This was Tuesday and a laundered story of what happened in a certain Meatpacking District warehouse Sunday night had been all over the media on Monday. I’d met privately with my client’s son to take a sort of deposition (so went this version of the “facts”) about things I uncovered in my investigation of the chophouse hit-and-run; Vincent Colby became excited and attacked me—I defended myself with tragic results. For him. The personality change that followed his concussion was mentioned. Not much else.

Mostly it’d been photos in the papers of young Colby at the brokerage and out on the town, with footage on the tube of him at the Tube (and other clubs) as well as social and charity events. I spent much of Monday at One Police Plaza in Pat’s office, viewing the video tape—Captain Chambers watching it with cold interest.

I won’t go into how furious Pat was with me over my tactics, but he knew damn well having a non-police officer staging a charade like that had a positive side—namely, it made the tape’s contents useable in court…or would have if Colby had lived to go to court. A citizen can’t be accused of entrapment, after all. And for all his glowering, Captain Chambers had trouble holding back a smile when I looked at the camera and apologized to him.

For all his talk of putting Vinnie in stir to endure a lifetime away from privilege and freedom, Pat obviously didn’t mind seeing the sick fuck dead. I knew I sure didn’t.

But that attitude needed some sanding off at the edges for my client. I had a check in my wallet refunding his ten-grand retainer, though I doubted the old man would give a damn about getting his money back. I clearly hadn’t delivered what he was after.

Vance Colby deserved the truth, though. Softened a little maybe, but when one day you have an heir ready to take over the reins of your successful brokerage, and the next you’ve got a dead murdering maniac for a son, nothing much can take out the sting.

And it would get worse. Soon Vincent Colby would be a notorious name in the headlines, joining the ranks of Bundy and Berkowitz, as more and more inevitably came out. With garish TV movies and documentaries to come.

What hit the papers this morning was the discovery of the body of Harry P. Strutt, dead of a blow to the back of the head, in the trunk of his Camaro, left on a country road outside Marlboro, New York.

After handing over my trenchcoat and hat, I was ushered through a black, white and gold deco-appointed foyer with a two-story ceiling and led past an ivory marble staircase with black and gold bannisters into a living room with, oddly, no art moderne touches at all.