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Delancey couldn’t be involved.
    Finally he closed the notebook and lifted the telephone and punched in a number. He leaned sideways and gave the cubicle door a push, shutting out the man-made and machine-made racket that spilled in from the squad room.
    A man’s voice answered on the fifth ring. “Hello?” The low-pitched, patrician drawl tortured a simple o into an Ivy League diphthong. “Walter, it’s Vince Cardozo.”
    There was an instant’s lag before recognition kicked in. “Yes, Vince.” Walter Vanderflood’s tone was not happy—nothing that linked his world to Vince Cardozo’s could ever be grounds for happiness—but it was respectful. “Is something the matter?”
    “Not too much in my life and not too much in yours, I hope.”
    “No, I’m doing all right.”
    There had been a time when Walter Vanderflood had not been doing all right, when his nephew had been found murdered in a Sixtieth Street hotel, and Vince Cardozo, doing no more than his job, had helped. Walter Vanderflood had said, “If you ever need help …” Walter Vanderflood served on the Putnam County parole board, and three times Cardozo had taken him up on that offer.
    “Jim Delancey was paroled two weeks ago.”
    “The young man who killed the Kohler girl?”
    “The same. Somebody used a lot of influence.”
    “I’m not sure I can help you there. Parole proceedings are closed—there aren’t even records.”
    “But if by any chance you happen to talk to anyone who served on that parole board … if you happen to talk socially, I mean.”
    “Of course. If by any chance I do, I’ll let you know.”

SIX
    I T WAS AFTER ELEVEN by the time Cardozo found a parking place on Broome Street. As he walked the block to his home the neighborhood felt quiet. Some kids were playing basketball over on the ball court, and somewhere a restaurant had its door open and Rosemary Clooney was singing “Baciami, Bambino” on the jukebox.
    He let himself into the six-story apartment building on the corner of Sullivan and checked the mailbox to see what bills had come today. None, which meant his daughter Terri had already picked them up.
    He climbed to the third floor. He’d lived in the same rent-stabilized apartment since before SoHo had become trendy, and he was still living there now that the wave of trendiness was subsiding. He let himself into the rear apartment.
    The living room was dark except for a glow spilling through the windows. There was no blinking red light on the Panasonic Easa-Phone answering machine, but he crossed to the sofa and pushed the Messages button anyway, just to be sure. The machine whirred into Replay.
    “Terri,” a male voice said, “are you there? It’s Josh.”
    A light went on. Cardozo turned.
    Terri was standing there, straight and slender against the wall, her long, dark hair spilling over her bathrobe. She looked at him with sleepy, dark fifteen-year-old eyes.
    “I already picked up that call,” she said. “Why are you running through old messages?”
    He pushed the button to stop the machine. “Just wanted to be sure I didn’t miss anything by accident. Who’s Josh?”
    She was quiet, which was a very different thing from being silent. “He’s a friend from school.”
    “You’ve never mentioned him.”
    “Dad,” she said.
    The tone of voice was a statement. It said he was being stuffy, unreasonable, and a little bit of a pain. Worse, the word Dad was a signal that she was growing up, that he was no longer Daddy. Which meant he was no longer anyone’s Daddy. He felt sad at the idea: it was like being laid off, like having to say good-bye to a job he loved.
    “How could I have mentioned him? We haven’t had a talk in three weeks.”
    “Is there anything that needs to be talked about?”
    She shook her head. “I’m doing fine, we don’t need to worry about me.”
    “Because if you’re seeing somebody,” he said, “I’d like to know. I’d like to meet him.”
    “Dad—I see Josh two