“Working for Ernie Bilko probably,” I said.

“He owned this shop,” Pat said, nodding behind us. “But I don’t think he went straight. Robbery Division suspects him of being the driver for a crew that’s been hitting small banks upstate.”

“And now he’s gone,” I said, “and mankind will just have to bear up.”

“You ever see anything like that?”

“The Ferrari F40? Just when it clipped Vincent Colby.”

“No. I mean the way that guy died. His fucking chest is sunk in like Popeye punched him.”

“A fist didn’t do that, even with spinach. Two fists didn’t do it, either. I got no idea what did, unless the killer had a battering ram in his pocket.”

I’d already filled Pat in about Owens at the Colby brokerage. He’d said nothing then but the back of his mind must’ve been working on it.

He said, “You think this Owens character hired Kraft to kill his friend?”

“I think Owens hired Kraft to fine-tune his car. And I think if somebody did hire this guy to kill the Colby kid, they took advantage of how little Owens used the vehicle to borrow it for the job. Unless Kraft was just out joy-riding.”

“Just a coincidence that the Owens vehicle was what he was working on.”

“I didn’t say that. Come on, Pat—you know how us detectives hate coincidence. There could be a connection. Somebody might have recommended Kraft to Owens. I mean, this isn’t a part of the city Yuppies generally hang out in. How would William J. Owens stumble onto this place?”

“The Yellow Pages maybe?”

“I doubt Kraft was even in the Yellow Pages. This looks like a sub rosa operation.”

“Not big enough to be a chop shop.”

I frowned. “No, but if Kraft had a reputation for doing good work on high-end rides like the F40, he might get access to machines that could really go, for use with that bank-heist crew you mentioned. You need to talk to your contacts in Robbery and see if the M.O. includes getaway cars with impressive pedigrees.”

Pat was nodding. “Sometimes you think like a detective.”

“You cops ought to try it.”

Pat’s radio squawked again. More talk, more listening. When he clicked off and returned the handset to its slot, he made a note in his pad and then came over, his expression grim.

He planted himself in front of me and said, “You’re not going to like this.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“Seems something didn’t smell good inside Casey Shannon’s apartment. The super called it in and our guys broke in and found Shannon there.”

“Not in Florida,” I said. “Not shacked up with an old honey.”

“No. Dead on the floor for a week, anyway. And here’s the part you really won’t like.”

“I already don’t like it.”

“I know. But get this—somebody caved his chest in.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Tudor City, between Grand Central and the United Nations, was an island of apartment buildings within the island of Manhattan. In the heart of midtown, the cluster of apartments had everything—two lovely parks, great shopping, swell dining. Also the rent-controlled one-bedroom apartment where Lt. Casey Shannon had lived for twenty years, ever since his wife divorced him and he’d moved here from Queens.