Without Mercy by Len Levinson, Leonard Jordan Page A

in an orphanage when she was little.”
    Rackman took out one of his cards. “Call me at this number if you remember anything that you think might be important, and tell Sally Ray I want to talk to her.”
    “Can I go home now?”
    “You’d better hang around for awhile.”
    “Can I call my babysitter?”
    “Sure.”
    As Barbara Leary walked away, Rackman looked over at a bunch of reporters and press photographers being escorted through the bar by a police official. One of the reporters was Dave Gurowitz of the Daily News, who knew Rackman.
    “Can I speak to you for a minute?” Gurowitz asked.
    “Not just yet, Dave.”
    “Can’t you tell me anything?”
    “I don’t know anything yet.”
    “Have you linked this murder with the one on West Forty-fifth Street the other night?”
    “No comment.”
    “I understand her throat was cut just the like the one the other night.”
    “No comment.”
    “Oh come on, Rackman.”
    “I said no comment.”
    The police official gently nudged Gurowitz toward the back room where the body was.
    Rackman looked to the front of the bar. Of course he’d linked this murder to the one last night. It was the same m.o. and the same description of the killer. He’d have to find out if there was a link between Rene LeDoux and Cynthia Doyle, or if the killer was slashing whores at random. An attractive young black woman walked toward him. “You wanted to talk to me?”
    “Are you Sally Ray?”
    “That’s right.”
    “Have a seat.”
    She sat down, crossed her legs, and leaned her arm over the back of the chair. She looked like one of those pretty black girls you see in magazine ads, and here she was working in a crummy whorehouse.
    “I understand you were sitting at the bar when the suspect came in,” Rackman said.
    “What do you mean suspect?” she asked, raising her eyes. “If he didn’t do it, who the fuck did?”
    “Just answer the questions, please. You were at the bar when he came in?”
    “That’s right.”
    “He sat next to you?”
    “That’s right.”
    “And Rene LeDoux was on the other side of him?”
    “That’s right.”
    “They had a conversation?”
    “That’s right.”
    “You heard what they spoke about?”
    “Some of it.”
    “What did they say?”
    “You know—the usual stuff.”
    “She propositioned him?”
    “Well . . .”
    “And then they went back to the room together?”
    “Not that fast they didn’t. They didn’t hit it off so good, so I started talking to him. I didn’t get anywhere either.”
    “Would you recognize him if you ever saw him again?”
    “Sure.”
    “Would you recognize his voice?”
    “I think so.”
    “You talked about the same thing Rene LeDoux talked with him about?”
    “Yes.”
    “Did he say anything to you that you think might help us find him?”
    “Well, he said his name was Harry, but I don’t know how much help that’ll be.”
    “Harry?”
    “Yes, Harry.”
    Rackman wrote the name down although it probably was false.
    “That’s all I can think of.”
    “Then what happened?”
    “He started talking to Rene again. Then they went back to the room together. After a little while the man came out alone. Al tried to stop him, but the man punched him and ran away. Mackie went back to the room and found that Rene was dead. We called the cops.”
    From the corner of his eye, Rackman saw Inspector Jenkins and two detectives from Midtown North entering the bar. Rackman gave his card to Sally Ray and asked her to call him if she remembered anything important. Then he got up and walked to Jenkins, who evidently had just gotten out of bed to come to the scene of the crime.
    “When’d you get here?” Jenkins asked in his raspy voice.
    “A few minutes after the first patrol cars.”
    “What’s the story?”
    “It’s the same m.o. as the murder of the hooker the other night. Same description of the suspect too.”
    “Who saw him?”
    Rackman waved his hand toward the tables where the hookers were