The Lily Nelson Murder Case

Broadways my beats from Times Square to Columbus Circle, the godiest, the most violent, the lonesome-est mile in the world. Broadways my beats with Larry Thor as Detective Danny Clover. Broadways glitter is soft, easy on the eye.

The glint of pavement has not yet reached its nighttime sheen. The stone is still warm from the touch of twilight and the neon has not yet bled into scarlet. The voices that screamed against the day are quieter now.

The walk slower. It's the in-between time and the day is not yet yielded to wanton night. It's the end of a tear time before the next one, scourish or cheek. It's your time, kid, so hold it close.

Broadways clock spins fast. And where the dusk touches night, it walks you through the arch on Washington Square, past the woman whose fearful eyes are on a child balanced on the edge of a fountain, across a quiet street, and into a brownstone hung with mirrors and crystal.

And death is reflected many times over. The man who kneels beside it gives you the moment to consider it, then offers it to you. No, in Nelson, Danny. Slash-drifts. Last week, my wife made me buy tickets to her play.

All I could get was some time next June. She was sold out that far. Slash-drifts. You got here fast. Beautiful, Danny. So, I thought I'd stand so close to her. I said you... Yeah, yeah, how I got here.

It was phoned in Danny, anonymous call, said Lily Nelson was in trouble. Anonymous? We got a trace wrong, Danny. By the time you get back to headquarters, make a... You found her like this? Yeah.