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Dale, with those sad eyes still going, said, “How in the world did someone like you get from there to
here
?”

Dale meant the triplex here, on Fifth Avenue, Seventy-ninth and Fifth, with the houseboy who lived downstairs someplace and never talked except to say, “Is there anything else?” The houseboy who seemed to exist only to go get Ellis something when Ellis didn’t want to go outside. Nobody knowing he was here in New York, right underneath everybody’s nose, in his very own secret and invisible home.

Not even Richie, who Ellis had called just to say he hadn’t died.

“You know the way I showed you to get in and out?” Dale said. “If you want to take one of your night walks, all disguised?”

“No doubt,” Ellis said.

“Take care of yourself,” Dale said.

Ellis said, “How can you say that? Take care of yourself.”

Dale said, “We’ll take care of each other,” giving a little toss to the long black hair because they both knew how much Ellis liked that one and then pushing the elevator button. The doors closed, then it was just Ellis, as invisible as he could be, way up above the park.

It was the third week of October now. Less than two weeks to go to the opening of the regular season. And Ellis Adair, who was supposed to have more moves than any motherfucker alive, was trying to figure out what his next move should be. For once sorting things out without Richie. At least for the time being.

But not even being able to pray on everything without wanting to cry his eyes out.

From the start, Ellis had worried about that dress, on account of what had happened in the car, on the way back to the house. He had even been thinking about renting the movie
Presumed Innocent.
Ellis couldn’t remember exactly, but him and Richie had gone to see it on the road someplace. With Indiana Jones playing the good guy they thought killed his girlfriend. Richie had read the book first, which was always a treat for Ellis because Richie would talk through the whole movie. “Watch this, Fresh.” Or: “Pay attention to this part, Fresh.” Like he was running Ellis through some set plays, practically telling him which parts of the movie he was supposed to like.

The movies were like everything else in their life then.

Anyway, Ellis remembered that the wife was behind it all in the movie, that was the big surprise ending. It was some sort of thing with the guy’s come. She saved it or some such thing. At first trying to set him up because she caught him jumping this other girl. Then feeling bad at the end, even after he got off.

Ellis couldn’t remember all of it. He just knew there was a way for them to screw around with those samples and then you could end up guilty, even if you weren’t.

He wondered if Hannah Carey even remembered the ride over, drunk as she was. Ellis looked out at Central Park thinking on that. Or maybe she was just acting drunk, though Ellis seemed to recall she was putting those vodkas with the orange slices away as fast as the waitress brought them.

Ron, the house guy, said, “I know you said you don’t like to read the papers, but I thought you might want to change your mind.” Ron only lived in when Dale was out of town and the apartment was empty. But they all decided he should stay around while Ellis was there, in case Ellis needed something.

The first couple of days after Ellis left Fulton, he didn’t read the
papers. What was the point? He knew where he was and they were just making it up, which is what they did most of the time, anyway. It was like after he played the games. He didn’t need some sportswriter telling him why the Knicks’d won or lost; shit, he knew while it was happening. And sometimes you just lost the game, it was as simple as that. Except sportswriters didn’t want it to be simple, so they analyzed the shit out of it. Which is why Ellis stopped reading after a while.

But now Ron handed him the
Daily News
with the headline
RICHIE RAPED ME
and a smaller one underneath that went like this: “While Ellis Watched.”

Of course Ellis remembered her, the little Spanish girl, or whatever she was, no bigger than a doll, from the other side of town. He wasn’t sure anymore if he’d stayed there the whole time. It seemed to him she might be making that part up. But what did that matter anymore? People making things up and dragging Ellis into it? That wasn’t news anymore, not to him.

Now Teresa Delgado was going to be on with Oprah. Ellis read it all slowly, like Richie always told him to, so he didn’t miss something important. And a little bit into the story there was something else, about how A
Current Affair
was offering Hannah Carey $250,000 to do a week’s worth of interviews, just tell her life story, but that
Hard Copy
, another show, was up to $400,000.

Ellis laughed. Scared as he was, scared that he was losing it all now—scared to
death
, that was the truth—he couldn’t help laughing.

Teresa Delgado on
Oprah
, which the story said she’d picked over
Donahue
and
Geraldo.

Hannah Carey with two shows fighting over her, maybe more.

He thought: They’re being recruited like I was for college.

Ellis thought: Before this is over, they’re going to have to hold a
draft
for Richie’s girls.

“You know what I feel like?” DiMaggio said to Hyland. “I feel like I’m swimming in the dark.”

Hyland sipped a beer. “This is why I had to stop on the way home from work, so I could listen to your problems?”

They were sitting in Mulligan’s, the bar from which Hannah Carey had left with Ellis Adair and Richie Collins. At least that is what Marty Perez had written and the other newspapers were printing as fact now. The bare bones of the story, at least the story the public knew, hadn’t changed: Hannah Carey was on her way up to her mother’s home in Litchfield that night; her mother was out of town and she was going to spend the weekend up there. They closed off the Merritt Parkway because of an accident right before Exit 38. Hannah used to know a bartender at Gates, a restaurant in New Canaan. She stopped in there, met Adair and Collins, went with them to Mulligan’s, where the Knicks players had congregated after a welcome-back dinner.

Collins asked her for a ride home. She went into the house he had rented with Ellis Adair to use the bathroom before driving to Litchfield. Adair was inside waiting for them.

They raped her.

“I know we’ve gone over this before,” DiMaggio said. “But why do you feel like I’m the enemy here?”

Hyland said, “You’re not the enemy. You’re just in the way. I go to the city, I try to talk to somebody, some waitress Hannah Carey worked with, and they go, ‘I told this to some guy named DiMaggio the other day.’ And you know what? They all seem to think you’re official.”

DiMaggio said, “I never tell them I’m a cop. I tell them I work for the Knicks.”

“I have a feeling you don’t spend a hell of a lot of time making the distinction.”

“So I’m wasting my time here. Or your time.”

Hyland said, “Maybe the Knicks’ll give you a bonus for trying so hard.”

DiMaggio said, “I’m not going to lie to you, Connecticut is starting to wear my ass out.”

Hyland smiled. “Your ass probably wore out long before you got here.”

“I have no authority,” DiMaggio complained. “I’ve gotten to talk to the accused and the accuser. But they don’t have to answer any of my questions. So I end up talking to people who know her or know them. Then I end up talking to you again. Only you don’t answer my questions, either.”

Hyland said, “Put yourself in my shoes for a minute, if you can stop whining long enough. She came in on her own, said these two guys raped her. But these two guys, they don’t have to talk to me. They didn’t even have to give me blood and hair samples. But their lawyer convinced them it was bad for their image, not cooperating at
all.
So they throw me a bone and give me the samples, which are worthless because she kept the goddamn dress in a zipped-up bag for a year, and so I’ve got nothing to match them up
with.
”

Hyland waved over the bartender. DiMaggio saw that the bartender, whom Hyland had introduced as Jack, was wearing a white shirt, striped tie, and Bermuda shorts. Hyland said, “You want another Scotch?” DiMaggio said he was fine. Hyland said to Jack, “One more and I’m out of here.”

Hyland put an elbow on the bar, turned to face DiMaggio.

“How many nights in a row for you here?”

“Three.”

“You find out anything interesting?”

“You don’t give me shit, but I’m supposed to help you? Is that how it works?”

“Think of it as being a good citizen.”

“I know what you probably know,” DiMaggio said, “because you’ve talked to everybody I’ve talked to. Some people remember Hannah Carey being here. One of the bartenders working that night, who I tracked down in Australia, said she was drunk, and even got up at one point and sang with the band they had here that night.”

“ ‘Runaround Sue,’ ” Hyland said. “You see her as the type to get up in a bar and sing oldies?”

“I don’t see her as the type to get up and sing at all. She must have been drunk.” He sipped some Scotch. “But if she was that drunk, let me ask you this: Why would Richie Collins ask
her
for a ride home?”

Hyland smiled. “Is that a hypothetical question?”

“Will you give me a fucking break?” DiMaggio said.

“You want me to speak hypothetically. Let’s just say that hypothetically, her recollections of that evening, the before part and the after part, might not be so sparkling.” Jack brought him his beer and Hyland waited until he placed it on top of the napkin.

“Just suppose,” Hyland continued, “for the sake of conversation, that when a very good cop might ask her about an inconsistency that might crop up—when I am very definitely looking for the opposite—the woman might have a habit of saying something like, ‘Brian, I’m sorry, I just don’t remember.’ ”

DiMaggio said, “I’ve talked to bartenders, the owner, waitresses, customers, enough people who were there. Whenever the Knicks go out of town to play some exhibition game, I’m here. Everyone agrees that they’ve never seen Mulligan’s more crowded. Everyone agrees that there were always women around Richie Collins. And nobody I’ve talked to yet can remember seeing them leave together. Either her with Collins or her with both of them.”

“I’ve got an idea,” Brian Hyland said. “Why don’t you give up and go home?” He blew on the head of his beer, leaned over, and sipped
some without taking it off the bar. It was five-thirty, and people were starting to come in for a drink after work. Jack hit a switch on the wall and DiMaggio heard Sinatra and Anita Baker singing “Witchcraft” from his
Duets
album. He looked around at the framed
Sports Illustrated
covers lining the walls, all of them with golfers on the front, the covers going all the way back to Ben Hogan and Sam Snead. DiMaggio had been at Mulligan’s enough lately, he was starting to have dreams about golfers and Hannah Carey, not basketball players.

“Tell you what,” Hyland said. He clapped DiMaggio on the back. “You find Ellis and deliver him to me, I’ll be your friend.”

“A reason to live,” DiMaggio said.

Hyland finished his beer and left. Mulligan’s got louder, busier. Jack turned up the sound system. DiMaggio liked Hyland. He had turned out to be a hard case, but he was a pro. DiMaggio knew that if they switched roles, he’d play it the same way Hyland was playing it. He’d tease DiMaggio once in a while, with the dress, with the gaps in Hannah Carey’s story, but wouldn’t give away anything. Because he wasn’t interested in impressing DiMaggio. Because he was a good cop, and he was doing the best he could with Hannah Carey.

Where the hell
was
Ellis Adair? What had made him snap? Adair wasn’t the smartest guy in the world, you didn’t have to be around him five minutes to figure that out. But what had made him do something this dumb?

If he didn’t leave when Hannah Carey first came forward, why leave now?

Find Ellis, DiMaggio thought. Maybe he’ll tell you.

He slid some money across the bar and walked outside. He wasn’t ready to go back to New York yet. He was up here again, do something with the time. He decided to drive over to Fulton. He had never been inside the house Adair and Collins rented, the one where Hannah Carey said they’d raped her. They’d been living there during training camp, so there was no way for DiMaggio to get a look at the crime scene, or alleged crime scene, even from the outside.

Maybe he’d be inspired.

Maybe he’d drive up, see a light in the window. Go knock on the door and have Ellis answer it. DiMaggio could give him a big smile and say, “Hi, honey, I’m home.”

He took Route 106 into Fulton, took a left before he got to Route 7, then a right into the main driveway of the development called Fulton Crest: chalet-type condominiums set up above the Norwalk River, the main road going over a little bridge and then winding up into the woods, branching off into smaller roads as you went along. The bigger structures, real houses with more privacy, were all the way in the back of the Fulton Crest property. Without having been there, just reading about the layout, DiMaggio knew Adair and Collins had taken the last house, all the way in the back. They had their own garage, he remembered that, too. When DiMaggio got there, he saw the garage next to the house and a sidewalk that took you from the front door, across a narrow driveway, then down some stairs to what looked to be a guest parking lot.

It was far enough from everything else that no one would have heard any screams.

He drove past the house and came back around, then parked in the guest lot. He walked up the stairs. He had only been back in New York for a few weeks, but already the noise was getting to him again; the old shout. Fulton in the night was Jupiter in the night, without the muted crash of the ocean out the window. He stood there in the street, in front of the place where it all had started. It was a red brick house, made to look older than it probably was. There was a small terrace outside one of the bedrooms on the second floor.