Below Port Authority, the number of homeless people dropped to only one or two per block. The detective walked down Eighth Avenue, came back on Broadway, walked down again on Sixth.

At 42nd and Sixth, at the entrance to Bryant Park, a blind man was leaning on a propped-up piece of cardboard lettered with the words, “God Bless You If You Help Me.” He was smoking a long, filter-tipped cigarette. The smoke formed a gray wreath around his face.

“Evening,” the detective said.

“God bless,” the man said. He groped for his cup and then raised it, shaking the coins inside.

“I’m with the police.” The detective squatted next to the man, pulled out his wallet, and put the man’s hand onto his badge. The man’s eyebrows rose and his mouth crinkled into a smile. He put the cup down.

“How are you doing, officer?”

“Could be worse. You?”

“Good night for me,” the man said, hugging himself against the chill. “Most nights nobody talks to me. Tonight you’re the second.”

“Really? Who was the other?”

He thought for a moment. “Man about your age, I’d say. Little older maybe. Pleasant fellow. Talked to me a while, just a minute ago.” He lifted his cigarette. “Gave me a smoke.”

“Nice of him,” the detective said. “Listen, you notice anything out of the ordinary around here lately?”

“No. Why do you ask?”

“We’re conducting an investigation.”

“Well, I haven’t seen a thing,” the man said. He laughed softly to himself.

The detective dropped a handful of change into the man’s cup before walking away.

“My lucky day,” the man said, hugging himself tighter. “God bless you.”

“His name was Michael Casey. He lived off his monthly federal disability check, plus what he picked up panhandling.”

“Damn it!”