Gazzo was right. Stettin did not seem to tie in. So maybe it was still that Jo-Jo had just seen a mugger, not a killer. Or a killer and not a mugger. Take your choice.

‘How about some clues?’ I asked.

‘Clues?’ Gazzo looked sour. Clues don’t solve cases. ‘Sure, one on the Jones girl. A losing stub on a slow horse at Monmouth Park the day before. On the floor near the body. It was all that did not belong to Tani or her lover-daddy.’

‘Thanks,’ I said.

Monmouth Park is a popular track. I’d hate to be chased down a dark street by half the losers there in a single day. It’s like that with clues. Most of the time they don’t help, because most murders aren’t that logical or planned. Motive, opportunity, and witnesses, that’s what convicts.

‘What about the timetable?’ I asked.

Gazzo checked the file. ‘Woman died between five thirty and six thirty in the afternoon. Stettin was hit about six thirty.’

The time was just about as bad as it could be. Jo-Jo and Petey Vitanza had been at Schmidt’s until about six o’clock. Time is sometimes a good hammer to hit a killer with, but it’s not perfect. I mean, how many times do you really know exactly what time it is or what time you were at any particular spot a day or a week before? Give or take a half an hour is about the best most people can do without looking at their watch. And in this case a half hour made a world of difference. About six o’clock could mean five thirty and the opportunity to burglarize the apartment of Tani Jones.

Gazzo was watching me. ‘The Olsen kid play the horses, Dan?’