Fare Play Read Free Page B

identification? What if you’re in an accident? How could we let your parents know?”
    The girl nodded dumbly, wide-eyed.
    â€œEven if it’s just a card you’ve written your address on. Something.”
    Sharon nodded again.
    â€œYou promise me you’ll carry ID from now on?”
    â€œOh yes!” Faintly.
    â€œGood. You go on home now.”
    The girl took off running. The other two who’d been held back were a middle-aged woman and a scruffy, stick-thin youngish man. The latter’s pupils were pinpoints; his head was swaying in time to music only he could hear, and a loose grin made him appear as carefree as he probably felt. His only protection against the February cold was a ragged sweater; the guy looked like a slaphappy scarecrow.
    â€œThis one can’t even tell us his name,” O’Toole said in disgust.
    Marian sighed. “Take him in and hold him until he comes down from wherever he is.” Torelli led the unresisting scarecrow away.
    That left the middle-aged woman, who blinked when a flash from the police photographer’s camera went off inside the bus. She had short brown hair, minimal make-up, featureless clothing. Nondescript. “No ID?” Marian asked.
    â€œOh, she has ID all right,” O’Toole said with a grim smile. “She’s a private.”
    â€œI’m not licensed,” the woman said hurriedly. “I work for a licensed detective. I’m an operative.”
    â€œHer name’s Zoe Esterhaus,” O’Toole added. “Zoh-ee without a y . She and the victim got on the bus at—”
    â€œSecond Avenue,” Marian interrupted.
    O’Toole looked surprised. “That’s right.”
    Marian couldn’t believe this early break. “You were following the victim?”
    â€œYes, I was,” the operative admitted readily. “But don’t ask me why. My instructions were to file a report on everywhere he went. That’s all I know.” The Esterhaus woman heaved a big sigh. “Lieutenant, I’d like to cooperate, but I really think you’d better talk to my boss.”
    â€œWe’re going to talk to both of you. What’s the victim’s name?”
    â€œOliver Knowles. Retired businessman of some sort. He lived on Central Park South. Lived pretty well, from what I could see.”
    â€œAll right, Ms Esterhaus, I want you to go along to the station with Detective O’Toole. I’ll be there shortly. O’Toole, get hold of her boss and have him come in. We’ll need statements from both.”
    â€œYou can’t reach him now,” the other woman said. “He’s flying back from London tonight.”
    â€œTomorrow, then. Call him first thing, O’Toole. But we’ll get her statement first.”
    â€œDo you want me to take the car?” he asked. “How will you get back?”
    â€œTake the car,” Marian said. “Officer Jackson will give me a ride back, won’t you, Officer?”
    â€œGlad to, ma’am.”
    A man from the Crime Scene Unit was getting off the bus, carrying a battery-powered hand vacuum cleaner. “Do you have any idea,” he said to the world at large, “how much junk is on the floor of a public bus?”
    â€œAre you about finished?” Marian asked him.
    â€œYeah, we’re done. Dr. Whittaker’s still in there, though.”
    Marian climbed on the bus. She could see only the gray head of the victim leaning against the bus window, about three-fourths of the way back on the left as she faced the rear. The man from the Medical Examiner’s office was bending over the body.
    â€œDr. Whittaker,” Marian said, to let him know she was there.
    He glanced over his shoulder. “Oh, hello, Sergeant Larch. Kind of off your turf, aren’t you?”
    â€œNew precinct. And a new rank. It’s Lieutenant Larch now.”
    â€œCongratulations,” he said absently