Free Michelangelo's Notebook by Paul Christopher Page A

chocolate glazed and lifted it out. He took a bite, then washed it down with some coffee. Boyd chose a banana cream. Delaney stared up at the building again. The entire top floor was a charred ruin. “What did you find out?”
    “Fire started around four thirty. Apparently you can smell gasoline on the fifth floor landing, so it’s definitely arson.” Boyd finished the cream doughnut and dug into the bag for something else. A maple walnut this time. He chewed and slurped.
    “Anyone up there?”
    “Old guy in 5B. He gets up early so he smelled it first. Called it in and then got out himself. He doesn’t know about 5A. Says the whole back part of the building was where the fire was.” Boyd washed away the last of the maple walnut with the last of his coffee.
    “Firemen been in there yet?”
    “Yup.”
    “Find anything?”
    “Nope.” A cinnamon this time. The bag was now empty so he dropped his coffee cup into it, scrunching the whole thing into a sticky wad.
    “Your flair for description is amazing, Billy, as is your appetite.”
    “Well, they didn’t find anything. You want me to lie?”
    “What about the canvassing?”
    “The old guy in 5B says he heard someone go down the stairs at a little after two.”
    “He see who it was?”
    “No.”
    “Anything else.”
    “The pay phone at the corner.”
    “What about it.”
    “I had the LUDs checked just in case,” he said, referring to the local use details. “There was a phone call made about two ten.”
    “Interesting.”
    “Yeah, well, what’s more interesting is where it was made to.”
    “Don’t be coy, Billy. It doesn’t suit you.”
    “The Coolidge.”
    “That flophouse by the bridge?”
    “That’s the one. I got a uniform to drive over and talk to the night manager about the call. Turns out the night manager’s behind the counter with his throat slit. About ten minutes later some old wino comes in and says a black devil came through the window of his house and got blood over everything.”
    “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
    “Some Vietnamese punk in black bike gear got tossed off the bridge or something and came through the window of an old Chevy the wino was sleeping in. Messy. Funny thing is, a switchblade was found just outside the car in some weeds.” Billy looked up at the building. “Think there could be a connection?”
    “Yeah, Billy, I think there just might be. Maybe we should get over there and take a look.”
    They climbed into Delaney’s unmarked Crown Victoria, Boyd behind the wheel, and drove against traffic up Sixth past the looming Village View project to the corner. Delaney glanced out at the phone booth and Boyd gave a whoop on the siren behind the grill, clearing the way across First Avenue. They continued along Sixth Street, Boyd’s big red nose actually twitching as they went by the half dozen restaurants that made up Little India. Doughnuts or tandoori chicken, Boyd welcomed it all with a totally unprejudiced gullet.
    The big unmarked G-car swung south down Second Avenue. They reached the corner of Second and Houston and Boyd was about to turn west when Delaney screamed at him.
    “Stop the car! It’s her!”
    “Who?”
    “Just stop the goddamn car, will ya!?”
    Just as they’d gone into their turn Delaney had seen a flash of bright red hair coming up out of the Second Avenue subway station on the south side of Houston Street, the figure resolving itself into Finn Ryan. The tires on the Crown Vic screeched in protest as Boyd jammed on the brakes, and for some reason his hand jabbed out and pushed the siren button. The horn whooped and moaned as Delaney wove through the traffic.
    Finn turned at the sound and saw Delaney pounding across the six lanes of Houston Street traffic toward her, dodging taxis and delivery vans like a running back trying to avoid being tackled. She stood for one frozen instant at the top of the subway stairs, then turned and ducked down into the darkness again. By the