Gladyss of the Hunt. Arthur Nersesian

corner between Forty-second and Forty-third. As we approached the entrance on Seventh Avenue, Bernie halted abruptly.

      “What’s up?” I asked, looking around nervously in case he had spotted another shady character from his angry past.

      “I just need a moment,” he said, going over to one of the many food carts that lined the curb. I watched him buy a cold can of Coke and reach into his shirt pocket. He took out a small pill, put it in his mouth, opened the Coke, took a sip to wash the capsule down, then tossed the remainder into the garbage can on the corner. Next he pulled out a cigarette, lit it, took one puff, then dropped it, crushed it underfoot, and walked past me into the building. When he looked up at the building index to check where we needed to go, I could see his forehead was covered in sweat.

      Since 9/11, all modern buildings had installed security turnstiles, much like the subway, that everyone had to pass through to gain entrance. We showed our IDs, got sticker badges and went inside. As we took the elevator up to the 26th floor, I noticed Bern’s jacket collar had flipped up so I reached over and folded it down.

      “I don’t mind you doing that when we’re alone,” he said, “but not when we’re with anyone.”

      “I know.”

      When we stepped out in front of the firm’s large, circular receptionist desk, Bernie flashed his badge. I belatedly took out mine as well. He asked for Ahmed Dhaka and we were redirected down to the sixth floor. During the elevator drop Bernie said, “When I show my shield, don’t show yours.”

      “Why not?”

      “Cause it makes us look like the fucking Bobbsey Twins.”

      The elevator door opened into a smaller reception area. Bernie asked for Mr. Dhaka.

      “Who shall I say is asking for him?”

      “Bernie Farrell,” he said, without announcing he was a cop. He wanted to catch the guy off-guard.

      As the receptionist buzzed Mr. Dhaka and repeated the name, I could see Bernie discreetly put his hand inside his jacket, checking his gun. A few minutes later a dark-skinned, heavy-set guy in a loose suit appeared in the doorway.

      “Detective Farrell,” Bernie introduced, discreetly flashing his shield.

      “Bloody hell,” Dhaka said with a clear accent, “You’re not with Homeland Security, are you?”

      “No, why?”

      “I’m just tired of being suspected of being a terrorist.”

      “Nothing like that,” I reassured him.

      “We can sit over here, he said, nodding toward a group of chairs in the corner of the reception area.”

      As he turned, I saw that the right sleeve of his jacket was sewn up, just below the shoulder. His arm was missing.

      “With this new Patriot Act, I’m utterly terrified of being deported. Immigrants are totally unprotected now.”

      “Your credit card was just used in a murder that we’re investigating,” Bernie said.

      Mr. Dhaka hunched tightly in his chair and lowered his voice nervously. “You’re kidding.”

      “Can we talk about a purchase you made at Penn Video?”

      “What? I mean . . .” he glanced nervously at the receptionist, who was busily typing into her word processor. “I never broke any laws in my life.”

      Bernie asked him where he was on the night that Nelly Linquist was murdered.

      “At home in Jackson Heights, with my wife and two little girls.”

      “Mr. Dhaka,” the receptionist said getting off the phone, “Hector Beck is waiting for you.”

      “Oh my God, my team supervisor is urgently expecting a progress report. All I’ll need is ten minutes with him.”

      “You know the Starbucks across the street?” Bernie asked.

      “On Forty-third?” he asked.

      “Yeah.”

      “How about we meet there in fifteen minutes?”

      “That would be bloody great!”

      As we took the elevator back down, Bernie muttered something about being glad to be out of there.

      “Why?”

      “Sometimes interrogating someone successfully is as simple as finding a place where they feel comfortable,” he replied. But I sensed it was more than that.

      As we approached the coffee shop, I watched a group of men in Teamster jackets assembling a small platform on the traffic island across from the MTV window, while another group of contractors on the east side of Forty-third Street were dismantling a makeshift stage that featured the logo of the ABC morning show. The neighborhood that once epitomized crime and scum had been taken over and transformed into the glamorous showcase of corporate America.

      No sooner had we reached the front of the line when Ahmed Dhaka came in the door. Bernie asked him if he would like a coffee.

      He shook his head—“Stains my teeth”—and joined us at a table that had just opened up.

      “According to our records,” Bernie replied, staring at him, “Last week you paid twenty dollars for a tape at a video outlet near Penn Station.”

      I didn’t correct him, but it was actually a DVD. The guy was clearly embarrassed, and unable to look up. Personally I did not think pornography necessarily led to violent behavior. If a man was able to release his tension, I was inclined to believe that it usually made him more manageable.

      “Why didn’t you call the card in as missing?”

      Ahmed silently took his wallet out of his pocket and flipped through his credit cards. “Which one is it?”

      “Your Bank of America VISA card.”

      To our surprise, Dhaka held up the card.

      “Oh wait, “he said, nodding. “I remember now. The clerk couldn’t slide it through his machine for some reason, and he had trouble reading the numbers, so I read it out to him.”

      “There you go,” Bernie said to me. “Our boy was there.”

      Dhaka shrugged.

      “You don’t remember anyone standing nearby,” I asked. “Maybe even writing it down?” After all, who could memorize a sixteen-digit number, along with an expiration date and a three-digit security code, all being spoken quickly aloud?

      “I’m sorry, I honestly don’t remember,” he said. “And I don’t want to be rude, but if I don’t get back to work soon, Beck’s going to notice my absence.”

      We both thanked him for his time and watched him cross the busy street, back to the giant wavy fish tank he worked in.

      “I know this sounds disgusting,” Bernie said with a grin, “but while I was talking to Mr. Dhaka, I had this awful image of the guy masturbating with his one remaining hand.”

      “Hey, physically challenged people get horny too,” I replied.

      “Physically challenged—that’s what I love about you kids today, you’re all so fair and sensitive.”

      I zoned him out as we walked down the north side of Forty-second, past the New Victory Theater and the American Airlines Theater across from Madame Tussauds and Ripley’s Believe It or Not, then crossed at the newly established crosswalk between the two Avenues.

      When we got back to the car I thought we’d head back to the precinct, but Bernie suddenly turned on Thirty-fourth and parked on the corner of Eighth, across from the New Yorker Hotel. Looking up, I realized we were idling in front of a porn arcade.

      “This is where Dhaka had his credit card number