Tennis courts in the northwest, a five-mile running track that went up to Harlem, a bridle path, a rowboat lake in the lower west, a sailboat pond and Bethesda Fountain at Seventy-second Street. The notorious Ramble-thirty miles of unlighted, unpaved wooded paths, a hangout for adolescents smoking pot, gays looking for action, addicts looking for a hit or a mark, and the homeless-was not far away. Since the Giuliani administration strictly enforced zero tolerance on disorderly conduct and all the other quality-of-life values that were the new hallmark of New York City, there were not that many homeless. When dark came, the third tour of the Central Park Precinct, patrolling in cars, on scooters, horses, bicycles, chased them out.

"Hey, boss, it's probably some fag getting corn-holed in the bushes," the uniform in the 4X4 called out in a who-gives-a-shit tone. April heard and ignored the crude remark. Most likely he was right. Still, they didn't take any risks about people in trouble anywhere, and especially in the park. Every 911 call was thoroughly checked out.

The mounted officer joined the party. She slowed the panting horse to a walk, then reined in close to the Buick. The chestnut she was riding was a beautiful animal. It tossed its head and dropped a steaming load. "Anything?" the officer asked, unperturbed.

"Looks like whatever it was is over," April remarked. "But we'll check it out. Come on, Baum, let's take a walk." She stepped off the pavement onto the part of the Ramble that skirted the water. Large boulders on either side formed a minicanyon. Between them, tall grasses still thick with their summer greenery rose over six feet high. In the cooling air there was no sound but the rustle of the grass and the leaves above. Baum pulled out his flashlight and shined it into the bushes and into the water as they walked along the shoreline. A family of ducks glided toward them, rippling the surface and almost taking her breath away with their beauty.