The Last Dance

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blood on the dead man's eyeballs. In cases of acute right-heart failure, you often found such hemorrhaging. The grayish-blue feet sticking out from under the edge of the blanket were another matter.

"Told me he hadn't been feeling good these past few

days," the woman was saying. "I kept telling him to go

see the doctor. Yeah, I'll go, I'll go, don't worry, like that, you know? So I stopped by this morning to see how he was, found him just this way. In bed. Dead."

"So you called the police," Meyer said, nodding.

Because he'd expected to go out on a narcotics plant

this morning, he was wearing blue jeans, a sweat shirt,

and Reeboks. Instead, he'd caught this one with Carella

and here he was. On a fishing expedition with a woman he

felt was lying. Burly and bald, he posed his question with

wide, blue-eyed innocence, just as if it did not conceal a

hand grenade.

"Yes," she said, "I called the police. That was the first thing I did."

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