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surprised that Zimmerman’s mother did not pick up. According to her son, she was bedridden most of the day, incapacitated and sickly, except for the unfettered and nearly inexhaustible supply of angry demands and belittling comments that she delivered nonstop.
    He hung up the telephone and stepped back. He took a long look down the block where Zimmerman’s apartment was, and then shook his head. He told himself: You’ve got to take control of this situation. The threatening letter, the child being singled out for pornography, the sudden appearance of a naked and quite stunning woman in his office, had all upset his equilibrium. He needed, he thought, to impose order back on events, and then chart a simple course through the game that he was caught up inside. What he didn’t need to do, he told himself, was to throw away almost a year of analysis with Roger Zimmerman because he was frightened and acting rashly.
    Telling himself these things, reassured him. He turned away, determined to head back to his home and start packing for his vacation.
    His eyes, however, caught the entrance to the 92nd Street subway station. Like so many other stations, this was nothing more than a set of stairs that descended into the earth, with a modest yellow lettered sign above. He moved in that direction, paused momentarily at the head of the stairs, then stepped down, driven suddenly by a sense of error and fear, as if something was just slowly emerging from mist and fog and becoming clear. His footsteps clattered on the steps. Artificial light hummed and buzzed and reflected off the tiles on the walls. A distant train groaned through a tunnel. A musty, aged odor, like opening a closet that has been shut for years overcame him, followed by a sense of contained heat, as if the day’s temperatures had baked the station, and it was only now starting to cool. There were few people in the station at that moment, and he spotted a single black woman working in the token kiosk. He waited for a moment, for a second when she was not being harried by people making change, and then he approached. He bent toward the round, silver metal speaking filter in her Plexiglas window.
    “Excuse me,” he said.
    “You want change? Directions? Map’s on the wall over there.”
    “No,” he said, shaking his head. “I wonder, I’m sorry this sounds strange but…”
    “What you want, fella?”
    “Well, I was wondering, did something happen down here today? This afternoon…”
    “You gotta talk to the cops about that,” she said briskly. “Happened before my shift.”
    “But what…”
    “I wadn’t here. Didn’t see nothing.”
    “But what happened?”
    “Guy jumped in front offa train. Or fell, I dunno. Cops been here and gone already by the time my shift begun. Cleaned up the mess and gathered up a coupla witnesses. That’s it.”
    “What cops?”
    “Transit. Ninety-sixth and Broadway. Talk to them. I got no details at all.”
    Ricky stepped back, his stomach clenched, head spinning, almost nauseous. He needed air, and there was none inside the station. A train approached, filling the station with a steady screeching noise, as if the act of slowing for the stop was torturous. The sound flooded over him, pummeling him like fists.
    “You okay, mister?” the woman in the booth shouted above the racket. “You look kinda sick.”
    He nodded, and whispered a reply that she undoubtedly couldn’t hear. “I’m fine,” he said, but this was clearly a lie. Like a drunk trying to maneuver a car through twisting roads, Ricky swerved toward the exit.

Chapter Five
    Everything about the world Ricky entered that evening was alien to him.
    The sights, sounds, and smells of the Transit Authority police station at 96th and Broadway seemed to him to represent a window on the city that he’d never before looked through and that he was only vaguely aware existed. There was a faint aroma of urine and vomit fighting the harsher odor of strong disinfectant