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“And then we run down the stairs. Aaron-Rey is first. And by the time I get to the street, he’s running and a patrol car sees that big boy and they chase him in the car. Then they get out and throw him to the ground.”

Arturo went on.

“I see that, but what I’m supposed to do, huh? It was cops who shoot those boys. I just fade out of sight.”

Yuki said, “You know what happened to A-Rey in jail?”

“I heard, yeah. He thought everyone was his friend.”

“Arturo. Could you ID those men in the police jackets?”

“Not really. Definitely not the head dude. One of the other two, maybe. He had a little tat on his neck. I might have seen a tat like that on a narc.”

Yuki felt the adrenaline shoot straight through her, but she kept her expression as neutral as possible. She said, “I’m suing the City on behalf of A-Rey’s family. I need you, Arturo. I need you to testify for Aaron-Rey.”

“And then what? I’ll be dead, too.”

“Let me see what I can do,” said Yuki.

“Oh, yeah. Right,” said Arturo. He started to get out of the car, but Yuki reached over and gripped his forearm.

She said, “I’m your lawyer. I’ve got pull. If I call you, take my call. It means I can get you whatever you need.”

Arturo got out of the car and didn’t look back.

Yuki sat in the car and watched him cross the street the way he’d come. Then she did the unthinkable. She called her former boss and current opponent, Red Dog Parisi. When he answered, she said, “Len. It’s Yuki. I’ve got two new witnesses who can turn this case upside down. We need to meet right away.”

CHAPTER 76

ON THE WAY home from another fruitless day of interviewing the Calhoun family’s friends and neighbors, I found myself thinking about Tina Strichler.

Taking a chance, I phoned Mr. and Mrs. Nathan Gosselin from the car.

The Gosselins had been on Balmy Alley when Dr. Tina Strichler had been knifed in the crosswalk, and Mrs. Gosselin had actually seen the killer, although from behind and with several people between her and the man with the knife.

Conklin had interviewed Nathan and Allyson Gosselin on the scene, and Inspectors Michaels and Wang, the two homicide cops in charge of the case, had also spoken to them that day.

But because the Gosselins had said they couldn’t make an ID, they’d been written off. In fact, I was pretty sure the entire case had been shelved now that every cop in the Hall of Justice was working some portion of the Windbreaker cop case.

The Gosselins sounded glad I’d called and told me they hadn’t thought about much other than the woman who’d been killed on the street since it had happened. Mr. Gosselin gave me their address, which turned out to be a well-kept apartment building at Elizabeth and Diamond Streets. Mrs. Gosselin buzzed me in, answered the door, and welcomed me into her home.

“Thanks for making time for me,” I said. “I just want to go over the events of that day one more time.”

After my brush with death at Wayne Broward’s house, I was cautious when entering, keeping my eyes on Mrs. Gosselin, walking practically sideways to the kitchen, where Mr. Gosselin was sitting at the table with the remains of his chicken dinner.

“No, please don’t get up,” I said.

“Have a seat,” said Nathan Gosselin. “What can I get you?”

“Nothing, thanks,” I said. “I only need a few minutes of your time.” I said that, but I hoped the few minutes would be full of newly recollected information that would give me a toehold on the case.

I sat at the table and asked the basic questions: What did you see? Are you sure you didn’t see the killer’s face? Can you think of any detail that may have seemed insignificant at the time?

Allyson Gosselin sighed.

She said, “I’ve thought about this night and day. You have to understand, not only did it happen fast, the street was jam-packed and people were trying to make the light, and I wasn’t looking directly at the man who did that wretched thing.”

“I understand.”

“So, as I said at the time, I’m pretty sure he was white. He had brown hair, a black baseball-type jacket. He looked to be normal height. He never turned to face me. When Dr. Strichler dropped, most people panicked and ran. Me, too. I just wanted to find Nate and call nine-one-one, so when I finally did look for that man, he was just gone.”

I said, “Allyson, you are obviously a very astute woman, the kind of person who notices small details. And frankly, that’s the best kind of witness. Using your mind’s eye to search for detail, is there anything else, no matter how small it might seem?”

Allyson Gosselin said, “I have had a thought and didn’t say anything about it.”

“Well, it’s not too late,” I said, scootching my chair closer to the table.

“Well. I saw a lot of threes that day.”

“Threes?”

“Yes. There were three people between me and the man who killed Dr. Strichler. There were three squad cars that arrived first, and three policemen spoke with me. And I saw three blackbirds sitting on the telephone line.”

I did my best not to explode with For God’s sake! I channeled my good-natured partner and said, “Allyson—”

But she wasn’t done.

“And there were three EMTs around her body. And the date itself. The twelfth of May. One and two equals three,” she concluded triumphantly.

“OK,” I said. “So what does that mean to you?”

Mrs. Gosselin laughed. “I don’t know. You’re the detective, aren’t you, Sergeant?”

How much deader could a dead end be?

I thanked the Gosselins, left them my card, and left their apartment.

I called Joe.

“I’m going back to work, Joe. Save me some leftovers. I know. I’m sorry. I swear I’ll be home in two hours. I promise.”

CHAPTER 77

TINA STRICHLER’S CRUEL death disturbed me above and beyond Joe’s fixation on the possible sequential string of Claire’s Birthday Murders. The Strichler case wasn’t cold. It was active, and I knew Michaels and Wang weren’t working it.

It pissed me off, but I understood. They had no witnesses, no leads, and no time to dig into the case, which had fallen directly to the bottom of the list.

But the case was very real and present to me. I’d seen Strichler’s blood running into the street. I’d gone through her wallet and had seen that she’d had a psychiatric practice. She’d had a well-put-together appearance and, very likely, a full life, which had been terminated by a madman with a knife, an unknown killer who might never be known.

After talking with Joe, I drove to the Hall and took the elevator to the sixth-floor jail, where I asked to see Wayne Broward.

Broward was in jail because I’d breached his chain-link-barking-dog-no-trespassing-and-that-means-you security system, and I was going to be at his arraignment in the morning. However, he’d never answered my question.

I pulled rank on the desk sergeant, applying a little pressure, and Wayne was taken from his cell past visiting hours and shown into an interview room. When he saw me, he called out, “Sweetheart. Give me a kiss.”

“Against the rules, Wayne.”

His guard sat him down in the chair and locked his handcuffs to a hook in the table. The guard knew why Broward was in lockup, and he asked me, “Do you want me to hang in with you here, Sergeant?”

“Thanks, Santino, but I’ll be OK.”

It was embarrassing to be reminded, but it was true. The man sitting across from me might have killed me.

“Wayne, I have a question for you.”

“Isn’t my lawyer supposed to be here?”

“This has nothing to do with your case. You’re being charged for assaulting me with a deadly weapon.”