Stone nodded. “The clothes and shoes are nothing special,” he said. “Any jewelry?”

Dino took a padded box from a dresser drawer. “Here we go.” He opened the box. “Nothing expensive; looks European.”

“Probably her mother’s. Have you located her next of kin?”

“A nephew,” Dino said, “lives in Jersey. We found some correspondence with him. He came in late this morning; didn’t know anything; hadn’t seen her for months.”

“Let’s check the kitchen,” Stone said. The kitchen was well stocked with pots, pans, knives, and implements. “She was a pretty serious cook,” Stone said. He bent over and opened a cabinet door. As he did, half a dozen neatly folded shopping bags slid off a shelf to the floor. “Look at this,” he said, placing the bags on a countertop. “Chanel, Saks, Bergdorf’s, Ferragamo. They clash with the lifestyle, wouldn’t you say?”

“I’d say so,” Dino agreed. “Were there any payments to any of those stored in her checkbook or credit-card receipts?”

“No, nothing.”

“Then she’d have been paying with cash.”

“Or someone was paying for her.”

“Mitteldorfer? What would a prisoner in Sing Sing be doing with that kind of money?”

“Good question. Where did Mitteldorfer work? You remember?”

Dino took out his notebook and flipped through some pages. “Ginzberg and O’Sullivan, accountants, on West Forty-seventh Street.”

“Let’s talk to them.”

Dino picked up a phone and, consulting his notebook, dialed a number. “Hello, may I speak to Mr. Ginzberg? Yes? How about Mr. O’Sullivan? I see. I’m looking for information on someone who worked there more than a dozen years ago; is there anyone in who’s been around that long? I see. This is Lieutenant Bacchetti of the New York City Police Department; could I have his home address and number?” He scribbled it down and hung up. “The original partners sold out a few years ago and retired. O’Sullivan is still alive; he lives in the East Seventies; let’s go see him.”

Daniel O’Sullivan was a big, bluff Irish-American in his late seventies, with snow-white hair and a florid complexion, who still wore his weight well. He seemed glad to have visitors. He showed them into a spacious, beautifully furnished apartment that took up a whole floor of a brownstone, offered them a drink, and, when they declined, fixed one for himself.

“It’s not often I get visited by the police,” he said, settling in a big armchair. “What can I do for you?”

“Mr. O’Sullivan,” Dino said, “do you remember Herbert Mitteldorfer?”

“Herbie? How could I forget him? He was the only one of my employees—that I know of—who ever murdered somebody.”

“Can you tell us what Mitteldorfer’s job was in your firm?”

“Sure; he was my top accountant.”

“Could you describe his duties? Did he do corporate work?”