“Collusion,” Eagan suggested.
“That’s the word.”
Back in the lobby of the precinct station, Eagan asked, “Well?”
“I think I believe him,” Smith said. “Let’s go talk to Lydia’s landlady. If the hacker’s story stands up this isn’t a hit and run affair. Lydia was deliberately murdered.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. But I mean to find out.”
The house on 51st Street was old. The river wasn’t far away. The smell of mud and the docks mingled with the stale cooking odors in the hall and the gin reek of the landlady’s breath. It was a hell of a place for a former star to have lived.
A slattern in her early thirties, the landlady said, “The police was already here.”
Smith took a bill from his wallet. “I know. But I’d like to see her room if you don’t mind. This isn’t official. I’m merely an old fri
