck.

He turned and-with heavy heart-took his place in the crowd to wait for the official briefing.

TEN

Lieutenant Vincent D'Agosta pushed open the door of McFeeley's Ale House, feeling bone-tired. McFeeley's was about as cozy an Irish bar as you could still find in New York, and D'Agosta needed a little comfort right about now. The place was dark, long, and narrow, with a thickly varnished wooden bar on one side, booths along the other. Ancient sporting prints hung from the walls, indistinguishable underneath a heavy mantle of dust. Behind the bar, bottles stood six rows deep in front of the mirrored wall. An old jukebox sat near the door, the kind where the Irish selections were printed in green ink. On tap were Gui

McFeeley's was half empty, the way D'Agosta liked it. He chose a stool, pulled it up to the bar.

Patrick, the bartender, caught sight of him and came over. "Hey, Lieutenant," he said, sliding a coaster in front of him. "How's it going?"