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said into the phone, “I gotta go now.”
    Then she turned to me.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI need some information about a charity,” I said.
    â€œWhich one?”
    â€œAnother Chance.”
    â€œSecular or religious?”
    â€œDoes it make a difference?”
    She sighed as if it were her lot in life to suffer fools and their equally stupid questions.
    â€œOnly secular charities are required to register with the attorney general,” she said.
    I doubted whether Another Chance was an arm of the Church of the Holy Tarot.
    â€œLet’s go with secular.”
    â€œAnother Chance,” she said, typing it into her computer.
    She stared at the screen.
    â€œNothing,” she said. “Anything else?”
    â€œTry Martine Toussaint.” I spelled her name.
    â€œZip,” she said. “Are we done?”
    â€œYep. And you can tell Tony for me he really blew it. You’re a catch!”
    T he lobby of the apartment house directly across the street offered a perfect view of the comings and goings at Martine’s brownstone.
    The snow was pounding, the wind was swirling, and the temperature was in the teens.
    The doorman stood in the vestibule. He was a big man with a thatch of neatly combed white hair, wearing a Gilbert and Sullivan costume. The epaulets of his red greatcoat were trimmed in gold. He held the matching cap loosely in his fingers and away from his body, as if wearing it would be the ultimate insult. I made him for a retired cop picking up a few bucks working the door.
    â€œCan I help you?” he said.
    â€œLooking for some information,” I said.
    He jerked his chin at the door. “Take a walk.”
    I handed him my card.
    His gaze moved from the card and back to me. “I used to know a Steeg. Detective. Midtown North.”
    â€œDominic. My father.”
    â€œThat’s the one,” he said. “How’s he doing?”
    â€œPassed away. Two years ago.”
    â€œSorry to hear that. Good cop.”
    Actually he wasn’t, but there was no point to opening that can of worms.
    â€œThat’s what they say.”
    â€œYeah. I heard one of his kids was on the force, and the other was a bad apple.”
    â€œThe cop would be me.”
    He waggled the card in my face. “Not what it says here.”
    â€œThings change.”
    He nodded. “Know how that goes. Figured I would retire and live good on the pension. And now I’m dressed up like a fucking Russian general and opening doors for people who lost the ability to do it on their own.”
    â€œNot the way you thought it would be.”
    â€œNot the way it ought to be,” he said. “So, what can I do for Dominic’s kid?”
    â€œThat brownstone across the street. Another Chance. Know anything about it?”
    â€œWhat’s your interest?”
    â€œWorking a case.”
    He smiled. “You got my juices flowing.”
    â€œSo what can you tell me?”
    â€œPopular place.”
    â€œHow so?”
    â€œDouble-parked limos. Guys in suits that cost more than my rent.”
    â€œAnyone you recognize?”
    He gave me some names. A congressman. A couple of state senators. A judge. And my very own councilman, Terry Sloan. The asshole!
    â€œVery public-spirited gentlemen,” I said.
    â€œThat’s one way of looking at it.”
    â€œVery cynical. What’s your take on what’s going on?”
    â€œThere was a time when I would have been interested. Now all I want is to hang on to this job.”
    A cab pulled up.
    He ambled to the door. “I gotta get back to work.”
    As I followed him out, my gaze drifted to Martine’s brownstone across the street. Frank Ennis stood on the top of the stairs with his arms folded across his chest.
    Seems I was the object of his attention.

13
    T erry Sloan looked up from his BlackBerry, saw me standing at his office door, and the blood drained from his face.
    He jammed the