DOWN HERE

Andrew Vachss

Alfred A. Knopf

New York 2004

for . . .

Michael E. Kotler

who rules,

finally.

Down Here

Somebody down here, boss. Asking for you. Gatemans voice, prison-whispering to me up the intercom, all the way to the top floor of a decrepit flophouse.

This dump has been scheduled for a foundation-up rehab for years. In the meantime, the housing inspectors turn a money-blinded eye, and any derelict with a five-dollar bill can buy himself twenty-four hours off the streets.

But not on the top floor. That one is permanently closed. Unfit for Human Occupancy.

Thats where I live unregistered and invisible. The only name anyone ever had for me was last seen attached to a body part in the morgue, before the City did whatever it does with unclaimed remains.

Somebody was Gatemans way of saying that whoever was downstairs had come alone . . . and hed seen them before. If it had been a stranger, he would have reached under the raw wood plank that holds a register nobody ever signs. A concealed button would set off the flashers behind the dinner-plate-sized red plastic disks I have on the walls in every room of my place. Thats only one of its custom features. Another is a private exit.

Anytime someone comes looking for me, its Gatemans call. Even confined to his wheelchair, hes got options. Instead of the button, he could reach for the handgun he always keeps right next to his colostomy bag.

You get a name? I asked.

Pepper, right? I heard him say to the visitor.

Short girl, pretty, dark hair, kilowatt smile? I asked.

All but the last, boss, Gateman said. And shes got company.

Whats he?

Its a dog, boss. Big-ass Rottweiler.

Thats when I knew the wheels had come off.

Negotiating the narrow flights up to where I live is no job for anyone with an anxiety disorder. You have to make your way past crumbling walls covered with signs screaming DANGER! ASBESTOS REMOVAL IN PROGRESS, dangling exposed wires, and puddles of bio-filth on the unlit stairwells.

Its a nasty trip, but Pepper made it in record time. She quick-stepped across the threshold, dragged forward by a barrel-chested Rottweiler she was barely restraining on a short, heavy lead.

The beast recognized me at once, treated me to his Back the fuck up! growl as he thrust his way into the room.

Bruiser! Pepper said, sharply. Behave!

The beast gave her a Yeah, right! look, but allowed her to walk him over to the futon couch.

She sat down, gave me a searching look.

I didnt say anything, waiting like I always do. Usually, Pepper dresses like a sunburst, to match a personality that could cheer up an AIDS ward. But this time, it was a plain dark-blue business suit over a white blouse with a red string tie, and her famous smile was buried deeper than Jimmy Hoffa.

Wolfes been arrested, she said, no preamble.

What?

Last night. They picked her up at her house, in Queens. Shes supposed to be arraigned

Arrested for what?

Attempted murder, assault, criminal possession of

Slow down, I told her, breathing shallow through my nose to drop my heart rate. Start at the beginning.

Wolfe had been a career sex-crimes prosecutor, a veteran of

no-holds-barred combat with the bottom-dwellers in the crime chain rapists, child molesters, wife beaters. And, sometimes, with certain judges the ones she called collaborators to their faces. A few years ago, she had gotten fired for refusing to soft-hand a sensitive case.

Wolfe wouldnt cross the street and represent the same freaks she used to put away. So shed gone outlaw, and now she runs the best info-trafficking cell in the City.

I had wanted Wolfe for my own since the first time I saw her in battle. Id had I thought Id had a chance with her once. But I had done some things. . . .

You and me, its not going to be, she told me then. And I believed her.

All that changed was what I did, not how I felt. My love for Wolfe was a dead star. Lightless, invisible in the night sky. But always, always there.

Peppers big dark eyes told me she knew some of that. Enough to count on, anyway.

Thats the way it is down here. If you cant be counted on, you cant be counted in.

Heres all she could tell me on the phone, Pepper said. Some man was shot, more than once. Hes in a coma, and they dont expect him to live.

So what connects Wolfe?

He named her, Pepper interrupted. He told the police she was the one who shot him.

When was this supposed to have gone down?

I dont know. I dont know anything more about it, not even the mans name. All I know is theyre holding her at the precinct, and they expect to arraign her tonight.

Shes got an alibi, I said, holding Peppers eyes.

Shes got plenty of those, Pepper snapped back, telling me I was standing at the end of a long line. And those ahead of me would come across a lot better in court than a two-time felony loser who had been declared dead years ago. Thats not what she needs, right this minute. She needs to

You got a lawyer for her yet?

No. I thought you might

Did she tell you to come to me, Pepper?

As if to answer my stupid question, the Rottweiler made a gear-grinding noise deep in his chest.

No! All she said was to pick up Bruiser and make sure he was all right until they set bail.

And you can make?

I . . . guess so, Pepper said. But I dont know a bondsman, either, except for that crook we used the time Mick was

Never mind, I told her. Do you know where the arraignments going to be?

At 100 Centre. She said the . . . whatever the cops say happened, it happened in Manhattan, so . . .

Yeah. I glanced at my watch. Three thirty-seven. With the usual backlog from the Tombs and the tour bus from Rikers, they probably wouldnt get to Wolfe until the lobster shift, but I didnt want to chance it. Give me a minute, I told Pepper.

I went into one of the back rooms and pulled a cloned-code cell phone out of its charging unit. I punched in the private number I have for the only criminal lawyer in the City I trust.

What? Davidson answered.

You recognize my voice? I asked. I hadnt spoken to him in years. Not since NYPD found a severed skeletal hand in a Dumpster, right next to a pistol with my thumbprint on the stock.

I believe so. He spoke in the pompous voice he uses to distance himself from potential danger in conversations. Help me out a little bit.

Its not my ghost, I said. Ive done some jobs for you, and youve done some for me.

Do you have some, uh, distinguishing characteristic I might recognize?

Yeah. I always pay. And that cigar I just heard you light, its probably from the batch I brought you, a few years back.

Very good, he said, chuckling. You should have been a detective.

I need a lawyer. Not for me. For a friend. Being arraigned tonight. Can you handle it?

Can I . . . ? Ah, you mean, will I? Are we talking just for tonight, or . . . ?

To the end of the road, I said. First-round TKO, or a decision on points. Any way it plays.

Would I know this friend of yours?

Yeah. Her name is Wolfe.

Wolfe from City-Wide? Are you?

Im cancer-serious, I said. Im also short on facts. Its either an attempt murder or, by now, a homicide.

Wolfe? Are they floridly insane? he said. Unless youre talking a DV?

Domestic violence? Wolfe? Come on, pal. Sure, shes not the kind of woman whod take a beating from a boyfriend. But with that dog of hers, what kind of psycho would even try? No, the vic was a stranger. But he supposedly made a statement.

Named her?

What Im told.

Do they have forensics?

You know all I know.

And we both know she didnt make a statement.

Right. Can you get right over there? I dont know when theyre going to arraign her, and

Ill make some calls, see if I can find out, Davidson said. But dont worry; Ill be there when they bring her over. I should be able to speak to her in the pens before they

Listen. She doesnt know about this. Me hiring you, I mean. Just tell her Pepper set it up, I said, looking over at Pepper, catching her nod of agreement, okay?

Done. My fee will be

Paid, I said, cutting the connection.

Do you know if they tossed her place? I asked Pepper.

They didnt have a no-knock warrant, she said. When they pounded on the door, Bruiser went ballistic. She told them she had to lock the dog up before she could let them in that kept them out of there for a few more minutes.

How do you know?

Thats how I found out about it. She dialed the office, and left the connection open while she talked to the police. And when she finally let them in, she kept the phone going. I have the whole thing on tape, what they said to her, everything.

Did she sound?

She sounded strong, Pepper said. One of the cops, he didnt want to cuff her. Another one said it was procedure. Wolfe told him the cop who wanted to cuff her if they tried to perp-walk her shed make someone pay for it.

That was Wolfe. She drinks blood for breakfast, the Daily News once said of her, in an article about New York prosecutors.

The cops were scared of Bruiser; but he wasnt even barking, once she told him to stop. The one who wanted to cuff her said if Bruiser made a move he was going to blow him away. Wolfe told them if they wanted to arrest her she was ready to go. And if they didnt, she was leaving, so they better shut up about shooting her dog.

I heard the door close. Then I heard Bruiser making little noises, like he was . . . in mourning. But he stayed, right where she told him. So I ran over there and got him.

You did the right thing, Pepper. Theyll be back to vacuum her place. If you hadnt gotten him out of there, it would have been a bloodbath.

Yes. She called me later, from the lockup. Thats when she told me about the man who

But not his name, right?

No.

Okay, dont worry. Well get that tonight, at the arraignment.

Burke . . .

Go back to the office, Pepper. Put your crew on alert. Im sure Mick is

Mick is crazy from this, she said. Ive never seen him be so . . . I dont know what.

Keep him close, then. If Wolfe wanted you to get anything out of her place, she would have found a way to tell you, right?

Sure. We have a code for

Okay. Im going to be carrying a cell phone twenty-four/seven until we know whats going on. Write down the number. . . .

Pepper gave me a withering look. Held it until I lamely recited the number. She nodded her head sharply, letting me know she had it . . . and it wouldnt ever be on a piece of paper.

Dont show up at arraignment tonight, I told her. Mick, either. You two, youre her hole card now.

As soon as Pepper and the Rottweiler left, I started working the phones. First stop was Hauser, a reporter I went way back with. All the way back to my old pal Morelli, the dean of organized-crime reporting in New York. A hardcore reporter from the old school, he had been covering the Mob for so long they probably asked him for advice.

Morelli was off the set now. Hed finally hit it big. After years of threatening to do it, he wrote a book, and it blossomed out sweet. Hes been on the Holy Coast for a while now, tending the harvest.

But a pro like Morelli doesnt move on until hes trained new recruits. J. P. Hauser had been his choice.

I ask the kid, go over and see this guy, supposed to be an informant, staying in some rat-trap over in Times Square, Morelli had told me, years ago. This guy, his story is that hes got a bad ticker. So he wants to make his peace with God, give me all the inside dope on a muscle operation that Ciapietros crew is running out at the airport. So I tell J.P., get me everything, all right?

Morelli smiled, taking a sip of his drink. When we were coming up, he lived on Cutty Sark and Lucky Strikes. By then, he was down to red wine and off tobacco. Okay, so, a few hours later, I get this frantic call from the informant. Hes screaming blue murder. Said J.P. rips his place up worse than any parole officer ever did, takes the serial number from this guys clock radio, looks at the labels in his coat, checks his shoe size.

And then he whips out one of those little blood-pressure cuffs you know, the kind you slip over your finger? Wants to see if this guys really got a bad heart. You ever hear anything like that?

J.P., hes a fucking vacuum cleaner, you understand? Hes going to pull the dirt out until they pull his plug. I fucking love this kid.

Hauser wasnt a kid anymore. And he hasnt freelanced in years; hes got a regular gig with the National Law Journal now, mostly covering major tort litigation. I didnt have a direct line for him, but the switchboard put me through quick enough.

Hauser! he barked into the receiver.

Its me, I said.

He went quiet for a second. Then said, Not . . . ?

Yeah.

Id heard you were . . . back, I guess is the word. But I havent worked the streets for a long time, so there wasnt any way I could know for sure.

You dont need to be on the street for what I need now, I said. Can you make a couple of calls for me?

I . . . suppose. Depends on what you want me to

Nothing like that, I assured him. You know Wolfes been busted?

Wolfe? Get out of

Its righteous, I said. I wish it wasnt. All I want is to find out if the cops are planning to splash it. Shell be arraigned tonight. I need to know if theres going to be coverage.

Something like that, itll certainly make the

I dont care about TV, or even the radio. I just want to know if therere going to be reporters in the courtroom. Especially veterans.

Ones who might recognize you?

You wouldnt recognize me, I promised him. I just need to know whos going to be watching, you understand?

Theres a story in this, Hauser said, an apostle reciting the creed.

Thought you didnt do crime anymore, I said.

I spend all my time covering lawyers, he laughed. How far away do you think that takes me?

The story is, Wolfes being set up. I dont know anything else about it. Not yet, anyway.

But when you find out?

Its all yours, pal.

Call back in twenty minutes, Hauser said.

Everybodys on it, Hauser said when I called back. But the DA isnt making any statements . . . yet.

So therell be reporters on the set?

Guaranteed, he said. Come on by and say hello.

I took a quick shower, shaved extra-carefully, and put on a slouchy black Armani suit over a midnight-blue silk shirt, buttoned to the throat. I added a pair of natural alligator shoes, a two-carat solitaire ring set in white gold, and an all-black Rado watch. There wasnt enough time to get the right haircut, but a gel-and-mousse combination got me close enough to the look I wanted.

The emergency surgery that brought me back from what was supposed to be a coup de grâce bullet had changed my face forever. Once, I could have passed for a lawyer, with the right clothes and props. And I had done it, plenty of times. Now the best I could hope for was to be taken for a higher class of defendant.

I walked downstairs carefully, a Mini Mag lighting the way. Gateman was where he always is.

Thanks, partner, I said, palming a fifty in my handshake.

We expecting more company, boss?

Could be. But not the blue boys, I said, telling him what he needed to know. Gatemans on parole. New York City parole, which means all he has to do is call in every few months, so they know hes alive. But a visit from the cops would be a real problem for him. Gateman doesnt like surprises. And hes a shooter.

It was only a few blocks to my car. I keep it behind a ratty old two-pump gas station that scratches out a living from used tires, dented hubcaps, and tired batteries. They also sell some specialized parts for cab drivers . . . like recalibrated meters that tick off a mile for every four-fifths they run. Word is you can buy other things there too, but I never asked.

My 69 Plymouth Roadrunner sat outdoors in a chain-link enclosure, under a roof made of woven concertina wire, protected by a combination lock thick enough to sneer at two-handed bolt cutters.

The setup had been built for the owners prize pit bull, a vicious old warrior who had been retired to stud a few years ago. The owner kept a couple of bitches, too, so his champion wouldnt get bored and maybe chomp his way through the chain link. Id talked the owner into letting me park the Plymouth inside the cage. It cost me three bills a month, and a few weeks daily investment in getting the pits to accept me enough to let me inside whenever I showed up, but it was worth it. The back of the gas station was always in darkness or shadow, and the dogs made sure nobody got too close a look at the anonymous junker stashed back there.

One of the bitches strolled over to the fence as I walked up. She snarled softly, just warming up.

Its me, stupid, I said.

I didnt know any of their names. But they knew me, and they knew I never came empty-handed. The big rooster trotted over, chesty and confident, knowing he was going to get first dibs.

I took a slab of porterhouse out of the plastic bag Id been carrying and unwrapped it. Then I slipped it between the sections of metal tubing that framed the doors.

The pits went to work on their prize as I dialed the lock. I walked past them, leaving the doors open behind me. They never try to leave the fence is just to keep people out.

I unlocked the Plymouth and climbed inside. I pulled out the ashtray, toggling the off-on switch so that the ignition key would work. When I fired up the engine, it was like pulling a heavy layer of dusty burlap off a marble statue the torque-monster Mopar crackled into life, hungry for asphalt.

I let it warm up for a minute, checking the oil-pressure gauge, while I got the steak smell off my hands with a few scented towelettes I took from the glove compartment. Then I eased the Plymouth through the opening in the fence, jumped out, and relocked the gate. The two bitch pits sat on their haunches, watching. The old stud was already lying down, sleeping off his lions share of the booty Id brought.

I wheeled the Plymouth up Canal, then worked my way over to Mamas restaurant. I parked under the pristine white square with Max the Silents chop painted in its center. The calligraphy sensei who created it comes by and renews his masterpiece every so often, so it always looks new.

Even without all the security devices and the fact that it didnt look worth stealing, I wouldnt have been worried about anyone making a move on the Plymouth. In this part of the City, everybody knows Maxs sign.

A thug in a white kitchen apron let me in the back door. Id seen him plenty of times before, but I didnt know his name, and he didnt care about mine.

I walked over to the bank of pay phones along the wall that separates the kitchen from the restaurant seating area. Mama still keeps a Mason jar there, filled to the brim with quarters. More than enough for a half-hour call to Taiwan, but AT&T wont let you do that anymore they want everyone to use one of their pre-paid phone cards. Once a monopoly . . .

I picked out a coin, slotted it through, and punched in a 718 number.

Yes?

Its me, I said. Can you and your father please meet me at the spot?

My father is not here now, mahn. But he will call soon. Shall I come by my?

I need you both, I told him.

I understand, mahn. Do we need to bring?

Its not like that, I said. Not yet, anyway.

Sure, Clarence said, hanging up.

I was reaching for more quarters when Mama appeared. Her round, ageless face was impassive under her perfectly coiffed hair. Her ceramic-black eyes were expressionless.

Not visit? she said, making a gesture with her jeweled hand to show me she wasnt insulted that I hadnt greeted her formally when Id first come in.

The Prof and Clarence are on their way over, Mama, I said. I have to reach out for Michelle now.

So you want Max, yes?

Please, I told her.

She nodded her head a fraction short of bowing, then turned and walked past me, heading toward the basement.

If you dont know what to do, and when to do it, youve already left your message, the hard-honey voice on Michelles answering tape said.

Its me, I said, after the beep. Its . . . six-oh-five in the afternoon. Im going to be here in the church for a little while, but I cant stay long. I need to see you. If Im not here when you call, leave a way for me to get in touch with you, probably past midnight.

I reached for more coins . . . then stopped. I walked around the wall, through the beaded curtain, and into the restaurant.

My booth, the one against the back wall, was empty, as always. So was the rest of the place. Occasionally, some tourists would ignore the filthy, fly-specked front window and wander inside. If the service didnt send them packing, the food they were served would guarantee theyd never come back.

I sat down, glanced at my watch. Not like me to do that patience is the one card I always keep in my deck.

Mama came through the kitchen, carrying a heavy white tureen on a tray with three matching bowls, slightly larger than cups. She placed the tray on the table, uncovered the tureen, and ladled out a bowl for me. Hot-and-sour soup Mamas personal creation. I bowed my thanks, took a sip. Perfect, I said.

At that, Mama sat down across from me, and helped herself to a bowl.

Not work, right? she asked me. To Mama, work could mean anything, from stealing to scamming to smuggling. What all of us did, one way or another. Our family doesnt care about crap like genetics, but its got no room for citizens.

Not work, Mama, I said. Trouble.

Trouble for you?

Not for me. Not for any of us. Its Wolfe. She just got arrested.

Police girl? Mama said, raising a sculpted eyebrow.

Yeah. I dont have any real facts yet. Shes supposed to have shot some guy.

Not kill?

Not . . . yet, anyway. Hes in a coma; they dont know if hes going to make it.

So how talk?

Supposedly, he talked before he went out, Mama. And he named Wolfe as the shooter.

You say not work.

Not work, right. Nobody hired me. Theres no money in this.

You and police girl . . . ?

Its not that, either, Mama. Look, theres no money in this, I repeated. Probably end up costing money, okay? Only, Im doing it. And it doesnt matter why.

Not to me, matter, she said, shrugging to add emphasis to her lie. You have more soup, okay?

Ive got to split, I told Mama a short while later. Over to the courthouse. When Max

Max wait here for you?

No, I said. Then I told her what I wanted him to do.

Okay, sure, she said. Come when you . . . ?

When I light a cigarette. Now, listen, Mama. The Prof and Clarence will be here, too. Im not sure when. They dont have to actually stick around, just leave numbers with you where I can reach them later tonight, okay?

Sure okay. What you think?

Sorry, Mama. Im just . . . edgy. See you later.

Night Court never changes. Years ago, when I was trying to make a living as an off-the-books investigator, I sometimes worked the corridors. I was a hovering hawk, searching for marks to steer over to one of the lawyers I had a fee-splitting arrangement with.

First Id convince the wife or the mother or the girlfriend90 percent of the crowd was always women that the guy being arraigned would fare much better with a private lawyer than Legal Aid. Not a hard sell. Then Id find out how much cash they were carrying none of the lawyers I shilled for would touch a check and make the connection.

Whatever lawyer I was working with that night would stand up on the case, make a bail argument or a quick deal, then move on. None of that breed ever actually tried cases. Most of them didnt even have an office, just a business card and a mail drop.

Anytime you have a steady stream of people being arraigned, youll find lawyers like that . . . and men like me trolling for prospects. In the Bronx, some of the fishermen speak Spanish. I heard, over in Queens, theres one whos fluent in Korean, and Brooklyn even has a guy who does it in Russian. All working for two-bit grifters with law licenses.

Those arraignment only lawyers take some of the caseload off Legal Aids back. And the judges like them fine too, because they never make trouble. Even most of the people who hire them go home happy, convinced they did the right thing by their loved ones. Another piece of the system youll never see on Law and Order.

I moved through the crowd, looking for Davidson. Most of the people milling around had the dull, slightly anxious faces of cattle being herded down a chute, toward the sound of evenly spaced gunshots.

Davidson wasnt in the hall. I pushed open the doors and walked into the courtroom. It was about half full; people sat distanced from one another, like they do in porno theaters. I didnt recognize the judge on the bench, a dark-brown man with close-cropped gray hair.

I moved down the left side of the courtroom, looking for an aisle seat so I could scan without calling attention to myself.

A clot of gangbangers sat down front, eye-fucking everyone who looked their way. A young court officer, his short-sleeved white shirt tailored to show off impressive biceps, deliberately strolled by their area, playing his role.

A pair of whore lawyers were just over to my right. Those permanent-retainer lackeys spent every night pleading working girls to time served usually two, three days and paying their fines. They did volume business, representing the interests of a few pimps with good-sized stables of street girls. Higher-class hookers didnt often get pinched. And when they did, whoever was running them would put real legal talent into the game.

A Spanish woman who looked like shed just gotten off workhard work fingered a rosary. Waiting for them to bring her son out, I figured. A skinny, pasty-faced girl with barbell studs piercing her nose, eyebrow, and the top of one ear stared straight ahead, her face as bleak as her prospects.

A woman with a prominent black eye and swollen lip sat with her hands in her lap. Waiting to post bail for the guy who had beaten her up, my best guess.

A fat, sleekly dressed Chinese man was bracketed by two marble-eyed young guns, their leather fingertip jackets marking them as clearly as the tattoos under them.

A heavyset, weary-looking black woman held a sleeping baby on her lap.

A pair of guys in their thirties, dressed costly-casual, sprawled back in their seats, still glazed. I figured the one they were waiting for had been the driver.

I spotted a few press guys, sitting together. Way too many for a typical night arraignment. I was looking around for Hauser when Davidson came from the back, where the pens are, and headed for the door. I slipped out behind him.

Davidson moved through the crowd outside the courtroom with the assurance of an all-pro halfback in an open field. I thought he might be heading for the pay phones, but he passed them by and went out the door.

By the time I spotted him, he was leaning against one of the railings, firing up a cigar.

I walked over, moving deliberately slow.

Thanks for coming, I said.

He took a long, deep puff on his cigar, gave me a professional appraisers look, not trying to hide what he was doing.

Say a few more words, he said, finally.

Youve got two little girls. Born the exact same day, only three years apart. The big ones about twelve now. Natural leader, smarter than you ever imagined. Loves to read, an ace at archery. The little ones going to be a gymnast. Or a sky-diver she was still making up her mind the last time we talked. In your office. Where you have their pictures on your desk at an angle, so everyone who sits down has to see how beautiful they are.

Say more, he said, not changing expression.

A few years ago, a coalition of gay activists hired you to do some very specialized work. You brought me in to help with the investigative end of it, I told him, not mentioning a significant fee that the IRS never heard about.

The voice is the exact same, he said. But I never would have recognized you. Word is that you were

I wasnt. And Im showing you a lot of trust, saying that, right?

If anyones looking for you, you are.

Someones always looking for me, I said.

Fair enough, Davidson said, holding out his hand for me to shake. But Ive got a problem.

Which is . . . ?

You sound exactly like a . . . man I used to know. And somebody did call me about this case, or I wouldnt be here tonight. But when I mentioned your name to my client, back in the pens, my client expressed some, shall we say, concern about your involvement.

Meaning . . . ?

Meaning, she didnt tell anyone to bring you into this. So she wants an explanation. And some proof that youre . . . who you say you are.

The explanation is easy. Just repeat that Pepper came to see me. With Bruiser shell know what that means. Pepper didnt know what else to do, and Wolfe didnt give her anything to work with. I think she was going to just pro se it when they called her name tonight.

Thatd be like her, Davidson said, nodding. But after we talked, she agreed that having me do the talking is a better play.

Good.

Now, about that proof? What else can you?

Give me a minute, I said, reaching into my jacket. I extracted a single cigarette, said, Got a light?

By the time I took my second puff, Max the Silent was at my side. An old army jacket covered a gray sweatshirt; stain-blotched corduroy pants and an abandoned pair of once-white sneakers were topped off by a black watch cap. But even dressed in a vagrants costume, there was no mistaking the Mongol warrior. Not once he got close enough for you to see his hands.

Maxs eyes were as flat and hard as the slate bed of a tournament pool table. And as true. Even with all the assorted humans standing around outside the courthouse, his ki was a palpable force, creating a circle of empty air around the three of us.

Oh! was all Davidson said. Neither of us had seen him coming people dont call him Max the Silent because he cant speak.

Good enough? I asked Davidson, snapping my cigarette away.

Absolutely, he assured me. Let me get back inside. I want to talk to her before the fun starts. Ill meet you right back here, soon as I can, all right?

Thanks, I said. You need any?

Later, he said, walking off.

I gestured to Max that I had to go back inside. Shrugged my shoulders to say that I didnt have a clue what we were going to have to do when I came out. I knew Mama would have already told him why I was there.

I took my cell phone out of its shoulder holster, held it up for Max to see. Then I pulled out its mate a new one, never used. I held it against my chest, patted my heart.

Max nodded. When I needed him, Id call. The phone I gave him would throb soundlessly against his chest, the vibrations telling him it was time to move.

I tilted my head in a come with me gesture. We walked all the way around to the back of the courthouse. Theres never a place to park there, but its custom-made for lurking. I pointed to the spot I wanted, handed Max the keys to my Plymouth.

With Max, this was a high-risk move. He could tap an enemys carotid with surgical precision, but he drove like a man who reads the daily papers in Braille. Still, if I wanted a getaway car waiting for me when I called, Max was the only choice if the Prof and Clarence had already shown up at Mamas, they would have contacted me.

I touched the face of the watch, shrugged again.

Max put his hand on my shoulder for a split second, squeezed just enough to let me know hed be there, no matter when. Then he was gone.

As I entered the courtroom, I saw Davidsons broad pinstriped back, looming over a young guy seated at the DAs table. It didnt look like the conversation was going well.

Davidson stalked off, in the direction of the pens. I found the same seat Id had before, settled in.

The parade went on. Most of the cases were disposed of on the spot. Conditional discharges, ACDs Adjournments in Contemplation of Dismissal, a six-month behave yourself deal misdemeanor probations, time-served walk-offs . . . bargain-basement justice. They even worked out a few bullets Legal Aids term for a year on the Rock. Even one day more makes it felony time, and a trip Upstate.

Occasionally, some brief argument would break out, but you could see it was only the lawyer putting on a show for his client. Never affected the outcome.

Prostitution, lightweight drug possession, simple assault, trespass, violation of a restraining order, shoplifting, DUI, car-stripping anything that could be pleaded down to misdemeanor weight, it was all fair game. The felony cases that didnt plead out all ended in the Kabuki dance of bail arguments.

Davidson came out a little before midnight. Walked over and sat next to me.

Theyll be bringing her up soon, he said. They werent jerking her around on the paperwork. Just volume. If they held women in the Tombs, itd be faster to get them before the

It doesnt matter, I cut him off, not interested in criminal-justice reform.

I dont have everything Ill get out of the DAs office with my motions, Davidson said, but Wolfes still got plenty of friends on the job, and I made some calls, picked up a few things.

Such as?

The name John Anson Wychek mean anything to you?

No.

Thats the alleged vics name. That much I got from the court papers. What they dont mention is that Wychek was a serial rapist. That, I got from Wolfe. He worked the whole metro area for almost three years before they caught him. Suspect in at least a dozen, plus a couple of attempts, but they only bagged him for the one. Wolfe tried the case, over in Queens. Convicted on all counts rape, sodomy, abduction, use of a weapon enough to max him, easy. And thats what the judge did. Couple of years later, he appeals. He had an 18-B at trial, but for the appeal he had Greuchel.

Huh! Thats big bucks.

Right. But it wasnt a drug case, so Greuchel never got asked where his fee came from. Anyway, he raises all the usual: ineffective assistance, bad search even though they never actually used anything they took from the place where Wychek was livingcross contamination at the crime scene, yadayadayada. Just blowing smoke, getting paid by the page.

But then he throws in that the Queens cops used information they got from a Family Court case against the same defendant, out in Nassau County. Wychek had been charged with sexual abuse of his live-in girlfriends kid. It never went to trial. Wychek consented to a finding of neglect, agreed to move out of the house, have no contact with the victim, and that was it.

Whats that got to do with anything?

Supposedly, the CPS caseworker testified at some preliminary hearing. About a ski mask that the little girl said Wychek always put on when he was . . . molesting her. And the caseworker found the ski mask; it was still at the home of the live-in girlfriend.

But you said they never used

They didnt, Davidson said. The ski mask never came in, even though he wore one during the rape he was on trial for. Anyway, this wasnt a search issue. Wychek was already out of the little girls home by then, and it was her mother who gave permission. But Greuchel claimed the whole case hinged on information the cops got from the Family Court case, and those records arent public. Theyre confidential.

To protect the victim, not the

Maybe thats the intent of the law, Davidson said, but its not the application. You should know that.

Youre not telling me that he walked with that lame pitch?

He probably wouldnt have. Greuchel never even raised the issue in the Appellate Division they affirmed in a one-pager. But then, get this, Greuchel brings a federal habe, claiming that newly discovered evidence showed that the caseworker had told the cops about the Family Court proceedings, so the entire investigation was fatally tainted. Fruit of the poisonous

Yeah. So?

So the Queens DA comes into federal court and makes a confession of error. At that time, there was all this media publicity about innocent men going to prison you know, all that DNA-exoneration stuff and the DA made this big speech about how his job was to prosecute the guilty, not incarcerate the innocent.

Youre saying they just tanked it?

Im saying the DAs Office did not oppose the federal appeal, Davidson said, picking his words carefully. And Wychek walked out of Attica a free man. Happened only a few weeks ago.

Pretty scummy, all right. But where does Wolfe come in? All she did was prosecute him. And she doesnt work for the DAs Office anymore.

No. But she got a letter there. From Wychek. After he got out.

And . . . ?

I havent seen a copy, but it pretty much laughed at her. You stupid fucking cunt was one of his favorite phrases. He walked the line pretty good. Said someone should fuck her to death for how she prosecuted an innocent man, but he didnt say he was going to do it. And he danced around a lot, hinting that he had done a lot of women, and could do more. Nothing you could prosecute him on, but real scary stuff.

And the cops say Wolfe gunned him down for writing that letter? Hell, if she shot every freak who wrote her a letter like that, shed make Charles Manson look like a jaywalker.

The timing is bad, Davidson said. But, by itself, its nothing, youre right. Only thing is, whoever shot him didnt do a good enough job. The EMTs got him going, but then they lost him again, into a coma. Supposedly, before he lapsed out, he said it was Wolfe who shot him. Thats their case.

Im taking a guess, a man said, behind us.

Both Davidson and I turned around.

Hauser. Dressed in a blue chalk-striped suit, with a white shirt and a wine-colored tie. His beard was gone, but Id have known him anywhere.

Whats up? Davidson asked, reaching over to shake hands. He and Hauser went way back. Not close, but friendly.

I was supposed to meet someone here tonight, Hauser said. Figured I might find him where I found you.

You did, I told him. Come on over.

Hauser got up, walked around, and sat down next to me.

You got something? I asked him.

I

Theyre bringing her out! Davidson hard-whispered, getting to his feet.

A tall, lanky court officer walked Wolfe over to the counsel table like he was escorting a prom date. Her long dark hair glistened as if shed just stepped out of a salon, trademark white wings flowing back from her high forehead. She was wearing a white silk sheath, adorned only with a single black spiral stripe, weaving around her body like a protective snake.

Wolfe always wore black-and-white outfits when she summed up before a jury. Combat clothes, hammering home her message: No shades of gray here, people. Bruisers performance must have bought her enough time to change.

Christ, look at her! Hauser said admiringly. Its like its her courtroom.

The ADA who had been at the counsel table all night was suddenly replaced by a much older man, all spiffed out. They read out the charges: attempted murder, assault one, and a bunch of other tacked-on crap nobody paid any attention to.

Thats Russ Lansing, Hauser whispered to me. Been with the DAs Office a hundred years. Hes no trial man, but he wont make any mistakes with the press, I promise you that.

You know the judge? I asked him.

As a matter of fact, I do, Hauser said. But only because I covered a trial he presided over. Leonard Hutto.

You covered a case in criminal court?

Brooklyn Supreme, Hauser said. A celebrity divorce. Huttos a cut above the usual politico that ends up with a bench seat as a reward for loyalty. A good law man. Probably just here tonight on rotation.

Ill hear from the People on bail, the judge said.

Given the extraordinary circumstances of this case, the People ask for the defendant to be remanded, Your Honor, the spiffy man intoned.

Whats extraordinary is that Ms. Wolfe has even been arrested, Davidson bellowed. These charges are absurd on their face. In addition, Ms. Wolfe has significant roots in the community. She is a homeowner, a taxpayer, a woman with a long record of public service and no criminal history of any kind. Remand, judge? This nonsense should be RORed.

What is the basis of the Peoples application? the judge asked, the soul of judicialness, playing to the press.

The victim was shot three times! the spiffy old ADA said. Clearly, the intent was to kill him. But the basis of our application for remand is that this may well become a homicide, even as we stand here before this court. The victim lapsed into a coma, from which he may not recover. And if he does not, the charge will be murder in the second degree, for which remand is mandatory.

Thats a speech, Davidson said. Not evidence.

The evidence . . . the ADA said, pausing for effect, is that, just before the victim lost consciousness, he specifically identified the defendant as the shooter.

How do we know that? Davidson demanded. The People dont have the victims statement, Your Honor. Theyve got some cops statement, saying what the victim allegedly said. And even if such a statement was actually made, he went on, his voice so heavy with sarcasm that it would have taken a team of Clydesdales to pull it, its garbage on its face.

The ADA jumped from his seat. A dying declaration

 has to be made by someone whos dead, Davidson finished for him. I havent been given a scrap of discovery, judge. I thought the DAs Office had this new policy. You know, the one they did all the press releases about? They were going to front-end everything, try and get all the pleas pre-indictment. I guess they dont bother when they know they dont have a case.

Your Honor!

Yes, Mr. Lansing? It seems counsel for the defendant has a point, dont you agree? Has it not been the policy of your office to offer at least basic discovery at arraignments, for the purpose of expediting the process?

It . . . it has, Your Honor. But because things happened so quickly in this matter

Davidson fired back, So quick you dont know where or when the so-called victim was shot? Judge, he said, spreading his arms wide, as if to encompass the entire courthouse, if we even knew when this supposed assault took place, we could probably walk out of here tonight, and the police could go back to looking for the actual assailant. For example, if the assault took place this past Thursday, Ms. Wolfe was delivering the keynote address at the national VAWA Conference in Washington, D.C.

Whats this VAWA? the ADA said.

Fucking moron, Hauser muttered under his breath.

That would be the Violence Against Women Act, counselor, Davidson sneered at him. You know, the federal legislation? He turned back to the bench. But that isnt the point, Your Honor. What we are saying is that Ms. Wolfe may well have the kind of alibi that would convince even this office to concentrate its efforts elsewhere, but the DAs deliberate withholding of basic discovery while simultaneously asking for a remand is a joke. A dirty joke.

Mr. Lansing? the judge said, in a voice that told you he was raising his eyebrows as he spoke.

We . . . we dont know the exact time of the shooting, Your Honor. The victim was . . . discovered by a visitor, lying in a comatose state.

So thats why you didnt put my client in a lineup, huh? Davidson half shouted. Because there isnt one single eyewitness to any of this. Youre asking to lock up my client with no bail, and youve got nothing.

Judge, Lansing squawked, I dont have to

How about forensics? Davidson boomed, on full boil now. Got any of that? You got a weapon? Fingerprints? Fibers? Blood spatter? What? Come on! If youve got it, bring it! Give this court one lousy piece of evidence besides what some scumbag supposedly said to some unnamed cop, Ill drop my bail application right now, hows that?

Oh, this is perfect, Hauser said, scribbling and chuckling at the same time. Lansings trying to do push-ups in quicksand, and Davidson keeps stepping on his head.

Your Honor! I must protest. Counsels description of a gunshot victim as a scumbag is well beyond the bounds of

Tell this court that this victim of yours isnt a convicted rapist, and Ill apologize, Davidson said. You think just because you conveniently forget to mention it we couldnt find out on our own?

Good one! Hauser said, absently, intent on his writing.

Hes a serial rapist, judge, Davidson said, passionately. With victims scattered all over the city. If youre looking for someone with a good motive to shoot Wychek, you dont have to look past

Wolfe stood up quickly, tugged sharply at Davidsons sleeve, shutting off the lava flow. She pulled at his lapel, whispered something in his ear.

Judge, the DA said, theres the statement. . . .

What damn statement? Davidson shot back. Theres nothing in writing. All the People have is a word he spoke. Supposedly spoke. One word. Wolf. That could mean anything, Your Honor. Wolf can be a first name, too. Theres probably a couple of thousand of them in the Manhattan phone book alone. And its a common street name, too.

Thats ridic the DA said.

Ill tell you whats ridiculous, Davidson stepped in. Charging a citizen on crap thats not even going to get past the Grand Jury. For all we know, the victim was saying he sold one too many wolf tickets, and someone popped him for it.

Your Honor! the DA protested.

Davidson rolled on, undeterred, spreading his arms wide in a look how reasonable Im being gesture. Judge, the purpose of bail is to ensure the defendants presence at trial. The People arent even going to pretend they believe my client is going to flee the jurisdiction. The so-called victim could be in a coma for months, for all we know. When he recovers, or when the DAs Office finally kicks loose enough information for us to prove Ms. Wolfe couldnt possibly have done this, who is going to compensate my client for all that time out of her life then?

Do you have an updated medical report? the judge asked the DA.

As of . . . Lansing replied, glancing at his watch, two hours ago, the victims condition was unchanged.

The judge eye-swept the front rows, picking out the press like a pigeon pecking edible morsels off an alley floor. In view of all the competing considerations placed before this court, bail is set . . . He paused for effect. . . . in the amount of five hundred thousand dollars.

Judge . . . Davidson began.

Thats all, counsel, the judge said, banging his gavel lightly.

Very cute, Hauser said, in disgust. He knows any remand would get overturned by the Appellate Division, but he doesnt want anyone saying he gave special consideration to a former prosecutor. So he sets bail, but makes it a monster. How is Wolfe going to raise?

Your Honor, Wolfe said, on her feet, may I be heard?

Is the defendant discharging her counsel and going pro se? Lansing asked snidely, playing to the gallery.

Ms. Wolfe is my co-counsel, judge, Davidson shot back. As such, she is

I will hear you, Ms. Wolfe, Hutto said. Briefly.

Thank you, Your Honor, Wolfe said, her courtroom-honed voice knifing through the buzz and hum from the back benches. I understand youve already made your ruling concerning bail. And though I anticipate, with all respect, that your decision will not withstand appeal, my purpose in addressing this court concerns my conditions of confinement while awaiting release.

Do you wish to be held in protective custody? Hutto asked.

No, judge. That doesnt concern me. I have every confidence that the Department of Corrections will see to my safety.

Wolfe deliberately turned sideways, making it clear she wasnt speaking only to the judge. What I wish to place on the record is that I am not going to discuss this so-called case with anyone other than my own attorney. I am not going to be having any private conversations with inmates, correctional officers, or anyone else while I am confined.

Wolfe shifted her body some more, virtually turning her back on the judge. So, if the DAs Office trots out some jailhouse snitch who claims I confessed to them, everyone will know that such a statement is pure perjury.

Christ, shes beautiful! Hauser whispered to me.

Judge, that is an outrage, Lansing yelled. The defendant has just accused our office of

 trying to rescue your garbage cases with testimony from jailhouse informants? Wolfe sneered at him. Youve got that right.

Ms. Wolfe, the judge said, mildly, you have placed your statement on the record. And now, if there are no further

The People demand an apology! Lansing shouted.

You going to give me one, when the truth comes out? Wolfe shouted back.

You mean, when they let it out! Davidson out-volumed her.

Take the defendant, the judge told the court officer.

Talk to you later, I told Hauser, pulling out my cell phone and hitting the speed-dial number.

My Plymouth was waiting out back. When I saw Clarence behind the wheel, I knew Mama had passed the word.

I climbed in next to him. The Prof and Max were in the backseat.

Did she get to go, bro? the Prof asked me.

No, I said, shaking my head so Max would pick up on it, too. They set her bail at a half-million. For Max, I held up both hands, fingers spread, to indicate ten. Then I pointed toward the sky, for power, and held up one hand plus one thumb. Ten to the sixth means a million to anyone raised on street-shorthand. I sliced my hand down, signifying half. Max nodded.

Mamas holding enough of mine for the points, I told them. But I dont know how long it would take for her to put her hands on the green. And well still need a bondsman wholl write the paper for a number that high.

Big Nate? the Prof said.

Hes the only one I know I could lean on that hard, I agreed.

You who? the Prof said. Big Nate wont get on the case if he dont know your face, Schoolboy. Burke be dead, remember?

Thats what they say about Wesley, too, Prof, I said, very soft. What some say?

You going to be the ghost with the most, huh? All right, son. Lets ride.

That night, Wesley was riding with us. He had once been the most feared assassin in the city. An artist of death. His reputation went all the way back, and not a word of it was a lie. Wesley was the ultimate contract man. The only way he ever interacted with the human race was to remove some of it.

Wesley didnt make statements. He just made people dead. And he only did it for money. Nobody ever saw him; nobody ever wanted to. Everything was done over phones and dead-drops.

Id known Wesley since we were little kids. Both State-raised, without parents we ever knew. Back then, I was always scared. I was incubated in terror, and it took only a glance, a gesture, or even a smell to open the floodgates inside me.

But nothing scared Wesley. Fear is a feeling. Im not a man, he told me once. Im a bomb.

When I was a young man, he was everything I ever wanted to be. Ice-cold, remorseless, never-miss efficient. You could kill Wesley at least, thats what some people thought but you could never hurt him.

I finally found my family. The one I chose; the one that chose me. Wesley never looked for kin. Only for targets. No friends, no family, no home. And, finally, no reason to be here anymore.

The end kicked off when a Mafia don named Torenelli didnt pay Wesley for some work. Bodies started dropping all over the city, all family men. Torenelli went into hiding. Wesley kept killing, sending the message. When that didnt make the Mob give him up, Wesley decapitated Torenellis daughter, right in her own upscale co-op. Telling them he didnt play by their Hollywood code. Rules and roles didnt matter to a man who believed the difference between a priest and a pimp wasnt what they sold, only what they charged.

Then Torenelli played his last card. An old viper named Julio Id known since prison. Years before, Julio had hired me to do something about a freak who was sex-stalking his niece. That was a straightforward job, and I got it done easy enough. Julio said he had hired me, instead of using one of his own men, because he was Old School you never mixed private business with family business. It had sounded right when he said it.

But when Julio hired me to meet Wesley, offer him whatever money the assassin wanted to call off the hit on Torenelli, I knew I was being middled. Just carrying the offer would be enough to convince Wesley I had gone over.

It didnt happen like that. Julio thought Wesley and I were stalking each other, but what we were doing was making a trade.

After a while, they all got dead.

That should have ended it. But by then, Wesleys hell-bound train had finally jumped the tracks. A decade before Columbine became an American nightmare, Wesley walked into a suburban high school with enough ordnance to take out every living creature in the place. After lobbing some grenades, then gunning down dozens of random victims, he released a deadly gas from the truck he had driven to the scene.

While the cops thought they were still negotiating with the maniac they had trapped inside, Wesley climbed to the roof of the high school. Before the police helicopters could even get off a shot, he held a bunch of dynamite sticks taped together over his head, like a psycho version of the Statue of Liberty, and blew himself into atoms.

We watched him go. Live on TV. It was on every channel, just like when they cover a war.

The package arrived a couple of weeks later: a nine-by-twelve flat envelope, thick with paper. His dark thumbprint was at the bottom of the last page.

That part of the package found its way to the cops. My inheritance from Wesley, a Get Out of Jail Free card, taking the weight for some of the things Id done.

But there was another part to it, one the cops had never seen. A pocket-sized notebook, filled with Wesleys precise printing. His accounts book.

Our kind dont make out wills. But we do leave legacies.

We went over the plan as Clarence drove. At that hour, even the FDR wasnt crowded; we were over the Willis Avenue Bridge and into the South Bronx badlands in minutes. The Plymouth blended right in.

My cell phone buzzed.

What? I answered.

You tell me, sweetheart. Michelle.

Honey, have we got anybody out on the Rock, in the Womens House?

I can find out. Whats up?

Wolfes been arrested. Just got arraigned. Judge put a half-million bail on her. She may be there for a while. I dont want anything to

Wolfe? Theyll probably build a throne for her, as many wife beaters as shes put away.

Still . . .

Im on it, baby.

Michelle rang off just as we found what we were looking for. Big Nates place was a freestanding cinder-block building with cross-barred windows it looked like a small-town jailhouse sitting on a prairie. A faint dirty-yellow glow came through the glass. Red neon promised bail bonds in several languages.

We gave it one slow circuit before Clarence docked the Plymouth, backing it into getaway position.

Everybody set? I asked.

You going heeled, mahn? Clarence asked, patting his chest to the left of his heart, where his nine-millimeter always rested.

No, I said. Well do it the way I laid it out. I had a never-registered .357 Mag in a hidden compartment next to the Plymouths fuel cell, but I didnt want to chance a pat-down at the door.

The Prof held up a small bundle, wrapped in an old army blanket. He didnt have to say any more. When I first met him, he was on his last prison stretch, and part of his rep was as a master of the twelve-gauge sawed-off.

All right, I said. One more time. Me and Max go in. Im the front man for a sweatshop that just got raided. Im looking for someone to write a lot of little bonds get the workers out and gone before they say something stupid and put INS on alert. Max is with me, covering the tongs end of the deal . . . if they even ask.

If we come piling out the door, you know what to do. Keep it high, Prof. Soon as they hear your scattergun, theyll probably get back inside. And, around here, nobodys calling 911.

You drop the name, you gotta carry the game, son, the Prof warned. He unwrapped the sawed-off and laid it on the seat next to him.

I rang the bell. Waited for whoever was running the security camera to buzz us in.

The place hadnt changed. A pair of low-grade industrial desks, a wall of khaki file cabinets. A splattering of hand-lettered signs, all warnings of one kind or another.

There was a man at each desk. One was in a cheap brown suit jacket, sitting behind some kind of ledger. The other was in a black nylon windbreaker, feet on the desk, a copy of Soldier of Fortune open in front of him. I figured the suit for the money man, the windbreaker for a bounty hunter.

The bounty hunter looked barroom-tough. The money man looked weasel-dangerous.

Max moved so he was standing against the left-hand wall. I walked over to the money man.

I want to see Nate, I told him.

Theres no Nate here, friend, he said. You want a bond, you came to the right place. Otherwise . . .

Hes here, I said, letting my eyes drift over to the door against the back wall. The one that said Men on it, with a Closed for Repairs sign plastered across its face. He doesnt let anyone else drive his Rolls, letting him know Id seen the immaculate old Silver Cloud sitting out back.

Give me a name, the money man said, not blinking.

Nate wouldnt like that, I said. And he wouldnt like you looking at me that close, I said, turning to face the bounty hunter.

The bounty hunter gave it about a seconds thought, then he dropped his eyes.

Just tell him someones out here asking for him, I said, keeping my voice a monotone. Dont be thinking crazy, because Im not. Everyone knows you dont keep cash around here.

I cant do that, the money man said.

I stepped close to the money mans desk. Then tell him this, I said, very softly. Tell him, if I wanted to do him, I wouldnt let people see me, like Im letting you, right now. Id just turn this place into a barbecue pit, and pick him off when it got too hot for him inside.

The money man looked everyplace but my eyes.

Dont worry, I said. You tell Nate what I said, it wont make him nervous: itll calm him down. Hell know who I am then. Were old pals. Tell the tough guy over there to go ahead and pull his piece, keep me covered, if itll make you feel better, okay?

The money man slitted his eyes. I counted to six in my head. Step back, he said. Just a few feet, all right? I need some privacy. This is a long-distance call.

I did what he wanted. He picked up the receiver, covered the mouthpiece with his hand. I looked over at the bounty hunter. He was a real professional: too busy playing stare-down with me to notice Max closing the gap between them.

Go on back, the money man said.

I turned to Max, barked something in quasi-Chinese. Even after all those years at Mamas, I didnt understand one word of the Cantonese and Mandarin she spoke interchangeably, but I could imitate the sounds enough to fool anyone who didnt speak either one. It helped that Max nodded, like he was acknowledging what I said.

I told him to wait out here for me, I said to the money man. He doesnt speak English.

The money man didnt say anything. Max slid along the wall, just a few inches, to improve his angle of attack if the bounty hunter decided to role-play.

I walked over to the mens room, tapped lightly. Heard a seriously solid deadbolt snap open. Turned the knob, and walked inside.

Big Nate was behind a flimsy little wood desk . . . and a transparent wall of Lexan thick enough to bounce a bullet, even at that close range.

Come closer, he said, speaking into a microphone he held in one tiny hand. Talk into the speaker.

I moved forward slowly, sat down on a chrome barstool with a cracked red leather top. That brought my mouth level with the speaking grid.

Nate was looking down at me. Behind his desk was a raised platform. It compensated for his four-and-a-half-foot height, the same way the specially built-up pedals on his Rolls let him drive.

I need a bond, I said. A big one.

Never mind that, he said, his frail voice amplified into resonant strength by the microphone he was holding. You said something outside, to my man. Can you back it up?

Lucien Lagrande, I said, pulling the name from my ghost brothers accounts book. You want more?

The silence between us was thicker than the Lexan. But, from the moment Id said that name, Big Nate knew he was done. Wesley had started his walk.

Youre not saying youre . . . ?

Im his brother, I said. The blood-truth.

Even as I said those words, I remembered the home theyd sent me to when I was an orphaned kid. What they did to me there. And what Wesley had whispered to me one night when we were together in the institution: Theyre easier when theyre sleeping, the baby monster told me. Fire works.

It was all down in Wesleys accounts book. Big Nate had been a visionary. Between the Jakes running ganja, the DRs moving powder, bikers cranking crystal, college kids selling Q, and everyone else slinging rock, money was stacking all over the city. The Italians had a hundred different laundries, but even if they had been willing to take in outsiders, nobody trusted a family that didnt trust its own relatives.

That had become Nates real business, setting up custom-tailored laundries. Had them everywhere, and kept all the records in his head. His stock in trade was honesty. You gave Nate a hundred K cash, you got back whatever percentage he promised . . . and a string of receipts that would give a CPA an orgasm.

One night, a man named Lucien Lagrande came to visit Big Nate. Lagrande told him he knew the bail bonds werent the little mans real business.

You sitting on gold with this bail-bond front, Lagrande had told him. But that all finished now. You being . . . encompassed.

Big Nate had laughed at him. Which Lagrande expected. Then he dropped the hammer. Big Nate had a piece of a Vegas casino. A little piece, but in his own name. If that came to light, Big Nate would lose both licenses its illegal for a bondsman to have a piece of a casino, in either direction.

Big Nate felt his heart stop. Actually fucking stop, is what he told people, later.

You got a week, Lagrande told him. Then you turn it over, or I turn you over. That simple, my man. Dont worry, now. You get a taste. You keep on getting a taste. Once you encompassed, you part of my operation. A partner, even.

You dont play, you lose it all. Everyone scramble for pieces. I get some, but not all, I know that. This way, you go with me, I get the pie, sure, but you get to keep a nice fat slice.

Lagrande lived in a three-story frame house in Brooklyn. It stood alone on a large vacant lot, the last in a row of condemned-then-razed derelict buildings. Word was, the whole thing was slated to become what the Mayor called an oasis of greenery.

The place was a fortress, surrounded by iron fencing, patrolled by dogs, lit by klieg lights at night, and occupied by no less than a dozen of Lagrandes heavily armed crew. Nobody could get within a hundred yards without being spotted.

It was broad daylight when the house exploded into flames. Lagrande didnt even make it to the fence before a sniper picked him off.

The police later figured that the shots must have come from a certain rooftop, more than a quarter-mile from the scene. Seven shots. Three into Lagrande, the other four into the men who had run out the front door with him.

We know this much, the press conference cop told his audience. The recovered slugs were all fired from the same weapon. Its as if whoever was shooting put one into each of them to bring them down, then scanned the field to make sure which one was Lagrande, before he finished him off with those head shots. As impossible as that sounds . . . he finished, lamely.

That was a lot of years ago. But crime time runs different than citizen time. For permanent outsiders like us, time only matters when youre doing it.

Im not a blackmailer, I said to Big Nate. And I didnt come here to make threats. That name I said, it was just to prove in, okay? So you know where Ive been, and what I know.

And what I can do, I said in my mind, vibrating the unspoken words out to him.

The little man looked at the ceiling, as if he was considering a proposal. Then he picked up the microphone and whispered what everyone is too terrified to ask out loud. Is Wesl? Is he really . . . ?

Nobody knows, I told him. A face-down hole card. The whisper-stream had it that Wesley was a falcon on my glove. Nobody knew for sure, and nobody liked the odds.

I watched his eyes. Stayed gentle inside myself, showing him respect by acting like I believed he was actually considering calling my bet.

How big a number I need to write? he finally said, tossing in his hand.

Thats a huge-ass bond, the Prof said on the drive back. Sure hope that fucking dwarf dont think he too big to drop the vig. The Prof was a couple of inches taller than Big Nate, on a good day.

I ran it all down for him, I said. He knows Wolfes not going to jump. And shes got a nice house, out in Forest Hills Gardens; cover him for more than the nut, it came to that.

So we dont have to put up the fifty large?

Not a dime.

Honeyboy, listen to me for a minute. You wearing a murder face now. Not like you mad, like you . . . the way Wesley looked all the time. Got those straight-line lips and glass-cutter eyes, you hear what Im saying?

I dont care

Right. Know you dont. Know you wont. Only thing is, you know how people get when you scare them deep enough. Theyll tell you anything you want to hear.

Meaning, you dont think Nates actually going to write the bond?

Hes either going to write it, or hes going to run, son. Get down, go to ground, not be around. Not until this ones all done.

If he

Yo! Ice up, youngblood! Whats wrong with you? The little midget pulls a burn, he gets to learn. But thats down the line, another time. What were here for is to get your girl the door. Say Im on time with all that rhyme.

Youre right, Prof, I assured him.

I didnt want to take a chance on calling Davidson at his home. I had the number, but it was almost five in the morning by then, and I didnt want to spook his kids that kind of move could cost me some ground. Figured he wouldnt have his cell turned on, either, so I called his office number and spoke into the tape.

Go spring her; its covered. Surety is Korlok Bonding Company, in the Bronx. I gave him the rest of the particulars, including the phone number and who to ask for.

Whats next, mahn? Clarence asked as I got back into the Plymouth.

We have to wait a few hours, I told him, signing the same message to Max. Make sure Wolfe gets bailed, first. I have to find out some stuff. Figure, another twenty-four hours, we know exactly what we have to do. Ill leave word at

Max tapped my chest. Shook his head no at me. Made the sign of a man eating with chopsticks.

All right, I told them all. Mamas at five this afternoon. Tell Michelle, too, okay?

She came back, boss, Gateman greeted me as I walked in the door of the flophouse.

How long ago?

Around midnight. Had the Rottweiler with her again, too. Plus a guy. Hes been up before, last year. I remember him. Big guy. Looks like a farm boy, but hes no Hoosier, I could tell.

Mick, I thought. Good. If he was with Pepper, he wasnt prowling the city, looking for someone to hurt.

What did you tell them?

Boss, I told them you wasnt in. The girl, she gave me two choices. I mean, she didnt say the choices, but thats what they was. I could either let them go on up and wait for you, or I could shoot them all.

I nodded my head, telling Gateman hed done the right thing. Which one would you have gone for first? I asked him.

Got to be the Rottie, Gateman said, professionally. I could have cleared leather before any of them could move. That usually stuns them for a second, gives you some options. And they werent standing that close. But that only works with people, not dogs. And that fucking Rottie was ready, if you get my drift.

Bruiser was ready. I heard his warning snarl as I came up the last flight of stairs.

Its me, I said.

The beast didnt recognize my voice. Or, more likely, he did. I heard Pepper say, Bruiser, down!

She was sitting on the futon, Bruiser at her feet. Mick was standing off to one side, so he could see if there was anyone coming up behind me.

We didnt want to risk a cell call, Pepper said. And we only have

I already got the bail secured, I cut her off. Shell be out later on today.

Thats great! Pepper said, clapping her hands. The Rottweiler jumped to his feet. No! she said, jerking the dogs short lead. Its all right, Bruiser.

Youre sure? Mick asked me, his voice thick with threat.

Im not walking in there with a half-mil in cash, I said. Itll be a bondsman. I went to see him myself. Just got back. And I dont think theres much doubt.

Mick made a noise in his throat. Bruiser looked up at him like a kindred spirit.

Listen, listen! Pepper said, excitedly. This is what I couldnt say on the phone. Theres a detective, Sands. He was working Special Victims when Wolfe was head of City-Wide. Do you know him?

Never heard his name, I said, truthfully.

He called us. At the office number. He wants someone to meet him. At seven in the morning. This morning. A bar called the Four-Leaf. Do you know it?

If he means the one around here, I know where it is, I said. And I did. If you went westbound on Chambers Street, past the little park and all the way across the West Side Highway, you could find it, tucked into a corner, right near the river. But Ive never been there.

He says he has some things for us. Things that could help Wolfe.

Probably working for the DA. Hoping youd be dumb enough to have a landline in the office, so they could find out where to serve the search warrant, I said. Wolfes operation didnt have a street address. She met with her clients the same way I did anyplace else. Or maybe he just wants to pump you. The cops have to know that Wolfe has a network, and that youre with her.

No, no, Pepper said. Hes not with them. Hes for Wolfe. For real.

And you would know that exactly . . . how?

Because . . . All right, I dont know it. Not for sure.

You ask Wolfe?

How could I? I havent talked to her since . . . since this happened.

So?

So thats why Im . . . why were here. Why we waited. Detective Sands said he wanted to meet

You told me that.

Heres what I didnt tell you, she said, lips tight with self-control. He didnt ask for me. What he said was, Send anyone you want. Ask whatever questions you want. Or dont say a word Ill do all the talking. You understand? I could be wired like a radio station, it wouldnt do the other side any good. Now what does that sound like to you?

Like hes for Wolfe. Or hes smarter than the average cop.

Or both, right? Pepper said, eagerly.

We have to go, Mick cut through it, his voice no-dispute hard. If hes got anything that could

Peppers right, I said to him, getting it for the first time. If hes working for the other side, even getting a look at you or Pepper would be another round in their cylinder. Especially if youre going to be her alibi, down the road. But my face wont mean anything. . . .

Youll go, right? Pepper asked, big dark eyes pressuring and pleading at the same time.

Seven? You mean, in less than two hours, then?

Yes. Thats why we waited here. Its pretty close by. If you hadnt shown up, we would have had to

Ill do it, I said. But I dont know when Davidsons going to call and

They were already on their way out, the Rottweiler leading the way.

Less than two hours before the meet. A half-hour walk from my place, max.

I dont drink coffee. And stims scare me, the way they throw off my pulse rate.

So I took a long hot shower, followed by a fifteen-second blast of only-cold spray. A quick, careful shave. A glass of grape juice and some rye toast, to settle my stomach. I threw down the motley assortment of vitamins and minerals and Devil-knows-what-else I swallow every morning, a habit Id gotten into when I was holed up in the Pacific Northwest, after the ambush that was supposed to have totaled me. I wasnt running from the shooters; I was staying down to make sure there werent any of them left. Besides the ones Id already found.

I let the whisper-stream declare me dead and gone, and just . . . waited.

I was home only a short time before I got involved in a case. A case for real, like I used to have when I first was trying to make it as something other than what I am a criminal in my heart. Wolfe helped me on that one. Oh, she got paid. Said that was why she did it, for the money.

But I never believed her, not completely. That case was a lot of things for me, but, for me and Wolfe, I thought it was a test. The prize I was playing for wasnt as big as a promise, just something to let me know I could get back in the game.

And I brought it home. Got it done. Found out who had killed the teenage daughter who was a gangsters darkest secret. I did it all the right way. Investigated, interrogated, interviewed. Came up with a plan. Put together a team. And spooked the truth out of the shadows.

Along the way, some people got dead.

They didnt die for justice, and they didnt die for money. Im no vigilante, and Im not a hit man although the whisper-stream has made me out to be both over the years.

Wolfe knew about some of it. Figured it out for herself. But I never got the chance to tell her the ending.

An hour later, I was walking down Hudson toward Chambers. Dressed in a worn leather jacket over a dark-blue hooded sweatshirt, jeans, scuffed ankle-high boots on my feet, a pair of canvas gloves in my back pocket. A man going to work.

I couldnt do anything about my face. Once, I was so generic-looking that I could get past almost anyone who wasnt raised where I was. But now I had two different-color eyes, which no longer tracked exactly parallel. One bullet had made a keloid beauty mark on my right cheek; another had neatly sliced off the top of the opposite ear. Now I had a face people would remember.

Worse, they could see me coming.

Burke had never had a tattoo. Most guys who start to jail early end up covered with ink by the time theyre on their second or third bit, but that depends on who schools you gang kids or pros.

With kids, its all about owning something. Something they cant take away, even when they beat you for the fun of it, and toss you in a tiny dark room with only the stink of sorrow for company. Some kids know who they are from birth only the faces change.

Theres other reasons to ink up. Jailhouse tattoos arent painless. And a tattooed tear for each time youve been down marks you as a veteran.

When youre done with the juvie joints, when they put you Inside for real, sometimes you have to take a mark just to stay alive. The White Night crews make you fly their flag on your body, and the Latins are even harder about it. Some of their bosses are so heavily inked, it takes over their skin, makes them into some different race.

But the Prof had pulled my coat early. You aint got but one trick for when you hit the bricks, the little man had counseled me. Youre going to do crime, all the time. That stuff you see motherfuckers put on themselves? Thats cause they going to stay here, understand? But you, youre still a young boy. The gates in your fate. You know what you going to do, so do it true, he said. Body art aint smart, Schoolboy. Its like using vanity plates on a getaway car.

But the man walking down Hudson that morning had a tattoo. A tiny blue heart, between the last two knuckles of his right hand. A hollow heart.

That was for Pansy, my partner. A Neopolitan mastiff Id raised from a tiny pup. She had taken some of the bullets meant for me when I walked into that ambush. Taken one of the enemy with her, too, before she went over.

Youre still the same, my people kept telling me.

Maybe I was.

I wasnt worried about recognizing this supposed cop. A lot of waterfront bars open early, to catch the crowd who hadnt been picked in the morning shape-up. But this joint wasnt close enough to any of the working piers, and the crews prepping the Twin Towers site for new construction would already be on the job by seven.

The caller had told Pepper whoever she sent would recognize him by his white hair . . . and hed be sitting in the corner booth farthest from the door. I checked my watch: 6:58. Close enough.

As soon as I walked in the place, I understood why the cop had picked it. To my right was a flat wall, broken only by the clearly marked doors to the toilets. Dead ahead, a long, straight bar with a murky mirror behind it. Only four of the stools were occupied. To my left, running almost the full length of the window, a row of booths all wood, no padding anywhere in sight.

The second booth and the last were the only ones with people in them. A guy nursing a beer while studying the Racing Form was closest to me. All the way in the back was a man in a dark-tweed sports jacket. He had a thick mop of white hair, and eyes I could feel even at that distance.

I walked over to where he was sitting. Noticed the last booth was just beyond the length of the window. A nice precaution, even though it would have taken a radiologist to read anything through that grimy glass.

I sat down, uninvited, my back to the door. No point being cute if it was a trap, it was already sprung.

What do you have? I said.

Ive got mine, he said, holding up a double shot glass of something amber.

Not what will you have, I said. What do you have.

He nodded, as if Id given him some secret code word.

How do I know youre from?

That wasnt the deal, I said. I dont have any questions. You said you wouldnt have any, either. All I had to do was listen. Thats what Im doing.

The cop tossed down his drink, rapped his glass on the table. You want . . . ? he asked.

I just shook my head.

A man in what looked like a butchers apron came over. He took away the cops shot glass and replaced it with another. Neither of us said anything until the barkeep had gone back to his post.

My names Sands, the cop said. Molton James Sands, Jr. My friends call me Molly.

I didnt call him anything.

I worked with Wolfe, he continued. For years. Best prosecutor I ever knew. She was one of us. In Sex Crimes, I mean. One of the squad. Shes getting railroaded by that candyass DA. Not the Manhattan guy the head of City-Wide. The same faggot who fired her.

I hadnt come there for an editorial, especially from a lush. Tell me something we can use, I said.

His blue eyes darkened as he narrowed in on me. The veins in his slightly spread nose got redder. Heres fucking something, he said. That mutt who got shot, hes no more in a coma than I am.

Wychek?

Wychek. Oh, he was unconscious all right. But as of a few hours ago, hes come around. Whoevers representing Wolfe . . .

Davidson.

Good! Thats a man. Now, listen. This should get her bail dropped all the way down to

Her bails covered, I said, cutting him off. This Wychek, hes conscious now, right? You telling me he changed his statement?

I dont know about that, the cop said, leaning closer to me. But I do know this. He doesnt want to be discharged.

The wounds

 are bullshit, he finished for me. He got hit three times. Front of the right thigh, upper left arm, and right shoulder.

That could still be

 with a fucking twenty-five, he said. What does that tell you?

Nothing by itself.

You dont want to say, a twenty-five, thats a womans gun, right? Well, its also a punks gun. Little piece-of-shit nothing, make a Saturday Night Special look like a Glock. Street Crimes probably confiscates more Raven twenty-fives a year than all the other pieces put together. Anyway, they got the bullets out like pulling a bad tooth, big deal. Cocksucker wont even be walking with a limp.

The coma was a fake?

I . . . I dont know, the cop said, a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. I dont think so, from what I heard. But this part is gospel Wycheks scared. Big scared. Demanding a police guard, the whole works.

Scared Wolfes going over the wall at Rikers, swim to the Bronx, steal a car, pick up a real gun this time, and hunt him down at the hospital? I said, not a trace of sarcasm in my voice.

Dont be fucking stupid, he said, showing me his street rollers stare. Look, I dont have a lot of time; Im supposed to be on a case in the Jamaica courthouse at nine not that the fucking pussy ADA is ever on time himself so listen up. For right now, the DAs going along with it. You understand what Im telling you? Full police guard. Why? Because the official story is that Wolfes put out a contract on him.

Yeah, thatd be smart, I said. Believe me, if theres one person in this city who wants that scumbag alive, its Wolfe. Davidsons going to dice and slice him so bad on the stand, the case will never get to the jury.

Im not arguing, the cop said. Something else is going on. I just dont know what. But him not being in a coma anymore, thats worth something, right?

How much? I said, slipping my hand inside my jacket.

Sands eyes snapped into violence. One of his big fists clenched. When he spoke, his voice was tightly constricted, like an overwound spring.

Listen, pal. You dont know me. And I dont know you. So Im going to be real fucking patient. This once. I meant, worth something to Wolfe. You think I dont go way back with her? You think I dont know what a filthy little maggot this Wychek is? How many rapes he got away with because, in this whole stinking town, only Wolfe had the stones to take the case to trial, even when it wasnt a slam-dunk?

I nodded, not affirming his connection to Wolfe, just the truth he spoke about her. When Wolfe was running City-Wide, if there had been any damn way to bring the other victims in, she would have done it.

I know something else, too, he said, leaning even closer. That Ha ha! letter he sent Wolfe? He must have sent other ones, too. Cause thats the kind of fucking degenerate filth he is. You want to know who really tried to kill him, thats where you start.

Where would I get

Been nice meeting you, the cop said, holding out his hand for me to shake. Maybe Ill see you around sometime. You ever go out to Platinum Pussycats? The strip joint, out by JFK?

No, I said, arranging my face into a mute question, as I palmed the piece of paper he had slipped to me.

Ah, you cant miss it, he said. Its behind that giant storage-unit place they have out there.

Yeah, okay, I said, in a dismissive voice. Anything you want me to tell?

Anything I want to tell her, she already knows, the cop said.

As I was walking back over to my place, the cell phone in my pocket rang.

What? I answered.

Got your message. Davidsons voice. Nice work. Ill have her out by

Theres new stuff, I said. Call me as soon as you get her sprung, so we can meet.

I was starting to feel the fatigue knocking at all my doors by then, but I had to pick up whatever the cop had in that storage locker, and do it fast. If he was being straight, if he really was with Wolfe, I couldnt leave him hanging out there, exposed. And if it was a trap, if they had a camera on the unit so they could get a look at the members of Wolfes crew, I couldnt turn the job over to Pepper.

The Prof and Clarence were probably back in their crib, over in East New York. Which was kind of on the way to the airport, if I took Atlantic Avenue all the way through Brooklyn into Queens. But with the key in my hand, I didnt need the Prof for the locks. And this had to be a no-guns deal, which meant Clarence wasnt coming.

The Mole was all the way up in the South Bronx. But even if hed lived close by, he wouldnt be the man for this job his idea of personal protection is heavy explosives. And I still wasnt sure where Michelle was.

But Maxs place was off Division Street, and I knew everybody in his house would be awake.

I liberated my Plymouth, drove over to the warehouse where Max has his dojo on one floor and his family home on the next. I probed until I found the hidden switch that raised the metal doors to the loading bay, drove inside, and closed it behind me.

By then, I knew Max was watching, from somewhere. As I got out, a dark shape vaulted over the second-floor railing, dropping next to me as lightly as a Kleenex on velour.

Max. Not showing off, showing up.

I started to gesture out what we had to do, but he held one finger in the air for silence, then used it to point upstairs before he flowed his hands together in a prayerful gesture. I took a quick glance at my watch, to tell him we didnt have a lot of time, and then I followed him upstairs.

Burke! the teenage girl shouted, as she ran to me. Flower, the only child of Max and his wife, Immaculata.

The girl slammed into me like a linebacker making a goal-line stop, knocking me back a few feet as I held on to her. Hey, kiddo, I said. Easy!

She stood on her toes, gave me a messy kiss on the cheek. Im sorry, she said. Im so used to Daddy.

Daddy?

That is what she persists in calling her father lately, Immaculata said, her voice mock-severe. Flowers manners have suffered greatly, now that she is so grown up.

Mom!

You see? Immaculata smiled at me. She turned to her beautiful, glowing daughter. Have you invited your uncle Burke to come into our home, child? To sit down? To share our breakfast with us?

Aaaargh! the girl said, rolling her eyes. She stepped back a couple of paces, bowed formally, said, Uncle, please come into our home and share our meal with us. We would be honored.

It would be my honor, I said, bowing back.

Max regarded his wife and daughter with his standard mixture of stunned amazement and fierce love.

Immaculata was in a plum-colored robe heavily brocaded with silver. Her hair was tied in a chignon. Her daughter was wearing pink jeans and a black sweatshirt that came almost to her knees. Her hair was pulled into three pigtails, with two on the right.

We all sat around the teak table with rosewood inlays that the family used for all its meals. I dont know what was in the eggs Immaculata served, but they tasted wonderful.

Drink, she said, putting a glass of some ginger-colored stuff she had just mixed up in front of me. For energy.

Thank you, I said, not remotely surprised that she could tell I needed it.

Max disappeared. Came back in a few seconds with a framed document of some kind.

Oh my god! Flower exclaimed, dramatically.

I took the document from Max, read through the glass. Flowers PSAT scores. Verbal: 80. Math: 78. Writing: 80. Spending all that time with teenagers last year had schooled me enough to understand that those scores, coupled with Flowers school activities, made her a mortal lock for a National Merit Scholarship.

Congratulations! I said to her.

Oh, this is so embarrassing, the girl said. I mean, it isnt a Nobel Prize, for goodness sake!

When you win one of those, will you still throw a fit if your father wants to show it off? I asked her.

Burke! Youre supposed to be on my side.

Honey, its not like Max is making a window display out of it.

Well, he wanted to, I think. And when he showed it to Grandmother, she wanted to build a shrine to it. Im serious!

 Grandmother, huh? I teased her. You dont call her Granny, then?

She wouldnt dare, Immaculata laughed. This child has always been able to bully her poor father, but Mama . . .

Yeah, I said. Mamas like me. She doesnt put up with any guff from the younger generation.

You are so tough, Flower said, getting up from the table. She bent forward to give me a kiss, slipping her hand into the side pocket of my jacket, as I had taught her to do when she was just a little girl. Back then, she always found candy. Later, it was the kind of junk jewelry preteens love . . . or pretend to, anyway. Now its a fifty-dollar bill. I must get ready for school now, she announced.

Hold on a damn minute, I said. I want to tell you something. Something important. Youre old enough to hear it now.

Flowers eyes were rapt. There was nothing she treasured more than vindication of her status as a mature young woman.

Ive known your father for a long time, I said. He is my brother. I love him. You know the amazing skills your father has. But I was never jealous of him. Not until now. Do you understand?

Oh, Burke, she said. She gave me another quick kiss, then fled to her room, tears flowing.

Even though we were heading away from Manhattan, the inbound HOV lane cut down our options. That, plus the reverse-commuters and airport traffic, clogged the artery enough to keep us below the speed limit for pretty much the entire trip.

The highways that crisscross the city during rush hour carry a United Nations of passengers. Perfect for the kind of traveling I like to do nothing stands out. Besides, the average commuter is either talking on a cell phone, eating his breakfast, or staring blankly through the windshield like an overtranqd mental patient. A zebra-striped stretch limo with a palm tree growing out of its sunroof wouldnt get more than a passing glance, never mind my purposely anonymous Plymouth.

We took the long right-hand sweeper exiting the BQE for the LIE connector to the Grand Central. Behind us, some congenital defective, in a white Mustang with blue racing stripes, decided we werent moving quick enough. He jumped into the service lane, shot past us, then whipped back to his left to cut us off. A gentle tap on the four-piston brakes, concealed behind the dog-dish hubcaps on the Plymouths modest sixteen-inch steel wheels, was enough to keep us out of his trunk.

Max gave me a Should we? look. I shrugged, not expecting wed get a chance.

But the Mustang was going the same way we were, so we stayed right with him until the highway forked left for Long Island, right for JFK.

The Mustang went right. Max looked upward, then nodded in agreement. It was true I usually dont like to call attention to myself when Im driving, but fate had made the decision for us.

The Mustang cut across two rows, looking for the outside lane. As he made his move, I dropped the Plymouth down a gear and nailed it. The Roadrunner exploded past his left quarter panel like a train past a tree. By the time the full-on roar of the Plymouths stump-puller motor registered in his ears, the Mustang was behind us, stunned.

I glanced in the mirror, caught the driver looking frantically to his right, trying to figure out what had happened. The ancient bucket of bolts hed cut off so easily couldnt have just blasted past him like that, but . . .

Past JFK, traffic lightened up considerably. The Mustang tailgated relentlessly, flashing his brights, making it clear he wanted that left lane for himself. I glanced at the tach3200 rpm, about 70 miles an hour. Nothing ahead for quite a distance. Even Miss Cleo could figure out what would happen as soon as the lane next to us cleared.

I watched the mirrors. When the Mustang swung out and made his move to pass on my right, I let him get a half-length on me before I gave it the gun, keeping him pinned in the middle lane.

At 105, the Mustang was still coming, but he was a man trying to scale a Teflon wall with greasy hands the Plymouth had enough left to run away and hide anytime I asked.

A fat SUV in the middle lane finished it. The screech of the Mustangs brakes was ugly I guessed the chump hadnt seen the need for big brakes to go along with his giant chrome rims.

I shot past the SUV, sliced across the highway, and disappeared into the next exit ramp.

We circled back toward the storage facility. Once we had it spotted, I pulled over. We took out a pair of bogus Jersey plates backed with Velcro bands so they could snap on and off in seconds and put them in place, just in case there was some sort of surveillance cam working.

The facility was a huge grid formed by lines of connected units, like windowless row houses. Id been in smaller towns.

There was no fence, just a billboard-sized warning sign at the entrance. All I caught with a quick glance was: NO LIVING OR SLEEPING IN THE UNITS.

We motored through slowly, navigating by the alphanumeric on the piece of paper Sands had given me. A brown Chevy sedan with white doors rolled past us. The quasipolice shield decal on the doors didnt exactly give me the tremors. All those patrols ever did was watch for people prying open the units that management sealed up when the rent hadnt been paid.

Some of the units were bigger than apartments people paid a fortune for in Manhattan. Even the smallest ones would hold anything you could stuff in a pickup.

People keep everything in places like this, from toys to treasures. If you were evicted, you could stash your furniture while you slept in your car and tried to put together enough money for a new crib. If your collection of vintage paperback books was too much for your apartment or your wife one of these units could be the solution.

For that matter, all you needed was a chainsaw and an ice chest and you could keep a body in one of them for long enough to be in another country by the time it was discovered.

Sands unit was near the end of a long row. I backed the Plymouth up to the door, and Max and I got out.

The lock yielded to the three-number sequence that was on the piece of paper Sands had slipped me. Id brought a flashlight with me, but I didnt need it: a switch on the wall lit the place nicely.

The inside of the storage unit looked like the losers share of a divorce settlement. An old La-Z-Boy recliner, upholstered in seasick-green Naugahyde. A swaybacked couch the husband had probably spent most of his nights on before the breakup. A fold-up workbench. A set of black iron free weights. Two bowling-ball bags that looked full. A pair of metal file cabinets someone had once painted white, with a brush. A decent assortment of power tools looked in good condition. Stacks of magazines. A nineteen-inch TV. A mid-range stereo receiver, with matching speakers.

And seven large file boxes of heavy cardboard, designed for transport. They were in two stacks, ready to go.

I grabbed the top one. It was full had to weigh a good thirty, thirty-five pounds. Inside, nothing but paper. Case files; every single page a photocopy. I leafed through them quickly. As soon as I saw the name Wychek a dozen times in thirty seconds, I knew we were home.

Even with the fuel cell and the relocated battery hogging part of the space, there was still enough room in the Plymouths cavernous trunk for all seven cartons. I kept watch while Max did the loading, the best use of both our skills.

Before I turned off the light to the storage unit, I took a quick glance around. Removing the boxes didnt create a visually empty space it looked like everything else had been there for a while. I wondered where Sands lived.

I dropped Max and the cartons in front of my building. By the time Id stashed the Plymouth and walked on back, a quick jerk of Gatemans head told me the Mongol had already gotten them all upstairs.

As I walked in the door to my place, the cell phone chirped in its holster.

What?

Theyre . . . producing her, is what the lawyer said. Pepper, sounding more like her usual upbeat self.

When?

Today, for sure. Probably not until late afternoon, or even tonight. But it might be quicker. It depends

 on the bus, I know. Look, Im not going to be there this time. And you shouldnt be, either. None of you, understand?

Yes.

As for going out to her house, you

I got it, Pepper said, voice edged with annoyance. We didnt start doing this yesterday, okay? I didnt call for advice; I called to give you some information. Like I said. I got it. Now you got it.

Max had laid the cartons out on the floor, waiting for me to decide what we were going to do with all the paper inside.

There were a hundred things I wanted to do. But I had this overwhelming feeling of stumbling blind, trying to disarm a bomb in the dark. I knew what my system was telling me. I put my palms together, held them to one side, and laid my cheek against them. Telling Max I needed sleep.

I pointed to my watch, gestured that I wasnt going to be able to make the meet at Mamas. There wasnt enough to tell anyone yet, anyway.

Max scanned my face, a cartographer reading a map. He nodded agreement, signed that Mama would know where to find him, I should leave word when I wanted us all to get together.

I went into the back room, took off my jacket, and . . .

The phone buzzed, somewhere close. I reached out, flipped it open.

What?

It took a bit longer than I anticipated. Davidsons voice. Longer than it should have. The whole thing . . . Never mind. My clients been released.

Is she with you?

I have no idea where she is. But I thought you and I might profit from a meeting.

Say where and when.

My office. ASAP.

One hour, no more, I promised.

Where I live, most of the light is artificial. Oh, there are windows, but they havent been cleaned for generations. Even the skylights are encrusted, and the surrounding buildings block off direct sunlight, anyway. I knew it was late, but seeing my watch read 10:44 knocked me back a bit. Id been out for a long time.

A quick shower and change of clothes and I was on my way. Id promised an hour, so the car was out of the question. I walked over to the subway on Varick, swiped my Metrocard through the turnstile, and grabbed an uptown 1-9 train. Davidsons building was on Lex, just off Forty-second. The 1-9 is a stone local, but even with the crosstown walk when I got out, I beat the deadline with ten minutes to spare.

All the dull-eyed security guard at the front desk in Davidsons office building wanted was for me to sign the register, so he could go back to his mini-TV.

Davidsons office is on the twenty-eighth floor. I took the elevator to nineteen and walked up the rest of the way, on the off-chance that not everyone in the lobby was watching television.

The door to the suite was open. The receptionists cage was deserted. I walked on back, past where Davidsons own secretary would normally be working. His door was open. So was one of the windows, but the air was still thick with cigar smoke.

This case is dirt, he greeted me.

I know it is, I said, taking a seat. I just dont know how deep it goes.

Me first, Davidson said. Once I verified the bond was in place, I was all set to spring her. Then, out of the blue, I get a call from Lansing at the DAs Office. The little fuck tells me theyre bringing her down tonight, so I can make an application for bail reduction.

He leaned back, took a deep drag, face dark with anger.

Then he says, heres the deal: Just make the same application I made before. Ask for something reasonable, like fifty, and his office will consent to it.

Maybe the judge thought it over, had his law secretary make a few discreet calls, I said.

Its possible, but I think this was their own play. Question is, why?

Because they know she didnt do it, I said. And theyre afraid shes going to find out who did.

Why would they give a damn if . . . ? Wait! Youre saying they already know Wolfe wasnt the shooter? Not that they suspect it, they know?

Do I think the skell admitted it wasnt Wolfe who shot him? I said. I dont know. But heres what I do know. Never mind Wolfe, its their so-called victim who doesnt want out.

What the hell are you talking about? How could he admit anything, much less ask to stay in the hospital? Davidson said. Hes in a coma, right?

Not anymore, hes not, I said.

Davidson shook his head, like a fighter who had just taken a hard shot but wouldnt go down. How could you possibly?

I told him what Sands had told me, word for word. I can do that. Always could, even when I was a little kid. I would have made a perfect witness against the people who did those things to me. Only, back then, they didnt bring stuff like that into court.

Christ on a crutch, Burke! Davidson said, when I was finished. Thats more questions than answers.

Yeah.

Those fucking cocksuckers. They didnt say word one about this guy being out of his coma. They just consented to my application for a bail reduction.

What did you get?

Since I knew it was wired, I repeated the ROR app. Bail moneys just for showtime now no reason they couldnt just release her on her own recognizance and be done with it. But instead of just going along quiet, they weasel back with the fifty K.

The judge looks over at me like somebody should let him in on the joke. So I figured, fuck Lansing and his deals. I say to the judge, If something isnt real wrong with the case, how come the DAs Office itself had just dropped their bail demand so radically?

By now, Huttos looking at Lansing very strange. Then Lansing goes into a whole speech about needing time to develop their case in full, and since Ms. Wolfe isnt considered a flight risk . . .

So I immediately start stomping on him like a fucking grape. It was pitiful. Anyway, bottom line, Huttos off the hook now, so he sets it at the fifty the DA asked for.

Beautiful.

And we dont need that bondsman of yours, Davidson said. That amount, Wolfe put it up herself. In cash, from nice clean assets. Thats what took so long: getting the damn paperwork done.

Youve still got your discovery coming, I told him. And Ive got some of my own to do. But so far, everything this Sands has told me has been gospel.

You want me to run his name past Wolfe?

Id rather ask her myself.

I dont know if she

Ask her, I said.

The next day I called Big Nate on one of my cells.

You heard? I asked him.

I heard, his amplified voice said. But

You and me, were both the same, I said, very softly. Sometimes, theres things you dont want to do, but you do them, because all the other choices are worse. You were ready to do what you had to do. So was I.

Yeah. So were quits?

Youll never see me again, I said, cutting the connection.

I was in my booth when Michelle came in, dressed in that princess/slut style only she can bring off.

She sashayed over and took a seat. Mama was only a few steps behind her, clapping her hands for more soup.

I took care of it, Michelle said. Turns out I was right. Anyone tried to hurt Wolfe out there, it would have been a major mistake. I got that just off the first phone call.

Then I found that theyd brought Hortense down from Bedford Hills to testify in some other case. As if. So I went out and visited her myself. No problems after that, guaranteed.

On my way out, I left money on the books for Tense. I didnt do the same for Wolfe, just in case anyone was . . .

Thanks, honey. Youre perfect.

This is true.

And Wolfes already sprung.

Yes! They dropped that bogus?

No. Not even close. But Wolfes got friends on the other side, too.

Sure, friends? Mama asked.

Looks like, so far, anyway, I told them. Then I filled them in on what Id gotten from Sands, and what happened when Davidson went back to court.

Have you looked through all that paperwork yet, honey? Michelle asked.

Just a quick glance. That cop must have spent all night at the photocopier. Took some big-time risks.

If the stuffs real, he did.

Wolfes out, I reminded her. Soon enough, well get a straight answer. And I had an idea. Remember when we had all that paper, on that girl who got killed out on?

Yes, Michelle interrupted. You want Terry to scan it all into a computer for you again?

That, and maybe do some sorting programs. . . .

Well, lets go get him, she said, flashing her gorgeous smile.

Michelle, hes all grown up now, remember? He drives his own car. We dont need to go all the way up to the Bronx. Why cant he just?

You know why, she said, winking at me.

Id been out to the Moles place so many times, my eyes didnt even register the burnt-out buildings, or the burnt-out humans who staggered between them, pipe-dreaming.

They say real estate in the city is so precious that every square inch of it is going to be gentrified someday. If that ever happens in Hunts Point, Ill believe it.

Michelles cats-eye makeup didnt mask her excitement. She was going to people she loved.

Terry was her son. I had street-snatched him from a kiddie pimp years ago, and Michelle had adopted him in that same minute. Back then, she was still pre-op, and still working car tricks, fire-walking with freaks every night. Michelle came from the same litter I did. Our hate made us kin.

Michelle had claimed Terry for her own. But it was the Mole a for-real mad scientist, living in an underground bunker beneath the junkyard he owned who really raised the kid.

For years, Michelle and the Mole orbited around each other, never touching.

Finally, she had the operation. She had been talking about getting it done for as long as Id known her, but it wasnt until the Mole became Terrys father that Michelle became his wife. I remember, a long time ago, when she asked the Mole if he could ever understand how it felt, to be a woman trapped in a mans body.

I understand trapped, is all the Mole said. It was enough.

The surgery didnt change Michelle to any of us. She was always my sister, from the beginning. Always Terrys mother. But maybe it meant something between her and the Mole. I dont know.

The Mole doesnt like to leave his work, and his work isnt portable. Michelle didnt even like visiting the junkyard.

None of that mattered.

I pulled up to the entrance, a wall of razor wire, growing like killer ivy through the chain link. The pack of feral dogs that inhabit the place assembled quickly, but I knew the Moles sensors would have announced us way before I brought the Plymouth to a stop.

The dogs watched, too self-confident to bark, except for a few of the younger ones, who were still learning.

Looks like Terrys not here, honey, I said. He would have been out to pick us up in the shuttle by now.

Then Mole will just have to come himself, she said. The exercise certainly wont kill him.

Not being clinically insane, I didnt say anything.

Eventually, we spotted the Moles stubby figure, making his way toward us. He was wearing his usual dirt-colored jumpsuit, Coke-bottle lenses on his glasses catching the late-afternoon sun. He shambled over to the sally port, threw open the first gate, then moved aside to let us through.

I drove the Plymouth in, extra-slow. The Mole locked up behind us.

He came around to my side of the car, standing in the river of killer dogs like a kid in a wading pool.

Mole! I said.

He answered me the way he usually does a few rapid blinks behind his glasses, waiting for me to get to the point.

Were looking for Terry, I said. I could feel the cold heat from Michelles ice-pick eyes at the back of my neck, but I knew they werent aimed at me. Mole had gone to the wrong window, and the poor bastard would have to pay that toll by himself.

Not here, he said.

Right. But Ive got Michelle with me

Oh, he said.

 and I thought we could hang out a bit, while we wait for Terry to show.

Where is that . . . Jeep thing you use? Michelle demanded, over my right shoulder.

Back at the

Well, go get it, she said, tartly. Im not going to

I can drive this one back there, I told her, trying to pinch off the burning fuse before it reached the dynamite. Mole, you want to?

But he was already moving. Away from the firing line.

I drove gingerly around the obstacle course of mortar-sized craters and rusted chunks of metal. The Plymouth was no off-roader, but its Viper-donated independent rear suspension and gas shocks handled the trip easily enough. Even the occasional thunk didnt upset the rollbar-anchored chassis with its heavy subframe connectors.

I pulled up to the Moles lanai a set of cut-down oil drums with haphazard cushions and a sisal mat big enough to play shuffleboard on.

The Mole was waiting for us, sitting down. He was awkwardly smacking a scarred old beast on top of its triangular head, in what the two of them had mutually decided constituted patting the dog.

Simba! I said.

The dogs ears perked, a lot more trustworthy than his ancient eyes. A bull mastiffshepherd cross, Simba was still the reigning king of the pack, despite being somewhere around twenty years old. Hounds so bad, probably even scares off Father Times ass, the Prof said once.

Michelle pranced over on her four-inch ankle-strapped burnt-orange stilettos. She bent to give the Mole a kiss on his cheek, which turned him the same approximate color, and said, Well?

The Mole looked at her the way he always does stunned and strangle-tongued.

Mole! Arent you glad to see me?

Yes, he said. I am always

You like my new shoes, Michelle said, torturing him unmercifully, making him pay. Asking the Mole if he liked a pair of shoes was like asking a cat if it liked algebra.

They are . . . very nice, he tried.

Nice? Nice! They are absolutely gorgeous, you dunce! They are stunning. Magnificent. Perfect. Yes?

Yes. I

Oh, never mind. Michelle probed in her purse, handed the Mole her cell phone. Call my boy, please, she said. Tell him we need to see him.

The Mole didnt move.

You do know where he is, dont you?

He has a cell phone, too, the Mole said, defensively.

Well, then?

He is still at school. Is this?

Yeah, it kind of is, Mole, I assured him.

While he was dialing, Michelle took out one of her extra-long, ultra-thin cigarettes. Pink was the color of the day, apparently. I lit it for her.

Hes coming, the Mole announced, handing back Michelles phone.

What are you working on now? she asked him.

A new polymer, the Mole said. It is

Well, I cant understand all that, Michelle cut him off. While were waiting for Terry, youll just have to show me. Come on.

The Mole followed obediently, his face flaming.

I sat down with Simba, and we told each other lies about when wed been young.

It took Terry over an hour to show up. I took a tenth of that to tell him what I wanted.

Sure! he said. I can do it, easy. The scannings pretty much mechanical. Take some time, though, even with the setup Ive got. But you might want something better than a simple-sort.

Go slow, kid, I cautioned him. Remember who youre talking to here.

I can write a program, but youd have to spell out for me what fields never mind, just the kind of things you want to connect, okay?

Im not sure Im . . .

Look, he said, enthusiastically, it would be nothing to sort by, say, time of day, or if he used a weapon, like that, see? But if you wanted to make an ANOVA . . . Never mind. If you wanted to know the extent to which different factors impacted on the model . . .

Terry . . .

Okay, wait. I got it. Look, lets say the standard attack was between four and six in the afternoon, and the guy used a knife, all right?

But in some of the attacks he was, I dont know, dressed all in black. Does him dressing in black affect the time of day or the weapon? See? The more . . . factors I have, the more I can help you find the pattern.

Could you superimpose? I asked him.

Now youve got me confused, he said, grinning.

If you had all the addresses where the rapes occurred, could you put a map of the metro area over it, somehow?

Sure. But what would you want that for?

The rapes went down in a lot of different counties. But no one was ever actually arrested, so the different offices probably didnt share information. In fact, I cant figure out where . . . Wolfes friend got them all. Anyway, maybe theres some main highway that gets him in and out of all the areas, so, if you look at where he hits, you might get an idea where hes striking from, where his home base is.

No problem, the kid assured me. If its in the data youve got, Ill write a program that will tell you a lot more than whats already on paper, I promise.

Isnt he a genius? Michelle said, beaming.

Pop taught me all of it, Terry quickly disclaimed.

Well, you certainly didnt get your fashion sense from him, Michelle snapped back. Or those good looks, either.

All from you, Mom, Terry said, putting his arm around her. And a ton more.

The kid was a scientist in his soul. He understood that if a lab ran his DNA, theyd know he hadnt come from the Mole and Michelle. But he knew something else, too. Something we all know down here some of the truest truths never make the textbooks.

On the return trip Michelle still glowing, humming to herself like a happy little girl my cell phone buzzed.

What?

She wants to talk to you. Pepper, no-nonsense voice.

Wherever she

Do you remember the last place you met with her?

Yes.

There.

When?

Soon as you can make it. Shes waiting.

As if it had been eavesdropping, the Plymouths engine answered.

The office building was on lower Broadway, a few blocks north of what outsiders keep calling ground zero. Since 9/11, you dont want to be bringing a car into that area after dark. Too many eyes.

Last time Id been there, Mick had been working the lobby desk. Wolfes crew had some kind of deal with the people who ran the building: they rented out little pieces of it for a few hours at a time.

I tried the front door. Locked. I buzzed for the night man. Not surprised to see Mick, wearing a pair of dark-green pants and matching Eisenhower jacket, with some companys name stitched in gold on the front.

He let me in, relocked the door.

Same place? I asked him.

He turned his back on me without answering, walking toward the freight elevator. I followed, got in the car. Mick threw a lever, and the car dropped, slow and noisy.

He let me out in the basement. I heard the door close behind me, so I walked around the corner to where Wolfe had been the last time.

And there she was, sitting on a double-height set of lateral file cabinets. She was dressed in denim overalls and a red pullover, her long, dark hair tied behind her, no makeup.

Behave! she said to the Rottweiler, before he could even threaten me.

You okay? I asked her.

You mean the lockup? she said. Sure. Its been years since I was putting people away, and those ones wouldnt be on Rikers, anyway.

Yeah, I agreed. Rikers Island was a jail, not a prison. People were sent there to await trial, or to serve misdemeanor sentences. Wolfe hadnt won all her bouts as a prosecutor, but when she landed her Sunday punch, the opponent always went down for the count.

It doesnt need to be personal, I said. Its a bad joint. Things happen.

Something did happen, she said, the faintest trace of a smile on her lips. A very large woman came up to me while I was waiting on the chow line. In fact, she bulled her way in, right in front of me.

I just ignored it I wasnt going to fight over a place in line. Then she turned around and spoke to me. Not shouting, exactly, but loud enough for everyone nearby to hear. Honey, she said, dont say a word to me. Not one word. I know youre not about talking. Just wanted you to know you got friends here. So, if anyone gets stupid with you, all you got to do is point them out. Not even with your finger. Just nod your head, and itll be taken care of. Wasnt that nice of her?

Hortense is a righteous woman, I said. Always has been.

I appreciate what you . . . I appreciate what she did, Wolfe said. But it wasnt me who told Pepper to

Pepper did the right thing, and you know it, I said. And Davidsons the right man for the job.

The job, she repeated, bitterly.

Look, I know you didnt

Didnt what? Didnt shoot that maggot? How do you know?

Its not you.

Whats not me? she challenged. Maybe I read that letter he sent me, and went over to his house to tell him to step off. Maybe he got aggressive, and I panicked. Pulled out a gun and shot him. And then ran.

Right. As if youd go to meet a freak like him without backup.

What if my backup helped me get away?

He was shot with a twenty-five.

Isnt that a womans gun? she said, unknowingly echoing Sands. And three shotssounds like panic, doesnt it?

You dont carry, I said. And if you did, it wouldnt be a toy like that one.

Youre so sure?

Oh, Im a lot surer than that, I said. A person can change their habits, but not their personality.

What is that supposed to mean?

You dont walk around packing, although I suppose you could, if you thought you had to. But one thing I know youd never do.

Shoot?

No. Panic.

Ah, she said, smiling for real now.

Besides, theres one other thing that seals the deal, I said, pointing at the Rottweiler. Him. Maybe those little bullets didnt have enough to get the job done, but no way Bruiser didnt.

Youre right, Wolfe said. If I had sent him.

A situation like that, I dont think hed give a damn whether you sent him or not, I told her. Hes a dog, not a robot.

Hes also a big bully, arent you, Bruisey? Wolfe said, scratching behind the dogs ears. He gained ten pounds in the few days Pepper had him.

Pepper probably stuffed him because she felt bad for him, I said. Besides, shes an actress, so she appreciates a good performance, and he probably went around pretending he was starving.

Maybe . . .

I need to ask you some questions, I said.

And I need to ask you some, she shot back.

Go, I told her.

Why are you in this? Still in this, I mean. I know Pepper . . .

You want me to tell you a story about my religious conversion? How Im going to devote the rest of my life to protecting the innocent? You know why. Youve always known.

If you had drilled the miserable little fuck, you think that would matter to me? If you didnt have a dozen better ones, Id be your alibi. And if I had known about him threatening you, this never would have happened at all.

Youre not my protector, she said, eyes narrowed. Self-appointed or otherwise.

Im not anything to you, I told her. You think I dont know that? But what I do, Im good at, and you know that, too. Tell me you want me off this thing, and Ill walk out of here right now, never say another word about it.

Wolfe tapped a cigarette from her pack, lit it with a long-flamed butane lighter.

I just stood there, watching her.

The Rottweiler watched me.

Wolfe took a deep drag, blew a jet of smoke at the ceiling.

Youre lying, she said.

Sands, hes for real? I asked her, finally breaking the silence.

Molly? Hes a piece of gold. When he first made detective, he was assigned to my squad. He loved the job. Loved making cases against the dirtbags that my bureau specialized in putting away.

He didnt come with any bullshit cop prejudices. Or, if he did, he left them at the door. He got it, right from the start. In my shop, we didnt play the good victim, bad victim game. If a hooker got raped, if a retarded girl got molested same as if it were a nun, or a Mensa member. He was a real man on the DV stuff, too. And cold death on child molesters.

Wolfe took a hit off her cigarette, gray gunfighters eyes watching me through the smoke. When I kept quiet, she picked up her own thread.

Molly worked his cases. Double- and triple-checked everything. Turned over every rock. He never played TV detective on the stand, never tried to out-cute the defense. But there wasnt one jury that didnt believe him.

And then the job broke his heart, Wolfe said, her voice thick with sadness. When they fired me, everything changed. All they wanted was stats.

You know what that means. Some of the shaky cases dont get pursued, so you never get the chance to make them solid. The last thing they needed was a cop like Molly. He went from thinking he was a soldier in a holy war to feeling like a report-writing fake.

Thats when he started the heavy drinking? I asked.

When he went back to it, yeah, she said, her eyes daring me to make judgments.

You know he had copies of every single one of Wycheks cases. Possible cases, I mean. Every case in which Wychek was a suspect.

Im not surprised.

I cant even figure out where he got all that stuff from. There never was a task force thing, right?

Right, Wolfe said, disgustedly. Wychek was a classic pattern-rapist, but he stayed so far off the screen that he never even got himself a press nickname. You know, a Night Stalker kind of thing. No media pressure, no task force; simple as that. But we were working him, preparing for trial, and we grabbed every scrap we could get our hands on. After the trial, the whole package must have gone into dead storage.

Still, if they ever found out he was making copies

They wont, she said, flatly.

He got other stuff, too, I said. The most important thing of all, in fact. Davidson told you?

That Wycheks not in a coma anymore? And that he doesnt want to leave the hospital? Yes.

So the DA knows it wasnt you, no matter what bullshit statement Wychek supposedly made, am I right?

How does that compute?

Come on. Wychek believes youve got a hit squad out looking for him? No way the DA buys that. There has to be another reason for them playing along. You got anything on them?

On City-Wide? Sure, theres stuff they wouldnt want to get out. Sexual harassment not pressure to have sex; trading sex for promotion stuff like that.

Thats not sexual harassment, I said. Thats a whore and a trick.

Not alw Never mind, its not important. Not right now. Anything else I know politicians kids getting guaranteed jobs over better-qualified applicants, special treatment for celebrity defendants, ADAs being pushed to work in re-election campaigns, how a judge gets made in this town everybody else knows, too.

Sure, Ive made them look like the clowns they are a few times over the years. But if they went after everyone whos done that, theyd have to frame more people than theyve got cells.

So, if the answer isnt you, theres only one other thing it could be, I said.

What?

Wychek, I told her. Its not you they want. Its him.

In the next hour, we held everything we knew up to the brightest light we could find a pair of diamond-cutters, looking for the perfect place to start our work.

But all we found were flaws.

What in hell could a lowlife piece of garbage like Wychek do for the DAs Office? I asked the empty air.

Maybe they do believe him? Wolfe said, dubiously.

What if they did? I put it to her. What if they actually fucking believed you put a few rounds into that freak? They reserve the kind of protection theyre giving him for witnesses who can take down a mob boss or the head of a drug cartel. You sure you havent been working anything that could blow up all over them if it came out?

Nothing, Wolfe said, with an undertone of regret. I havent worked a real investigation in years. You know the kind of stuff I do now.

Yeah, I agreed. But you deal in information. . . .

You think I didnt go over that in my mind a thousand times since they grabbed me? she said. And, trust me, that was hard work. Lockups supposed to be good for deep thinking, but the noise level is ungodly. And it never stops. Youd need the concentration of a yoga master just to read a newspaper in there.

You think your friend would do you another favor?

Molly? Hed do anything, she said, confidently.

Could he find out where theyre keeping Wychek?

Forget it, Burke, she snapped out at me. What are you going to do, put on a white coat and go visit him in the hospital?

I wouldnt do anything like that, I said, meaning it. Id never been past the ninth grade, on paper, but I was always a great reader. And I had a working felons functional knowledge of the law. Slipping a little good-bye juice into that freaks IV drip would bother me about as much as an Osama bin Laden heart attack, but it would only make Wolfe a bigger suspect.

Never mind, she told me. I dont need any help. Sooner or later, the prosecution is going to have to answer the discovery motions. We get a TPO, thats the end of their case.

We already know the place. So youre telling me, even if the time of occurrence turns out to be four in the morning, youre covered, no matter what night it was.

At that hour, Id be asleep, she said, gray eyes level.

Thats not an iron-clad

Not alone, she said.

Someone down here, boss. Asking for you. By name.

Good-looking young guy, light-brown hair, brown eyes, says hes Terry?

Bulls-eye.

Let him pass, okay? Thanks, Gateman.

Damn, boy! What they feeding you at that fancy college? You must have growed half a foot since I last saw you! the Prof greeted Terry as the kid stepped into my place.

Hey, Prof! the kid said, giving the little man a hug. He shook hands with Clarence almost formally, then turned to me. Can I get a hand with some of my stuff? Pop dropped me off, but I couldnt carry it all up myself. The guy downstairs, the one in the wheelchair, he said it would be safe down there with him. . . .

Oh, Gatemans clue is true, the Prof assured him. Man cant stand, but he can stand up, you with me?

Sure, but . . .

Plus, he can outdraw Billy the fucking Kid, he has to. Thats not trash, thats cash. You underestimate the Gateman, you gonna choke on the joke, boy.

I will come with you, mahn, Clarence told Terry, realizing the Prof would maintain the debate about the absolute security of Gatemans domain for hours rather than spend ten minutes lugging heavy equipment up the stairs.

Terry took over one of the back rooms, and instantly drafted Clarence into assisting him. When they started talking a language the Prof and I didnt understand, we strolled into the front room.

Have a smoke with me, son?

This was a real role reversal for the Prof. Ever since I was a kid, his idea of smoking was to smoke one of mine. The little man had hands faster than a cobra on crystal meth he could usually get to my own shirt pocket before I could, even though he always gave me the first move.

But ever since I was shot, I havent really smoked. Its not religious, and its not about health. Cigarettes just dont taste like they used to. A lot of things dont.

I still always carry a pack or two, and Ill have one once in a while. Sometimes, its to remind people that its really me. The Burke they knew always smoked, and, with the new face, Id had to work hard at convincing some people when Id first come back. Sometimes, its misdirection. Like the way I drink. I order a shot of vodka with ice water on the side, and swallow the water, leaving just the ice cubes. Then I dump the vodka into the water glass, and let it melt out. When the bartender brings me a refill, the money I let ride on the counter automatically brings me fresh water, too.

Now, sometimes when Im with an old friend, it just feels . . . companionable to share a smoke. A cigarette tastes pretty good then.

I took the Profs pack of Kools, still the favorite behind the Walls, and nodded approvingly at the lack of a New York tax stamp. I fired one up, handed him the still-burning wooden match so he could light his own.

As if the Kool brought back old memories, the Prof leaned way back in his wooden chair, balancing on its two rear legs, and said, You know, back in the day, it never would have gotten this far. Skinner like that one, somebody would have shanked him on the yard, just for the practice.

Maybe he did it all in PC.

Punk Citys the right place for a fucking freak like him. But, you know, somebody wanted him bad enough, they could do him in there. Remember when Wesley

Yeah.

Unless he was a real badass, maybe? the Prof mused. Big enough to run a wing by himself.

Wolfe says hes about five-eight, a hundred and forty pounds, and flabby at that. A chinless, beady-eyed little weasel-faced punk, I think she called him.

My girl probably nailed how he look, but that dont say nothing about how he cook, the Prof said, solemnly. She dont know the show, Schoolboy. Not like we do. We both done time with guys, look like they couldnt break glass, but bad enough to make a gorilla kiss their ass, right?

I nodded. It was true. There are some men who can turn your spine to water with a look. But I had seen those same men drop their eyes whenever Wesley came down the corridor.

You gave me an idea, though, Prof. A place to get started. Be right back.

Terry and Clarence were meshing like Formula One gears, paper flying from the stacked cartons to a long table. A giant scanner rested on its surface, cable-linked to a laptop computer with all kinds of wires running out of its back.

You guys run across anything about Wycheks prison record? I asked.

We have his . . . Where is that . . . Yeah! Terry said. Is this what you mean?

No. Thatll show he was committed, but not where he landed. We know he went Upstate somewhere, but not which institution. Thats what were looking for.

If it is in here, we will find it, mahn, Clarence promised.

Theres an easier way, Terry said. New York States got a Web site for it. Inmate Lookup Service, or something like that. All we need is a guys name and we can get his prison record.

You mean his whole rap sheet? I asked.

No, no, I mean, his . . . institutional status, I think they call it. Where hes being kept, what his sentence is, when he sees the parole board . . .

But Wycheks out, I reminded him.

Sure. Theyll show him as discharged. But theyll still have the place he was discharged from, see?

Damn.

Sure. We just need a phone line. A landline, he said, quickly, before I could offer him one of my cells.

Not up here, kid.

What about the man downstairs?

Gateman? Sure, hes wired up. But wont you need?

This is enough, Terry said, holding up a laptop and some cords. Ill tell him you said it was okay, right?

Right.

Come on, Terry said to Clarence. The two of them took off, Wally and the Beaver, on an adventure.

It was just like Terry said, mahn, Clarence exclaimed, deeply impressed. Only took maybe fifteen minutes and we got all

the

It would have taken a lot less than that if your friend downstairs had anything but a molasses dial-up, Terry cut in. Im not nuts about the DSL theyve got around here, but

Yeah, I said. Well, when Im ready for stuff like that, youll be the first to know.

I am ready, mahn, Clarence announced. There is so much . . . value in it. Tell Burke and my father how you knew there was this place to find information about prisoners, he said to Terry.

Its not such a . . .

Come on with it, the Prof urged him. If my son says its fun, I got to know how its done.

Well, Terry said, sitting down, there was this girl. At school. He saw me exchanging looks with the Prof, said, Not my girl. I wasnt . . . interested in her like that. She was . . . my friend. Anyway, Tatrines very socially active. Mostly green stuff, but she never saw a cause she didnt like.

She met this guy at a teach-in she went to. It was all about prison conditions. This guy, he told her that he was an ex-con, right up front. Tatrine, she treated it like it was a credential. . . .

Terry caught himself, turning red as he realized who he was talking to. And where his mother had spent some of her youth. I didnt mean it . . . I didnt mean it was a . . . bad thing, all by itself. Just . . . what you always say, Prof.

Only thing thats true is what you do, the Prof acknowledged. The Walls dont make the calls.

Right. So, anyway, Tatrine was getting all caught up in this guy. I mean, quoting him, like he was an oracle or something. It made me nervous. So I asked her, just casual one day, what had he done time for.

Tatrine said it had been an armed robbery. This guy her boyfriend by then, I guess said he had done it when he was, you ready for this, presocially conscious. He had some half-baked idea that the merchant was ripping off the community, so he figured hed do a little justice by stealing from him.

He told her he came to realize later that the merchant was part of a system, pre-programmed to act a certain way, and robbing him wasnt the right thing to do. Tatrine told me this guy, he was a change-agent now.

You didnt buy his riff, so you thought youd take a sniff? the Prof said, nodding.

It . . . I dont know how to explain this, exactly. Mom says, sometimes, when people talk, you just know theyre wrong. Not about the facts I mean theyre wrong people. I never heard him talk myself, but, even secondhand from Tatrine, I was . . .

So I poked around until I found the Web site. And I put in his name. There were actually four guys with the same name in their system, but one was still incarcerated, and the other two were white, so they couldnt be him. His date of birth sounded about right, from the way Tatrine described him, too.

But it wasnt any armed robbery hed been sent away for. It was sodomy in the second degree. I looked that one up, too. The only way he could have been convicted of that is if the victim couldnt consent because they were drunk, or drugged, or . . .

Or a kid, I finished for him.

Yeah, he said, teeth clenched.

You showed this all to Tatrine?

Yeah.

And she didnt believe you?

Not . . . not at first. After a while, she did, I know.

How?

Because she came over to where I was sitting, in the library, and asked me to come outside. She told me I had been right. About her . . . about him, I mean. He admitted it. He told her the whole thing had been a pack of lies, cooked up by his little stepsister, because she resented her mothers new husband. That was his father they were all living together.

He told Tatrine he had pleaded guilty he must have thought she knew more than she really did because they promised him only a four-year max. And he couldnt take a chance on a jury believing the little liar; then they might have put him away forever.

He said he never told people about it because they wouldnt understand. He wasnt ashamed of being in prison, but he knew nobody would ever give him a chance to tell his side of the story.

But Tatrine did, huh? I said, reading his face.

Yeah.

And you wanted to tell her a few things yourself, didnt you, kid? I thought, into the silence.

How did it end up? Clarence asked. Obviously, he had only heard the beginning of the story.

I dont know, Terry said, not hearing the desolation in his own voice. I see Tatrine around campus once in a while. But she never comes anywhere near me. And the number I had for her its no good anymore.

Three nights later. The trackdown I was working on was taking a lot longer than I had expected. I knew that the woman I was looking for had to be somewhere in New York State. And that she owned a house, most likely in a rural area.

But what I really needed was a phone number. When I have to approach people who knew my old face, voice contact is the smartest first move.

Any other time, I would have gone to Wolfes network. But I figured they wouldnt be operational, not with all this hanging over her.

I couldnt see the DAs Office investing in full-time surveillance, and I didnt think anyone they had was good enough to shadow Wolfe without her picking it up, anyway. But I wanted to be sure I was the first one to see whatever got turned up.

The phone made its noise.

What? I said.

Hi, chief! Pepper, almost back to full bounce. Got time to meet with an old friend?

If its a good enough friend, Ive always got the time.

Great! Shes a very good friend, but not an old one. In fact, you just met her recently.

Is there going to be anyone else there?

Oh, no, Pepper said. You know how third wheels always spoil dates.

Right. Same place?

No. Shell be at the message center say, eleven?

Do you really think thats an appropriate spot?

Why not? Pepper said, a faint giggle under her voice. Its a nice, intimate little place. And you can decide where you want to go from there.

Eleven, I promised.

Okey-dokey, she said.

I admired Peppers professionalism. Even if there was a wiretap order which was way past unlikely and even if they somehow knew which phone Pepper was using that night, nothing in our conversation would tell a listener that my date for the night was named Molly.

I started to make myself some soup, and sat down to think things through.

A few years back, Max and I were sitting in my booth at Mamas. It was late afternoon, and we had already spent hours handicapping the nights races at Yonkers. Mama had finally lost her patience. If we had been playing cards, she would have been fine with it. Mama loves gambling, but betting on horses always struck her as downright degenerate.

No work today, right? she demanded.

Were waiting, Mama, I explained, for the fourth time. We cant go to work until tonight.

Work for making money. What you do, you lose money. Big circle, no end.

Max hotly defended our two-man gambling syndicate, pulling out his notebook, with our fully documented record for the year to date. We had wagered a total of six thousand four hundred and twenty dollars, and had a solid sixty-five hundred in the kitty.

So? Mama sneered, profoundly unimpressed. You not lose money, not lose money yet anyway. What is that? Just how you say it? big . . . hobby. Men always have hobby. Womans hobby is work.

We are working, Mama. Its just not time yet to

Sure, sure. Okay for you, Burke. You have no wife, she said, adding a new accusation to her endless list. And no baby. But you, she said, pointing a gun-barrel finger at Max, no excuse.

When Immaculata first came into Maxs life, Mama dismissed her as a bar girl, a wide-ranging insult that could mean just about anything. But a nanosecond after Max announced he was going to be a father, Immaculata went from no-status to goddess in Mamas eyes. And ever since, Mama had been pounding Maxs blessed fortune in finding such a perfect woman into his head.

Max spread his hands, put a What the hell did I do? expression on his face.

You know how cook? Make food? Mama asked, miming the question as she spoke.

Max made a stirring motion with his fist.

What you make? Mama demanded.

Max sipped from an imaginary spoon.

Soup? You make soup?

Max grinned, gesturing a man opening a can, pouring into a pot, turning on a stove, stirring.

That not make soup. In kitchen, here, make soup. Where you get soup?

Max gestured his way into a grocery store.

So! You not make soup, you buy soup, right?

Max nodded, glumly.

What you get soup with? Money. How you get money? Work. Not play games, work. Okay?

Max and I decided wed start a little early that evening.

Now I waited for the soup to warm up on my hotplate. It had come from a container I keep in the refrigerator. Mamas soup, sure. But at least it wasnt from a can.

The message center is a basement poolroom, in a building no reputation could be low enough to live up to. Inside, its like the Fifties never went away. Theyve got a few top-shelf tables all heavy, carved wood, with green felt and leather pockets. Lights suspended from the ceiling on long chains hang over the tables; overhead wires are strung with beads, for scorekeeping. Its no Julians, but not even Julians is, anymore.

The guy who runs the joint has been an old man since I was a kid. Rumor has it that he was a pro once, but nobodys ever seen him pick up a stick. He keeps the tables beautifully maintained tight, grippy cloth, fresh rails, and dead level. But thats strictly a labor of love; people who come to his basement mostly dont give a damn.

The old man is a human telegraph machine. You drop your money in the slot, you send a message. Someone wants to reach out for you, they do the same.

There are other services, too. I have my own cue, a custom job. It was built back before they used special breaking cues for nine-ball. Weighed in at a svelte thirty-two ounces even before I wrapped the butt end in several layers of friction tape. Like all of the good ones, it unscrews in the middle.

But mine has another feature, a little compartment in the fat end. If you know which cue is mine, you come in and ask the old man to rent number thirteen, and he hands it to you . . . after you put up a thousand-dollar deposit.

When youre done playing with my cue, you bring it back. The old man gives you nine hundred and fifty bucks, and removes your message. And whenever I drift down to the basement, I can read whatever you paid the half-century to write down for me . . . after I pay the old man the storage fee thats always past due.

The system is no good for emergencies, and everyone knows it. Even telling the old man direct is only going to work if I call in. He wont make calls, not for any kind of money. Not to anybody, which is why hes been in business so long.

The poolroom may have regulars I dont go there enough to know but its not Cheers. Greeting anyone coming in by name would be a mistake, one the old man never makes.

I got there around ten, ransomed my cue, and pointed at one of the two tables that are set at opposite ends of the basement, each in a separate corner. I walked over, took the triangular RESERVED sign off the felt, and started knocking the balls around, getting the feel.

If Id taken any table but one of the two corner ones, sooner or later someone would have drifted over, asked me if I wanted to play something for something. But everyone knew what the corner tables were for. You rent those, too.

It only took a few minutes for me to realize that it wasnt just a case of me being rusty I wasnt the same, and I never would be. My eyes arent just two different colors now they dont work as a team anymore. When you lose binocular vision, you lose depth perception, too. Not such a big deal driving a car which is why theyll give a one-eyed man a license but youll never get work threading needles.

I tell myself that Im a man who doesnt mourn his losses, just cherishes his memories. Sometimes, thats the truth. And sometimes, when I think of Pansy, or of Belle, its a lie.

If you believe only a crazy man would miss a dog and a woman with equal pain, you dont know what love-driven loyalty means to our tribe. Or what well do for it. Do to you, if you get in its way.

I couldnt ever hope to find the cops who shot Belle. Anyway, that hadnt been personal. She had drawn their fire on purpose, to keep them off me, out-driving the whole pack of them, heading for the junkyard. She won that race, but it was her last one. I found her, riddled, hanging on until I could get there and tell her I loved her. The only time I ever did.

Belles mother was her sister. She had sent Belle running when her father put Belle next on his list. Belle was still running when I met her. A pro getaway driver, as good behind the wheel as any I had ever known. When she put her heart in my hands, she put her trust in me, too.

After she left me, what I had to do was written as clear and clean as her love had been. I found her father, and I killed him.

Years later, people whod been paid to cancel my ticket set up an ambush. They sprung their trap on me, never expecting a hellhound to come charging out of the trunk of my car. By the time Pansy had ripped out the throat of one of them, they were shooting in self-defense.

As soon as I escaped from the hospital, I went looking for them. That took a lot longer, because I didnt know who they were. But I found them. When I did, the pain didnt stop. But it changed.

Ill never truly know if Id done all that for them, or for me. Not for sure. What I did know is, they wouldnt have cared.

Youre here now, I said in my mind. Get what you came for.

I didnt concentrate on pocketing balls, only worked the white one, focusing on my stroke. I was just starting to feel okay about my draw when Molly Sands came downstairs.

It only took a second for his cops eyes to pick me out. It took less than that for everyone else there to make him for what he was.

A little nine-ball? I asked him.

Eight-balls my game, he said. And Im used to smaller tables.

Bar tables, I thought, keeping it off my face. Sure, I said. Ill rack them, you break.

Sands was an appalling player. He managed to pocket a solid, then muffed an easy shot on the three ball.

Whats new? I asked him, as I chalked up.

The techs got a good look at the slugs.

And?

They cant tell for sure, without a barrel to match them to, but the guy they have in charge says hed bet a years pay it didnt come from any cheap piece. He says you can always tell the workmanship, and whatever the shooter was using was quality.

Doesnt mean much, I said, pocketing the ten in the corner, then deliberately blowing a shot on the fifteen.

Well, a gangbanger might use a cheap-ass twenty-five in some neighborhoods, they sell them like hot dogs. But a baby caliber in a good gun, thats something a pro might use.

A twenty-two, sure, I agreed. They hit hard enough, if you place them perfect. But a twenty-five? Never heard of it.

I did, Sands said. After I checked around, I heard of something even smaller, too. Beretta used to make a twenty-two short. Smaller than a twenty-five. The whole piece, I mean, not just the bullet. Fucking tiny. The gun guy I spoke with even said it was called an assassins special. Mossad used to use it, all the time.

Mossad? Yeah, Im so fucking sure. Every gun nut around has got a Mossad story, but youre grasping at straws with this one, pal.

Is that right? he demanded, face flushing in the overhead lights. How can you be so positive? You take subsonic ammo, put a silencer on the piece, you could probably do someone in church, nobodyd even look up from praying. And, remember, the shooter picked up his brass; thats a pro touch.

Youre riding the wrong bus, I said. A pro wouldnt use a bullet like that anywhere but a head shot. Never mind fucking Mossad, okay? Caliber like that, those guys would have gone for a triple-tap. Unless youre saying the ammo was tipped?

No, it was all hardball.

No hollowpoints, no cyanide for a make-sure, and no head shots. Plus, whoever tried to do him didnt stay around long enough to finish the job. Yeah, youre right a professional assassin would be my first guess, too.

They could have heard someone coming, he said, lamely.

Not from the way you laid it out the first time. Anyway, we both know, someone walks into the middle of a pro hit, there would have been one more body.

Despite my best efforts, I won the first two racks.

You want a beer? I asked him.

You know a place?

I can get you one here. The old man at the desk will part with a bottle or two. No hard stuff, though.

Yeah, he said. A beer would go good.

I left him at the table, scored two icy bottles of Rogue Ale from the old man its the only brand he carries, so I figure its what he drinks himself.

Here you go, I said, handing him a brown glass twenty-two-ouncer and a church key. I put the other, unopened, on a stool.

Thanks, he said. Then, They moved him.

To where?

He gave me a cop look, said, I dont think so.

But not a hospital?

Right. Not a hospital.

And not in a lockup?

Hes the victim, Sands said, face set in rigid lines.

You came a long way if this is all you want to tell me, I said, pocketing the thirteen and drawing into position on the eight. Across the side.

I banked it in.

Nice shot, Sands said. Ill rack.

Make sure you get it tight, I said, coming over to where he was standing.

Hes added a lot of details, Sands said. His voice was pitched so low I had to lean close to pick it up. Nothing that you could prove wrong. He had plenty of chances to eyeball her during the trial.

What details, then?

What shes supposed to have said, like that.

So hes staying with his story, thats what you came to tell me?

Its a good story, Sands said. Got to be. Where theyre keeping him, how theyre doing it, theyre spending real money.

A story about . . . her?

Thats the part I dont know, he said. Not yet.

We kept playing. I could see he was deciding whether he could part with another card he was holding. That gun stuff hed told me was no big deal. Wed get it ourselves from the discovery motions sooner or later. All that Mossad bilge was a Hail Mary, and he knew it.

I dont know what Wolfe had told him about me, or what he had picked out of the whisper-stream himself. Either way, he wasnt about to tell me where the only living witness who could connect Wolfe to a crime was holed up.

Maybe it was him finally winning a game; maybe it was him knowing that the second beer was also the last. As I racked the balls, he stood very close to me, whispered, Hes got a sister.

You think she might have?

No, he said. She was the one who found him.

That doesnt mean

It wasnt her, Sands said. Since he was ready to blame mythical Israeli assassins based on nothing more than gun-show gossip, I figured he had truly spectacular reasons for excluding the sister, but I didnt press it.

Shell surface, sooner or later, I said.

Not till trial, if it goes that far.

Shes a witness. The DA has to

Maybe. Maybe not.

Let me guess. Shes married, doesnt have the same name as him.

Bingo.

Thats the kind of thing a good PI could dig up on his own, I said, reassuringly.

You think Im worried about?

I think you should be, I said. Sometimes, its a good precaution to change the combination on your lock, just in case the wrong person might have picked up on it.

He regarded me for a long few seconds. Not trying to stare me down, or even read me. My face was just something for him to focus on while he made up his mind.

Laura W. Reinhardt, he said, very softly, then dropped his voice even more as he spelled her name and delivered her address.

AYW Enterprises, Mick answered the phone.

I know its late, I said. But can you and your partner drop over for a few minutes?

Was it worthwhile, chief? Pepper asked, an hour later.

He had a lot, I told her. But a piece of it has to be worked, okay? I dont want to ask Wolfe, but I dont want to farm it out, either.

I dont know. . . .

Look, Pepper, heres the deal. Sands found out the witnesss name. Its Wycheks sister.

Oh!

Yeah. And thats all I got: her name, and an address. I figure I only get one shot at her, and I dont want to go in blind.

So you want our . . . you want us to do a background for you, but you dont want her to know?

Right, I said. We both knew the her Pepper was talking about wasnt Wycheks sister.

What difference would it make if we told?

I know how Davidson works, I said, catching Mick looking at me out of the corner of my eye. His face was its usual stone slab. If he gets the right ADA not a PR guy like Lansing, whoevers going to get stuck actually trying this turkey of a case hell walk Wolfe in there and offer to let them polygraph her.

Why? Mick demanded.

Because, one, he knows shell pass. Two, hed have a deal in hand she passes, they drop the case and start looking for the real shooter. A good ADA would turn around and ask Wychek if he wants to try the lie box. See?

So what does having us do the background on the sister have to do with that?

Theyre not going to let Wolfe pick her own polygrapher. Im not saying their guy would be dishonest, but he might not be top drawer. If Wolfe knows about the sisters ID before shes supposed to, thats too much guilty knowledge. She might bounce the needles over to inconclusive. No good.

Why would knowing that make her feel guilty? Mick asked.

Not about herself, I said. About Sands.

They exchanged a quick look.

Give us what you have, Pepper said.

Two days later, I was ready to make a move. I picked mid-morning for the call, when someone was most likely to be awake and alert. And not easily spooked.

Its me, Helene, I said. Do you recognize my voice?

I . . . think so.

Its been a long time since I visited, I said. When you had that little apartment over in Ridgewood.

Its coming back to me, maybe, she said, cautiously.

That was when you were looking for financing, to buy your house. Im an old friend of your husbands, and he had asked me to look into one of the possibilities.

Uh-huh.

Anyway, Im going to be in the neighborhood, and I thought Id drop in to see your husband.

Im sure hed like that.

Only thing, I know his company runs a tight ship, and I want to make sure I can get past security. My name wouldnt be on the approved list.

I see. Well, as a matter of fact, I have to run over to his office later today, and Ill ask him to take care of that. But, you know, his company does a rather extensive background check, Mr. . . .

Haywood, I told her. Robert Lee Haywood.

Oh, of course! she said. How are you?

Terrific, I assured her. Still living in Yonkers. Still working as a paralegal, self-employed.

I know I have that address around here somewhere. . . .

Oh, dont trouble yourself, I said. Let me give you all the info, so you can update your Rolodex.

Helenes husband was a man called Silver. Him and me went back. Far and deep. The Prof had sent me to him a long time ago, when we were all Inside.

Listen and learn, Schoolboy, he said. Silver knows the play, the old way, see? Hes a quality thief. Good gunfighter, too, way I heard it.

A hit man?

No, fool. I said gunfighter, not gunman.

Whats the difference?

A gunfighter, the other guys shooting back.

We were talking quietly on the yard, Silver telling me a secret in his hard-sad voice. I dont mess with the sissies in here. Theyre like bitches on the street, get you into a knife fight in a minute. My wifes pictures in my house I jack off to it every night, looking at her. These other guys, they do it to girls in the skin magazines. Those aint real people they dont know those girls. Me, Im making love to my wife. To Helene. Those other guys, theyre just playing with themselves.

Silver did his time, counting the days. Never made trouble for anyone.

One bleak day, someone went in his cell and stole his wifes picture. Anyone could have done it; prisons like that. If the thief hadnt turned out to be a black guy, Silver might have turned out different himself.

The Prof tried to ease it down. Told Silver it was just a picture his wife would send him another one. Told the thief, a rapist named Horace, that he was risking a shank in the back for nothing. Even volunteered to handle the transfer himself. Horace had a better way, he thought. Got himself an African name, joined some crew.

A few weeks later, I filled out a pass for Horace to report to the psychiatrist he thought he was going to score some meds. Silver was waiting for him in the corridor.

Silver got cut. Horace got dead.

Their blood on the institutional-green concrete walls dried to an abstract even the guards could interpret. Every con in the place knew what was coming next.

When Horaces crew moved on Silver, he went the only place he could. And hed been with the Brotherhood ever since.

That was another reason Id never turned over the search for Helenes number to Wolfes crew her address wasnt information I wanted them to have. It all went back to when Wolfe was still a prosecutor. We were both hunters then Wolfe for justice, me for cash and our paths would cross every once in a while.

One of those times, it was because a baby had disappeared. Rats dug up his body. When Wolfe announced the name of the man they were looking for, the whole city cheered her on. But when Wolfe said she wasnt going to let the babys mother and the killers girlfriend play Hedda Nussbaum, some of the domestic-violence support groups had turned on her, working themselves into a knee-jerk Youre blaming the victim! froth.

The smart money was that Wolfe had overplayed her hand, especially because the girlfriend was all she had the killer wasnt in custody, whereabouts unknown.

I ended up in that one. So deep that I came away with a debt of my own.

The killers name was Emerson. They finally grabbed him, hanging around outside a Welfare center. He was waiting for another woman to come out and turn over the check that was supposed to feed her children. The judge remanded him, and they shipped him to Rikers.

Silver had a stash, one he couldnt get to. Money Helene needed to buy a house, be near him to the end. I got that done.

The day that Silver said he owed me forever for that, I was visiting him on the Rock, dressed up in a lawyer suit. I showed Silver a mug shot. Whispered Emersons name, as I slid my thumbnail across the throat of the baby-killers picture.

Silver moved his head a couple of inches.

Emerson never went to trial.

I hadnt seen Silver since.

When I called Helene back, she was friendly but brisk.

My husband would love to see you again, she said. I know he had retained a new attorney to work on his appeal, but I had no idea youd end up being on the case, too, Robert.

Well, this way, you know hell get the best possible effort, I said.

He deserves it, Helene said, sadly.

Robert Lee Haywood? Davidson said. Sounds like you should be from Mississippi, not Manhattan.

Thats where my daddys from, I told him, straight-faced.

I see. And how long will I have to be representing this Silver guy?

Long as you want. I only need to see him the one time.

And you do not want me to mention this to my client, for some reason?

A good reason, I said. Trust me.

Davidson gave me a look, but he signed the papers.

The next morning, I drove out to the Delta parking lot at La Guardia, walked through the terminal, and then grabbed the shuttle to Hertz.

Robert Lee Haywoods Visa card didnt draw a second glance from the energetic young woman at the counter. She was too busy telling me that they had this wonderful plan where I could have reserved a car in advance, so it would have been waiting for me.

Yeah, I said. I remember those O. J. Simpson commercials.

She gave me a look way too blank to be hostile, then went right back into her spiel, pitching me more options than a high-class whorehouse. We finally settled on a Cadillac, once she checked her computer and told me that they had a dark-blue STS model on the lot.

I took the Whitestone Bridge to the Bronx, grabbed I-95, and headed north.

I always drive on a risk-gain system. If Im not in a hurry, I dont speed. And if I speed, I dont play around. So I set the cruise control to 70, let the radios station-finder take me to a moron-hosted talk show, and zoned out.

Terry and Clarence hadnt finished scanning every scrap of paper Sands had photocopied into their computer. But theyd had no trouble pulling out all the institutional stops Wychek had made. As soon as they told me he had done some of his time in Dannemora they call it Clinton now I had started looking for Helene.

Blacks hate doing time out in the boonies. Not just because its such a long trip for their families to visit, but because the guard population is all local which means pretty much all-white. For a man with Silvers brand, it was a better joint than one of the downstate gladiator schools. Quieter, easier to do long time in.

And Helenes house was close enough for her to come every visiting day.

I could tell Silver had stamped his personality on the place by the way the guards dealt with me. Davidson had called them in advanceNever hurts to be courteous, hed said and they knew who I was coming to see. They couldnt have been more polite, even during the obligatory run through the metal detector and cursory search of my attaché case. I returned the favor.

They brought Silver down to the conference room, and left us alone. We did a simultaneous double-take.

I had forgotten how some guys dont age in prison. Youd think the environment would turn them all into old men, real quick. But for some of them, its a goddamned tonic. Regular exercise, the right food which means the right connections and that slow-speed life-style you fall into there. Guys who wouldnt take a shower but once a month on the outside would spend hours on daily personal grooming. Men who never glanced past the sports pages on the bricks would read a newspaper cover to cover. The longer it took to do anything, the faster time passed. Once you understood that, you were a convict.

Silver didnt look a day older than when Id last seen him. And, for the face I was wearing now, there hadnt been a last time for Silver.

I was expecting another guy, he said, across from me.

You were expecting the guy Helene spoke to on the phone, I told him, keeping my voice down. And, I hoped, familiar.

Huh! he said, pulling his head back a little.

The Prof sends his respect, I said.

Never lost mine, Silver said. Hard words for someone who hadnt spoken to any black man, except to make threats, in years. But Silver was hard enough to say them.

You need more? I asked.

Not to listen, he said, still guarded.

To shake my hand?

For that, yeah.

Okay. Before I went into legal work, I apprenticed to an architect, I said, paying the toll. I can look at a place from the outside, pretty much tell you what it looks like from the inside. I dont care if its an apartment in Ridgewood or a semi-attached in Gerrit

Sometimes, Silver cut me off, the way things go down, a guy knows something. He tells another guy. Then this other guy, it seems like he knew it from the beginning. You understand what Im saying?

Yeah, I said, not offended. So how do you tell, then?

Sometimes, you dont, Silver said. Then all you can do, until youre sure, is keep listening.

John Anson Wychek, I said, getting right to it. He did time here. Im working on something

For him?

Against him. He got himself shot a little while back. Didnt die. He named a friend of mine as the shooter.

So?

So he did about six years in Siberia, when you were still up there. Im trying to get a picture of him. I dont know if he was the bull of his block, or spent the whole time in PC, or anything in between.

If you know where he did time, you have to know what for, too, Silver said. He was a skinner. A fucking little tree-jumper.

That doesnt tell me anything. Remember Mestron?

Silver nodded, eyes narrowing in on me. Only someone whod done time with Mestron would know how that heinous freak loved saying that little kids were the best to fuck you could just grab their legs and split them like wishboning a chicken, slide in on their blood.

If you believed the movies, youd think a scumbag like Mestron wouldnt be safe on the yard. All convicts hate baby-rapers, dont they? But if you had ever seen men step aside when Mestron came along, youd know the truth. He was a baby-raper, all right. A baby-raper who carried, and a baby-raper who killed.

Short, hyper-muscled, and viper-quick, Mestron was never without a shank of some kind. You might get away with avoiding him, but you couldnt insult him unless you were ready to risk your life for it. Nobody claimed Mestron. Not the Muslims, not the Mau Maus, not the wannabe Crips and Bloods. But nobody tried to stop him when he moved in on some fresh new kid, either.

Hes not with us anymore, Silver said, his lips barely tracing a smile.

Whoever took him out should get a pardon for public service.

He didnt go that way, Silver said. Motherfucker died of AIDS.

Oh, Christ. All those kids . . .

Nah. He got it right in here. The slimeball wolfed in on a new fish. Everybody in the joint knew the kid was sick, but he killed his mother and father, so he was coming Inside no matter how sick he was. But they must have forgotten to tell fucking Mestron. Word is, the kid didnt even put up a fight. Must have wanted to make sure he could kill one more before he checked out.

Good, I said, wondering why a young man with AIDS would kill his parents. And then not wondering at all.

The hacks wont come in here, Silver said. You mind taking off your shirt?

So you can see if Im wired?

No. To see if theres anything I recognize.

Then I remembered. The puncture scar below the deltoid on my right side. A few inches lower, and the shank would have found the home it was looking for. That was back when we were both Inside, during race-war time. Silver had come to see me in the infirmary right after it happened.

I stood up, took off my jacket, unbuttoned my shirt. Theres a lot of new ones. From when they had to work on me. Thats when my face got changed.

I turned around, pulled up my shirt and T-shirt together, exposing my back and locking my arms at the same time. Voluntarily helpless.

I felt Silver moving in behind me. I stood very still.

Big Herk sure saved your ass that day, brother, he said, softly.

I pulled down both shirts, buttoned up, readjusted my tie, put on my jacket. And shook hands with Silver.

Wychek was no Mestron, Silver said. He was maybe five-nine. A skinny little guy, a buck-fifty max, and all of that flab. Punk wouldnt have the stones to stab his own meatloaf.

So he locked down for his whole stay?

No, Silver said, eyes tight on mine. He had protection.

Wychek? Dont tell me he was a family man?

We had him covered, Silver said. The Brotherhood.

He proved in?

He was a weasel, Silver said. And Im not talking about his size. He wouldnt have had the heart to talk to us, never mind pass a blood test. Covering him was a contract job.

So he never inked up? I asked, looking at the parallel pair of lightning bolts tattooed on the side of Silvers corded neck.

That wasnt the deal. We didnt have to pretend he was one of us, just get the word out that he was under our protection.

Like bodyguards?

You know how it is in here, he said. Thats exactly what it was like.

I left the max on the books for you, I told Silver. Still fifty bucks a drop, huh?

For visitors, yeah. But theres no limit on what you can hold in your account, if its mailed in.

Anything I can do for you in that department? I asked.

No. Were square. Weve been through all that.

Done, and done, I agreed. Same book, but this is a new chapter, right?

Not to me, brother, he said.

I let myself go quiet for a minute, working out the odds.

Contract like that, long-term, must have been expensive, I probed, gently.

Weve done more for less, Silver said.

Its not against the law, to protect a guy. Not a crime to get paid for doing it.

Silver met my eyes, didnt take the bait.

People come in here, its a terrifying place, I said. If they dont have friends around, if they dont ride with a crew, they have to make choices, quick. Some of them get shaken down. Maybe for their commissary, maybe for whatever they can get out of their families, but its usually not that much, I went on, leaving out the other ways a man could buy his safety. Some guys come in here, they got no friends, but they got a lot of money. Or a lot of clout. Or maybe theyve got skills, I said, thinking of a fraud-sentenced lawyer I knew who opened an appellate practice in his cell and lived pretty good. But, the way I see this, Wychek didnt have any of that.

Silver watched me, neutral and waiting.

So he bought protection. Only it wasnt him paying.

Still nothing from Silver.

So Im guessing it didnt go through him at all. The protection was in place before he even arrived.

Silver nodded his head, just a fraction.

So whoever paid, hed have to know how to reach someone high in the organization. Someone on the outside, with a pipeline to all the units behind the Walls.

Silvers eyes narrowed.

And none of thats my business, I said. But if I could find out who hired the Brotherhood, Id know something that might help my friend.

Silver shook his head. Some questions, you ask them, it starts people guessing. I dont want those kind of guesses about me. There was this guy. High up, proved in, even celled with a leader, okay? When he got short, everyone Inside all over, not just this joint everyone was watching, because, soon as he made the door, he was supposed to be kicking it off. RAHOWA?

I nodded, both to confirm for Silver I knew he meant the racial holy war the White Night underground has been wet-dreaming about ever since George Lincoln Rockwell, and to keep him talking.

But he ends up getting busted before it even starts. Some penny-ante bank job that went wrong, or something, Im not sure. Took a few guys with him when he went down, too. And then comes the bombshell. Turns out the guys no Aryan. In fact, hes half mud. You see what Im saying? Nobody gets all-the-way trusted anymore. I cant play myself out of position.

I understand, I told him.

This . . . friend of yours. Thats legit, right? Not someone youre working for, someone you . . . ?

Yeah, I said, tapping my heart twice.

Silver leaned in close. I did the same.

I could never find out who hired us, brother. Cant be done. I couldnt even ask. Im not the shot-caller in here. Something like that, it would . . . start things, things I cant handle. I promised Helene.

Thats okay. I

I dont know if this will help you. But when you were talking about ink, I flashed on it. Wychek, he had to take shower time with us a lot you know why. Hes got a tattoo. On his forearm. Just a letter and some numbers.

But hes way too young to have been

 one of those old Jews? Right. Wouldnt be that, anyway. He knew more about Nazi stuff than most of the guys in the organization. Hated kikes himself. Knew all about Nietzsche. Read him in the original German, Silver said. Mein Kampf, too. He was a real smart guy. The undertone of contempt in his voice was so faint I couldnt be sure I was hearing it at all.

You think maybe the tattoo was just a way of mocking the whole thing? I asked. Like the people who say the whole concentration-camp thing was a myth?

The Holohoax? Silver said, one corner of his mouth twisting a little. No, it wasnt that. I asked him about it once. He told me it was a message, written in the code of Nietzsche. I figured he was one of those guys, tunes into his own private station, you know what Im talking about.

Sure.

But maybe he was in a crew, and that was their mark.

And that would be who paid . . . ?

Could be.

Do you remember what it?

This isnt the kind of place where you keep a diary, Silver said. But I watch, real close. And I always remember. It was just the letter V, then the number seven, a one, a period, a zero, and another one.

This? I asked, showing him what I had written on my legal pad: v-71.01.

The V was bigger, he said. Like the first letter of a word. And there was no dash or nothing. Not even a space.

V71.01, I showed him.

He nodded. Thats it.

Was it facing away from him, or toward him?

Away. I could read it right side up.

He never said anything more about it?

No. It wasnt like I ever talked to him that much. Look, it probably doesnt mean nothing. Hes a fucking psycho. Who knows whats in their minds?

Its more than I had when I came up here, brother, I said.

Like I said

Yeah. They let you smoke in here?

Not supposed to. But the guys who brought me down, they wont care. Go ahead.

Thanks, I said. I shook a cigarette out of the pack in my briefcase, put it in my mouth. I held the pack out to Silver. He shook his head. I reached down, ripped the page where I had written down the tattoo from the legal pad. Added a few sheets from underneath it, even though Id used a soft-tip marker. I tore the paper carefully, so the writing was all on one thin strip, a few pages deep. Then I struck a wooden match, held it to the paper until it started burning.

I brought the burning paper to the end of my cigarette, got the tobacco working. I held the paper in my hand until it was flamed down to only a couple of inches, the tattoo writing long since consumed. I dropped the last of the burning paper on the desk between us, let it char the surface with its last flickers.

Finally, I ground the little bit of blackened paper left between my fingers, blew the ash into the air.

Pretty slick scam, this one, Silver said. Me having a lawyer for another appeal. I told Helene not to waste any more money on shysters. Even if I could beat one of the cases . . .

Its no scam, I said, handing him one of Davidsons business cards. Ask Helene to send copies of all your paperwork to this guy.

I just told you

And I heard every word, brother. Besides, I said, winking at him, everyone knows Jews make the best lawyers, right?

It is all ready, mahn, Clarence said, as excited as Terry was. Come on!

He showed me how to use what Terry called a find, match, and assemble two-key combo. Then he pointed to a huge flat-screen monitor that hadnt been there when Id last taken a look. Here is our working grid, Burke, the West Indian said, knowing he was showing off, proud to be doing it.

The screen was paper-white, the letters against it sharp-edged black. That TFT technique is so sweet on an LCD, Terry said to Clarence, but its really wasted on just words and numbers you should see what it does for graphics.

Clarence nodded gravely. He hit some keys, and the screen filled.

We couldnt get it all on one screen, Terry said, pushing a key so that the list continued to scroll, not without going to a microfont, and what would be the point?

Its amazing, I said. You have all this stuff on each case?

Thats just . . . Well, it is hard work, but its just vacuuming, really, the kid said. Anyone could do it, if they were diligent enough. Its the algorithm thats going to make the difference.

What would that?

Youll be able to see if he was . . . escalating. Or changing his pattern. Or if he could leave some . . . things out sometimes, but if there were some things he had to have in there, every time.

Yeah . . . I said, slowly.

Mahn, explain something to me, Clarence said. This freak, he did all these rapes, yes?

Thats what we think. For now, anyway. None of the cases have been cleared.

So what good would it do . . . how would it help your . . . how would it help Miss Wolfe if you could prove that he did?

We dont have to prove he did any of them, I said. What we have to figure out is which of the victims was sure it was him. Because thats where well find our shooter. Maybe.

Whats up with the doubt, son? the Prof asked. I thought that was our way to play.

Thats half of it, I said. We all know what the other half is. We put together enough to nail this freak on one of the rapes he never got arrested for, we trade him that for him dropping this crap about Wolfe shooting him.

But that means he gets away with? Terry said, dampened by reality.

We have to get cold to make him fold, so fucking what? the Prof cut him off. The little mans voice was as hard as the choice we might have to make. And as certain.

It might not come to that, I said. Theres something else now.

I was still laying out what Id gotten from Silver when the intercom sounded.

Theres a girl down here, boss. Asking for you.

She new to you?

Never saw her before, boss. And, believe me, this isnt a woman any man would ever forget.

Did she say a name?

Nah. What she said was, you send someone down to escort her up; shes not going up those stairs by herself.

I didnt need a closer description who else plays countess in a flophouse? Her names Michelle, I told Gateman. Shes with us, so youll know next time. Tell her an escorts on the way, would you?

We were still waiting on Michelle when the intercom went off again.

Boss, sorry to bother you. And if this is none of my business, just say so, okay?

What?

That girl shes on her way up the kid you sent down for her, thats really her son?

Yep.

No way! She must have had him when she was . . . Uh, boss, is she hooked up?

For life, Gateman, I said. Sorry.

Not as sorry as me, boss, the wheelchair-bound gunman said. That woman could raise the dead. And make em glad they came back.

Its Mom! Terry announced, as Michelle made her entrance. She was dressed in a chrome-colored sheath under a black bolero top, wearing a lipstick-red pillbox hat with matching spike heels.

Mama said you all were over here. She sat down lightly in the chair Clarence had pulled out for her, flashing him a dazzling smile as thanks.

I didnt want you to have to deal with those stairs until it was time for your skills, I told her, sidestepping the ever-present possibility that, somehow, Id hurt her feelings.

Ive got lots of skills, she said, honey-voice just this side of sharp.

Were going to catch him, Mom! Terry said, conveniently forgetting Plan B. You should see what we

Id like to see, Michelle said, eyes on me.

We were just going to start, honey, I said. Terrys put a lot of stuff into that computer. But until we

I already ran a rough sorting code through it, the kid interrupted. Im not done with the algorithm yet, but I could print out the first batch now, if you want.

Please, I said, catching the Profs slight shrug of resignation.

It was going to be an hour and a half, minimum, Terry told us. Clarence volunteered to go out and get some food, but I could see his heart wasnt in it. What he really wanted was to do whatever Terry was doing, learn some more.

Ill make the run, son, the Prof assured him.

The little man had barely started down the staircase when Michelle turned to me.

All this, just to . . . ?

. . . prove Wolfe didnt shoot him, thats right.

And you still think one of the . . . one of the women he raped did it?

Or her brother or her father or

 her big sister.

Yeah. Something like that. He was a suspect, so at least some of the investigators cops, DAs, who knows? could have given one of the victims his name. And maybe they put him in lineups, so he could have been IDed, too.

But if anyone had IDed him, wouldnt the police have?

I dont mean it that way, girl. Look, heres a scenario, okay? A womans raped. All she gets is a flash look at the guy who did it. Maybe its dark, maybe hes got his face covered, maybe he came at her from behind. . . . But theres other things that could finger him. Maybe he always uses a certain kind of knife, maybe he always tells the victims theyre whores, maybe he wears a certain kind of jacket. . . . Something tips the cops that hes the same guy who did some others. And maybe theyve got enough to make an arrest, but not enough to make it stick.

When it gets down to a lineup, the victim knows one of them is the man who raped her. She doesnt actually recognize any of them, but she catches a hint from one of the cops.

So maybe she didnt know what he looked like before, but now she knows, see? From there, its not that hard to put a name to the face.

And, anyway, when Wolfe finally nailed him for one of them . . . Michelle said.

Right. That made the press. Probably TV, too. The other victims, theyd have to assume their turn to testify is coming up. Only that never happens. But, still, hes in prison, with a twenty-five-year top. So they might have figured thatd hold him. And

 then he gets out. And the papers play it up, big.

Exactly. Theres more, too. Dont forget, he sent that letter to Wolfe at her I stopped short, cutting myself off.

What, baby? Michelle said, anxiously.

Terry! I yelled.

The kid came on the run. Whats up? Mom, are you?

Im fine, sweetheart, Michelle said. As for whatever Burke needed that was so urgent he forgot even a semblance of manners, youll have to

The files, they all have addresses in them. For each victim, right?

Sure, the kid said, puzzled.

The address where the rape occurred, and the address where the victim lived. Sometimes theyll be the same, sometimes not.

That is right, mahn, Clarence said. We noticed

Wolfe got that Ha ha! note, remember, I interrupted. Its part of the prosecutions case against her. Theyre saying thats what set her off, to go find him and gun him down.

The database is from the victims, Terry said. We wouldnt have anything on

Just listen, okay? I said. The freak didnt have Wolfes address. He sent it to the DAs Office, and they forwarded it to her.

I thought she went outlaw a long time ago, Michelle said. How could they even know where to?

She never gave up her law license, I said. And OCA Office of Court Administration makes every lawyer list a street address. No PO boxes, got to be a real one. Wolfe uses the address of a therapists office Lily, remember her? I said to Michelle, who nodded, paying attention now.

You think that letter Wolfe got, it wasnt the only one? Michelle said.

Could be. Maybe not the same exact letter, but something like it. Wolfe dropped him, what, six years ago? Ill bet the statute of limitations has run on all the rapes. Hes home free.

That means we cant Terry said, remembering the backup plan he had hated even hearing about.

Listen, I said. Ive known freaks who get off big-time on reminding their victims. This fuck, in his mind, he probably thinks when he beat that case he raped Wolfe, too, see?

So if he sent other letters . . . Michelle said, face upturned, her antenna fully extended.

Lets say youd been raped, I said, to them all. They never caught the guy who did it, but, later, you heard he went down for a different one. Then he gets out, with the case reversed, after its too late for anyone to do anything about yours. And then you get a letter in the mail. From the same freak who raped you, laughing at you. . . .

I would have to kill him, Clarence said. Or that pain would kill me.

Terry didnt say anything.

Having your face rubbed in it like that . . . Michelle said, softly.

Terry nodded, slowly.

Yeah, I said, letting it sink in. I did time once with a guy who killed a girl. A teenager, is all I remember about it. What he did was, every year, when the girls birthday came around, he would send her a birthday card, to her parents address.

Jesus, Terry said.

He wasnt worried about it hurting him with the Parole Board, I said. They were never going to cut him loose, anyway, and he knew it. The administration binged him threw him in solitary the second time he did it. Every liberal on the planet got involved. I mean, he was a prisoner, okay, but he still had his First Amendment rights, you know?

What happened? Michelle asked.

It never got settled, I said. In court, I mean. They let him out of the bing because of the lawsuit but he died before it could ever come to court.

How did he? Terry said, before he caught a warning look from his mother and clamped his jaw.

Now this freak, Wychek, hes not Inside anymore. Hes not even on parole or probation. No supervision at all. I dont know which of the victims would have public information about themselves available phone book, drivers license, own a home, like that. I dont know what kind of skills Wychek would have at getting that, anyway. But Im sure of this much: hell know every single address where he did a rape. Have them memorized.

We already have Terry started to say.

Right, I said. But what we dont have yet is which of those women still live at the same address where it happened.

I can do a public-records search on each name, Terry said. I should be able to tell you in a few hours, maybe a day.

I will help you, mahn, Clarence said. You will show me how to do it, yes?

Absolutely, the kid said. That way, itll go faster.

And for the ones you cant find, thats where I come in, Michelle said, both sad and proud to have her son so deep in our work.

If that is what happened . . . if he sent a letter to one of these women, and she went to shoot him, Clarence said, I could not trade her in, mahn. Not even for

That plans dead now, I said.

Lying.

When the Prof showed, he wasnt alone.

Mama laid so much chow on me, I had to bring the Max man along for the heavy lifting, he said.

Max, despite what looked like a stainless-steel garbage can in each hand, managed a bow to Michelle.

Let me have that, she said, with a gesture. No, wait. Bring it here.

Max followed her obediently.

How did you lug all that back here? I asked the little man.

Used Clarences ride, he said.

I raised my eyebrows. The Prof was only a marginally better driver than Max. My Plymouth had been built to near-NASCAR specs, and it would shrug off just about anything other than a high-speed dance with a stone wall. But Clarences 67 Rover 2000TC was a fragile, immaculately restored piece of machinery, one he treasured deeply.

Thats right, the Prof said, catching my look. That boys my joy. And his trust dont rust.

I heard Michelle in the room I used for a kitchen. She was ordering everyone around while simultaneously complaining about my pitiful lack of decent dishes or tableware.

Got you covered, little girl, the Prof yelled back to her. Mama sent some of that junk over; got it right here with me.

In a little while, we all sat around the big table, like a thieves Thanksgiving.

Let us pray, the Prof said.

Nobody laughed. Prof was short for Professor or Prophet, depending on how you knew him. I never fall, because I see it all, hed said when I first met him, half a lifetime ago.

May jackals refuse your bones, the little man said.

Amen, Michelle answered. She knew what we all did when the Prof says grace, he addresses our enemies, past, present, and future.

Nice of Mama to send all this stuff, I said, gesturing to the food spread out before us.

Max held his hand to his head, scrunched up his eyes to show a person in pain.

Bitched about it every second, right? I said.

Max nodded, gestured that Mama didnt understand why, if we wanted food, we didnt come to her place.

I told her to come along, the Prof said, but you know Mama dont sing that song.

Its delicious, Terry said, expertly wielding his chopsticks. Mama had thrown in a fork for me, underscoring her message that I shouldnt try this at home. Mom, do you know what this is?

Oh, its a combination of dishes, sweetheart, Michelle said, airily. Meaning, she didnt have a clue, and wasnt going to try a bluff, in case someone else did.

I looked around the table. My table, I thought. In my own place. With my own people. Its so . . . I reached my hand down, to scratch behind Pansys ears, like I always did, telling her to be patient, shed get her share of the score in a little while. Felt the dull gray blanket drop over my spirit.

I shoved it away. Walled it off.

This is perfect, I said.

Motherfucker didnt like black girls, the Prof said. Most of them white, a few Latins, couple of Asians. Probably would have done a Cherokee, if he could have found one. But not a one of them black.

That doesnt tell us anything, I said. Not yet, anyway.

Didnt Silver tell you the punk was a master-race freak? the little man demanded.

Sure. But so what? Some of the victims were Jewish at least, thats what youd think from their names and they couldnt have been high on his list, either, right?

Maybe he was afraid? Clarence said. A man like him, he would stand out in a black neighborhood. People might remember.

Or hassle him, sure, I said. From the way Silver described him, he was the kind of guy whod draw that kind of fire. But theres plenty of mixed neighborhoods in the city.

Rich dont count, the Prof said, sourly. Money dont know color. But look at the places where he hit. You wont find no doorman fronting any of those joints, true?

True, I agreed. But that doesnt take us where we need to go, Prof. Were not trying to put together some lame profile here. We know him. Its the victims were trying to figure out.

And this cant be all of them, Michelle said, flatly.

What do you mean, Mom? Terry asked, a worried expression on his face.

Oh, Im not talking about your work, sweetheart, she assured him. But what are the odds that every rape he did even got reported?

Zero, I answered.

On that wheel, double zero, the Prof said.

So it could be that it was one of the victims who shot him, but not one of the ones in our database, Clarence said, proudly slipping that last phrase in.

Its possible, I said. But not real likely. Lots of ways it could happen, a victim doesnt go to the police. But what were dealing with here, whoever popped him had to know who he was. And the only place they could get that info would be from the cops.

It is hard to know where to even start, Clarence said.

Well start with the ones who are still at the same address where it originally happened, I told them. Because theyre the ones most likely to have gotten a letter like Wolfe did.

Tomorrow, for sure, Terry promised. With Clarence helping me, I can have all

I could help, too, Michelle said.

I need you to help me, I said, catching Clarences quick glance of gratitude. Well need a couple of phones, and a bounce from Davidsons office. Business cards, a new set of ID . . .

Why dont you just ask? Michelle said.

Wolfes not in this, I told her. I looked around the table, making sure everyone was tuned to my frequency. All right? I said, to all of them, making sure.

So you want what, exactly? Davidson said.

To put another line in your office. Set on permanent forward to a different number. Come on, we did this before; you know how it works.

Thats fine for a business card, he said. But anyone with half a brain would look me up in the Yellow Pages, and make the inquiry to that number.

Sure. And all you have to say is that Im working on the case Wolfes case for you, as an investigator.

You being Robert Lee Haywood?

No, I said. Haywood was a paralegal. On Silvers case. Me, Im a new man, one you just hired for this case.

And your name would be . . . ?

Ill let you know, I said.

I dont know you, the skinny guy in the chartreuse silk tank top said.

But you know me, bitch, Michelle said, her slashy smile not blunting the edge on her words. And Im vouching for him. Whats your problem?

Oh, stop marking your territory, Gavin, an older man told the skinny guy. He was resplendent in a maroon blazer over a white shirt with a button-down collar and a blue-and-black-striped tie. He patted back his three-figure haircut and ambled over to where Michelle and I were standing at the counter. Come on in the back, he said. Well fix you right up.

Scott Baker? Michelle said, looking at the New York drivers license I was holding in my hand. There must be a million men with that name.

And your point is?

Yes, yes. But if I had the chance to keep picking different names for myself, I would want to select something with a little more . . . panache.

Thats cause youre you, I said. This, this is me.

That letter he sent you, did you ever?

A copy of that letter is all I ever saw, Wolfe said. So, if youre going to ask me about forensics . . .

No. Whats the point? We know who sent it.

So what about the letter?

You went over it, right? Not for prints, but for . . . whatever it could tell you. Like if it was done on a typewriter, or pasted words out of a

It was a pure generic, Wolfe said. Type O blood. Even without the original, I could tell you it was typed in Courier, ten-pitch or twelve-point, depending on whether it was a typewriter or a computer font no way to tell from a copy. Ragged right margins, double-spaced, one-inch border. No misspellings. Nothing bolded, or in italics, or anything like that.

You look for convict-code? I asked her. Meaning, messages formed by the first letter of each word.

Sure, she said, dispiritedly. The whole thing was a zero.

Return address? Postmark?

The DAs Office didnt see fit to send me a copy of the envelope, she said, cold-voiced.

Then how would you know how to?

What? Find him? Are you serious?

I know you could find him. Thats what . . . thats one of the things you do. And the DAs Office would know that, too, sure. But Wychek himself wouldnt.

Is it really that important?

It . . . could be. Can you find out if there was a return address on the envelope? And if it was the same one as where he got shot?

I hate to ask. . . .

Sands? Hell be glad you did, I said, feeling that same truth inside myself.

Theres no such thing as a standard victim. Even if you could manage to duplicate a trauma exactly, you could never be sure that any two people would react to it the same way.

Two women. Each of them, her husband beats her all the time, cuts her off from the outside world, threatens worse if she ever tries to leave. Then he brings in the big guns, chopping at her sense of herself, words like scalpels, until she starts worshiping her own worthlessness.

Both husbands beat the kids, too. For their own good. When they dont show him the proper respect. To teach them a lesson.

One of the women takes her place in the food chain, tells the kids they should learn to make Daddy happy so he wont get so stressed out. Because you know what happens when he does. . . .

The other woman takes a long look into her kids eyes one night. Then she goes searching for her husbands heart. With a kitchen knife.

Ive known rape victims who wouldnt get on an elevator if the only other passenger was a man. And others who would look forward to that exact same opportunity, their purses handgun-heavy, and always open at the top.

Therapists say there are stages to recovery from sexual assault, like stages in the grieving process. I dont know about any of that. No matter what kind of painkillers you take, from prescription to perversion, they all have the same thing missing they dont hurt the one who hurt you.

I had to hold my approach until Terry and Clarence finished running all their programs. No point asking them for progress reports. They were already bilingual in a language I didnt know existed, throwing around terms like five-nines as if I had the dimmest chance of following along.

I figured on getting only one shot at each victim. Reading through the files, I couldnt even make a guess as to how any of the women would react to my cover story. Thats why I had it set up for Michelle to contact them all first she could put enough estrogen-empathy into her voice to calm down a kitten in a dog pound.

And I had even better reasons for saving the freaks sister for last.

I was waiting again. That never bothers me its one of the things I do best. I learned when I was just a little kid. There were times when it was all I had. Now its part of me.

I filled the time by making a grid out of the addresses where Wychek had struck. It wasnt just timelines and access points I was looking for. I know some things that arent in anyones database.

Years ago, a psychotic in a mental hospital developed this belief that aliens would come to Earth if they saw proof that they were welcome. What the aliens needed was a blood sign. It had to be in the shape of an X, with the top half much smaller than the bottom, standing on its side, so it looked like a fish sliced straight through the middle of its body. The lunatic never shared his secret knowledge with anyone, not even his medication-dispensers.

One night, he escaped.

The cops caught him before he finished drawing the signal. Which was why the aliens never came.

They decided prison was a better place for the lunatic. I still remember him explaining it all to me.

I put a yellow dot on a metro-area map, one for each rape. But they didnt form anything I could recognize, much less the swastika I had been hoping for.

I wondered if Wychek had produced an alibi for any of the rapes. If he had, talking to that person would go on my list. But the files said Wychek had only been questioned a couple of times.

Well, not questioned, exactly. Brought in for questioning. Each time, he said he wanted a lawyer. That always got him cut loose, until Wolfe dealt herself in. That time, they werent bringing him in to talk. And he didnt get to go.

There was something about handling the actual photocopies of each case that made me feel closer to a trail than any computer analysis would. I felt . . . something. But I wasnt locked in yet.

I bulldogged it, willing myself to penetrate. But I kept shooting more blanks than a man with a vasectomy on Viagra.

Ready to be charming? Michelles voice, on the cell phone.

Arent I always?

This is Little Sister youre talking to, she reminded me. Now, listen. Ive got the first one lined up. Her name is Jessica Davenport. She still lives in the same place, but she doesnt want you going to her home, or her job, either. So its going to be a public-place luncheon. Theres a very nice little café just around the corner from where she works. I told her youd meet her at twelve-thirty.

Am I supposed to wear a carnation in my lapel?

No, Cary Grant, she snapped, just a hint of impatience under her brisk business-girl voice. Shes going to ask for Mr. Baker. Youll be there already, waiting for her. Corner table for two, all the way in the back.

Who do I have to take care of?

The girl who works the front. Roni, her name is. Probably short for Veronica. The table isnt primo its right near the kitchen and they really dont do a lot of lunch traffic anyway, so it wont be a problem.

Okay.

Dont go all Vegas on her, Burke. Roni, I mean. Like the Prof always says, A dime is always fine, but twenty is plenty. 

Got you.

She called, by the way.

She who?

Jessica Davenport! Michelle said, the impatience light glowing a little brighter on her console. She called Davidsons office, to check that this was for real.

Smart girl.

Careful, anyway, Michelle said, approvingly.

You got a physical description?

No more than you do. White female, age thirty-one thats thirty-one now, understand? The . . . rape was back in 95, so she would have been

All right, honey, I said. Ill be there.

Burke, a suit, please.

Cary Grant always wore a suit.

Idiot! Michelle said, but I heard a tiny chuckle under her voice.

I was getting dressed the next morning, idly listening to the TV broadcast news as I moved around the place. I heard someone say torture, in an approving tone. I stopped what I was doing, went over, and sat down in front of the set.

The moderator was talking to two different men, one in the studio, one in some remote location. The scroll at the bottom of the screen read: Is the use of torture ever justified to get information from terrorists?

I wasnt surprised to hear the guy at the remote location go on and on about how the Constitution is what defines America, and if we violate it, we lose the moral high ground.

The other one was just as predictable, saying, In certain cases of imminent danger to American lives, under strictly controlled conditions, extreme interrogation is a tool that cannot be ruled out.

The moderator was a good-looking guy with glasses and an earnest attitude, who came across as a real journalist. On that network, he had to be a token.

What if your child was held hostage and about to be executed, and you had a person in custody who knew the location but refused to talk? the studio guest said to the man in the remote location. Where would you draw the line?

Thats a purely hypothetical

Its not so hypothetical for plenty of people, all around the world, the studio guest interrupted. What if we had one of the terrorists in on the Nine/Eleven plot in our hands a couple of days before it happened? Shouldnt this nation be permitted, in its own defense, to use whatever means necessary to protect itself?

In the long run, such methods do not protect us at all, the remote guest responded. They endanger us, because they tear at the very foundations on which this country was built.

When we turn a captive over to a country where we have every reason to believe that torture will be used to extract information, arent we, in fact, participants? the moderator asked the studio guest.

We dont tell our allies how to handle their internal affairs, the studio guy said, self-righteously ducking the question.

Sure we do, the moderator confronted him. We do it all the time. Foreign aid isnt unconditional.

That is correct, the guy at the remote location said. When we look the other way, we condone

But when the French refused to extradite a convicted murderer and send him back to us, simply because the French oppose the death penalty, you came on this very program and applauded their exercise of national sovereignty, isnt that true? the moderator challenged.

Its not the same

Lets hear what you think, the moderator said, turning to face the camera head on. Heres the question: Do you believe the use of torture is justified when national security is believed to be at stake? To vote, just call the number on your screen, and press one for yes, or two for no. Or you can vote online, at . . .

By the time I was dressed and ready to leave, the screen was showing the vote in progress.

Yes 88%

No 12%

Some polls dont have a margin of error.

Roni turned out to be a tall, model-thin girl with long, frosted-tipped hair and a professional smile. I thanked her for holding a table for my conference, slipped her a bill, and found my own way.

On some field interrogations, you do things to the immediate site to establish control. All it takes is some pads and pens, maybe an ashtray, a calculator, tape recorder, a cell phone anything to move the scene from neutral over to your side.

That wouldnt fly here. I had nothing to offer the woman, and no hammer to threaten her with. I had to treat her like a butterfly. Not one I wanted to net, one I wanted to have land on my hand.

I spotted Roni walking over toward my table, leading a much shorter woman all I could make out was her improbable rose-colored hair done in a pixie cut.

Mr. Baker?

Yes, Ms. Davenport, I said, getting to my feet. Thank you for coming. And thank you, Roni, I said to the tall girl, who had just taken some of the anxiety out of the meeting. The Prof was right, as always twenty had been plenty.

I moved to hold the womans chair for her, but she waved me away with a tight smile, and seated herself.

Up close, her features were not so much pretty as finely formed. She was wearing a beige business suit over an ice-blue silk blouse, makeup flawlessly applied. A Movado watch on her wrist. Heart-shaped diamond engagement ring.

She picked out a complicated salad and a glass of white wine. I went for the seared tuna on toast points and some ridiculous-priced water.

I dont know how much time you have . . . ? I began.

Well, essentially, what I have is my lunch hour, she said. Which is why I wanted to do it this way.

Right. Well, Ms. Davenport, Im sure the office told you why I wanted to talk with you . . . ?

Youre representing the woman who shot that

The woman whos been charged with shooting him.

It doesnt make any difference to me, she said, calmly. I only have two regrets about it that she got caught, and that he didnt die. Thats what it said in the papers, hes in a coma; is that true?

Thats what they said, I answered, offering my indifference to whether Wychek lived or died as a bond between us, if she wanted it.

What is it you think I could do? the woman said. When it . . . happened, the police, or maybe it was the DA I dont know, I talked to so many damn people then said there wasnt enough evidence to arrest him.

You never saw his face?

Never once, she said. I was living . . . where I live now. With two roommates. We all worked. But I was on a split schedule work and school and I always had Tuesday afternoons off. I really treasured those Tuesdays. It was the only time I had the place all to myself. Its a two-bedroom, one-bath apartment. You can just imagine, three girls. . . .

Anyway, he was . . . he was waiting for me when I came in. He was already there. I dont know for how long. When I walked in, he grabbed me from behind. I started to fight, then he put a straight razor right next to my nose. He said if I even moved hed take my nose off. I could . . . feel hed do it. Really do it. His voice was so full of hate. Then he

Did you ever get a look at him, anytime during the . . . ?

He was wearing one of those ski-mask things. A black one. He had black gloves on, too. All black. He put duct tape

I dont want to take you through it, Ms. Davenport, I said. Im sure they took samples of

He wore a condom, she said, flatly. He didnt have to put it on; it was already . . . in place. He must have been . . . he must have been . . . aroused just waiting for me.

You think he was waiting for you, then?

I just said

I mean, not a burglar you surprised in the act, or anything like that.

No, she said, grimly. He was only there for . . . me.

Im sorry if this is . . . painful for you, I said, gently. And Im sure the police thought of this, but I still have to ask. Who knew your schedule?

My schedule?

Your Tuesday time-for-yourself afternoons? Who knew about that?

I . . . I dont know. Maybe my roommates did, but I couldnt say for sure. We never talked about it, specifically. And they werent the type to notice much outside their own lives.

But you always came home on Tuesday afternoons?

Yes.

For how long were you doing that?

Ever since the semester . . . I guess about . . . She looked at the ceiling, concentrating. Eleven, twelve weeks.

And

Wait a minute! What you said, before.

What?

About the police asking me. They didnt.

Didnt ask about your schedule?

They didnt ask about it; I told them. They asked, what was I doing home at two in the afternoon, and thats when I explained about the schedule. But they never asked me what you just did.

You mean, who knew?

Yes, she said, quietly. Who knew.

Your boyfriend . . .

I didnt have one then. Nothing steady. I mean, I dated, but there was no one you could call a

Ms. Davenport . . .

Jessica.

Jessica, I said, bowing slightly to thank her for the privilege of using her first name, was there a former boyfriend? One you had broken up with recently?

Well . . . yes, I guess so. But it had never been anything all that intense.

Not to you, anyway.

I dont understand where youre going, Mr.

Scott.

Scott, she smiled. What difference would it make if I had a boyfriend, or if I just broke up with one?

A boyfriend would know your schedule. And an ex-boyfriend who knew your schedule and was angry over the breakup could have . . .

What? Raped me for revenge?

Its happened, I said.

God! That seems even . . . I dont know, uglier. If possible. But I would have recognized . . . my ex-boyfriend. Even with the mask and all.

By the voice?

No. The police did ask me about that. The . . . the person who did it had a guard-thing in his mouth.

A guard-thing? Like a retainer?

No. Like boxers wear? So you dont see their teeth when they open their mouths?

A mouthpiece, right. What color was it, black?

No. It was white. Bright white. Brighter than teeth, I remember. I cant say what . . . specific thing I would have noticed if he had been anyone I knew, but I would have noticed something, Im sure of it.

I dont have any doubt it was Wychek, I said. I was just interested in the investigation itself. Sometimes, things get overlooked.

I dont know, she said, glancing quickly at her watch.

Just a couple more questions, I said. Have you received any letters in the past three months that seemed strange or odd to you?

I did get one, she said, tilting her head slightly, trying to find my eyes. But it was a postcard, not a letter. I remember it because it was blank the front of the card like a white piece of paper.

Was there a message on the other side? Next to where it was addressed to you?

Nothing, she said. Just one of those stick-on labels, with my name and address. I figured it was some promotional stunt, and the next one would have more information on it. But no other one ever came.

Did you?

Sorry, she said. I threw it out. Do you think it . . . ? Oh my God, do you think it was from him?

No, I lied. But it wouldnt hurt to take some basic precautions.

I take a lot more than basic precautions now, she said. And I do have a boyfriend. Instead of two roommates.

Good. On behalf of Ms. Wolfes entire defense team, I want to thank you for

There was something else, she said, suddenly. I didnt even find out about it for a couple of weeks afterward. He stole my high-school yearbook.

Youre sure?

It had to be him. I kept it in my underwear drawer, buried under all my . . . stuff. My roommates would never have gone in there. Anyway, I asked them, and they didnt even know the book had been there. It didnt have any . . . I mean, it was just a sentimental thing. I wasnt like Most Popular or Most Likely to Succeed, or anything like that. I dont even know why I kept it buried in there. For privacy, I guess.

Did you ever tell the police about that?

No. No, I guess I didnt. It didnt seem to matter. I mean, whats a high-school yearbook compared to . . .

I know, I said. And something in my voice must have convinced her I did. Her eyes got wet.

Hes going down, I said to her, almost in a whisper. Its a sure thing.

How many of the other victims reported he took something with him? I asked Clarence.

I will find it for you, mahn, he said, proud of what he had been learning. I left him to the task.

An all-white postcard, I said to the Prof. After what Silver told me . . .

If theres more than one, its him pointing the gun, the little man agreed.

I picked up the phone, dialed a number.

Mr. Davidsons office, Investigations Division, Michelle answered.

You got another one lined up? I asked her.

Three, actually, she said. And as soon as you tell me how it went with Jessica Davenport, Ill give them to you.

Do I remember that trial? Wolfe said. I remember all of them. Each and every one.

I dont mean, do you recall it. Anyway, we could always review the transcript. I was talking about things that didnt get into the record.

Like what? she said, eyes narrowing. Not suspicious working. Homing in.

Im not sure yet. But heres one, anyway. Did the perp take anything from the victims place?

You mean, like a?

Anything, I said. Anything at all.

A cedar block, Wolfe said, no expression on her face.

A what?

A cedar block, she said, barely keeping the annoyance out of her voice. You know. Its just a piece of cedarwood, about the size of a bar of soap. People keep them in their dresser drawers. So everything stays fresh, and to keep the moths out. Like having a cedar closet for clothes.

Oh. I never heard of

Sure, she said, not surprised. They sell them everywhere. Some of them are pretty fancy, some are plain. But all of them do the same thing.

You wouldnt keep these things out, just lying around?

What would be the point? Unless theyre inside an enclosure, they really dont have any effect.

And the victim, she knew right away . . . ?

No. The investigating officers asked her if any of her underclothing was missing. Its quite common for certain kinds of rapists to . . . you know. Anyway, when she was released from the hospital, she pulled out all her bureau drawers, to check. Thats when we found out. The way she was sure is that she had bought a set of six blocks, but she could only find five of them.

What was she keeping in that drawer? I asked.

Sweaters, Wolfe said.

Nothing else?

Just sweaters.

Nothing else taken, I mean.

Not as far as we ever knew.

You make anything of it?

We cross-checked it against all the other cases we had at the time. Several reported objects missing, a number of others didnt.

The missing objects . . . ?

I remember two, off the top of my head. A necklace. Costume jewelry, really. Something the victim got as a gift years ago. She never wore it. And a pen. An expensive one. A graduation gift, still in the original box.

Both kept in?

Bureaus, right, Wolfe said. Damn!

Its probably nothing . . .

What are you trying to do, spare my feelings? Wolfe snapped. I dropped him on the one case I had. This isnt about me, its about

It is about you, I cut her off. Youre the one whos on trial, not him.

Im not on trial yet, Wolfe said, grimly. And theres no way the government thinks its protecting him from me.

Youre saying the DA already knows his statement was bogus?

I dont know. But if theyre protecting him, its not because of that story; its because of another one.

The case you prosecuted, did he testify?

Hah! Wolfe snorted. Hes an incredibly arrogant person, but hes not suicidal. He was going to testify. Had his story all ready. But once I waved Molineux in their faces, they went from consent to SODDI in a heartbeat.

Where could he have pulled a consent from? I asked her. He didnt know the woman, right? SODDI Some Other Dude Did It had been the only defense Id ever heard about.

She was a bad victim, Wolfe said.

A hooker?

How about a porno actress? How about the star of The Conquest of Cassandra? Can you figure out the plot?

Theres a lot of variations on that theme, I said, hedging.

Cassandra is a successful businesswoman, Wolfe said, her tone as flat and detached as a pathologist dictating autopsy findings. Very in control. Dominating. A real bitch. One night, as shes getting undressed for bed, a man breaks into her home. She resists, but he easily overpowers her. Various forms of rape follow. At some point, Cassandra discovers herself aroused by the rape, and switches from victim to participant. At the conclusion of the tape, Cassandra begs the rapist to please come again soon. That last bit was irony, she said, almost snarling the sarcasm.

So he was going to say he was a fan who believed the video was real? That there was this woman who wanted to be raped?

I dont know what he was going to say. Theres no proof that he knew of the existence of the tape before he . . . The defense did a thorough investigation of the victim Im guessing thats where it turned up.

Christ, if the jury ever saw that

I dont think they ever would have, Wolfe said. Besides the rape shield law, theres the question of relevance. If he wanted to try to slip it past, it would have to be through some form of insanity defense a delusional disorder, blurring the line between video and reality. Theres some judges I know would have let it in, on that pretext. But he never filed notice of an insanity defense. Because once I hit them with Molineux

What is this Molineux thing?

Thats the name of a case. A very old case, but its still good law, Wolfe said, switching to a less detached but still academic tone. Essentially, you cant bring in other bad acts of the defendant to prove he did the ones hes charged with now, or to show his propensity to commit them. Just because a man robbed banks a dozen times before isnt proof he robbed this one particular bank, okay? But if you can show them that what youre charging him with at trial is part of a pattern, you can bring in other acts, as proof of MO. Not that most judges have the courage to let pattern evidence in, unless theres a neon sign over every act.

Now, with Wychek, we had eleven rapes. All by a perp wearing a ski mask and a mouthpiece. In every case, the rapist entered a dwelling. In every case, he . . . restrained the victim, using duct tape, plus a blindfold. In fact, thats one of the things that nailed him, that one time, with our case.

The blindfold?

The victim had a great deal of . . . experience with blindfolds. Apparently, theyre something of a staple in her business. Wychek used a sleep mask. Put it on from behind, then wrapped tape around it. But by tilting her head back, the victim was able to see a thin slice of what was going on around her.

He took off the mask?

No, Wolfe said. She couldnt see that high, anyway. But he had on a distinctive pair of boots. They were almost to the knee, but he wore them under his pants. From the cuffs down, they would look like a pair of plain black shoes. But these had silver inlays all along the sides. Some kind of design, not what you could buy in a store. The victim got a good look at the boots a few times while he was prowling around her place.

It doesnt sound like

The victim described the design perfectly, Wolfe said. She had an eye like a camera. But even without that, we had the cedarwood block.

If it was just a piece of wood, then his fingerprints . . .

His fingerprints werent on it, she said, grim-faced. But hers were.

Did you find anything else when you . . . ? Wait a minute. On what she told you, how could you even get a search warrant?

Oh, it wasnt a search warrant, Wolfe said, smiling. Her voice shifted to that phony professional tone cops use when telling a jury that the suspects rights had been scrupulously observed. An anonymous phone call was received, indicating in-progress domestic violence at Wycheks residence, she recited. When the officers arrived to investigate, Wychek answered the door. He made a motion as if reaching for a weapon. The officers were forced to restrain him for their own safety. While doing so, one of the officers noticed the distinctive silver design on the boots the subject was wearing. Recalling a very recent notice concerning a rapist-at-large whose victim had described such a unique object of clothing, the officers, believing they had probable cause for arrest, secured the suspect, she said, straight-faced.

While doing so, a noise was heard from one of the back rooms, Wolfe went on, her tone unchanged. Believing a victim of domestic violence might need assistance, one of the officers went back to investigate. No other person was found possibly the officer had heard a neighbors TV set. But the cedarwood block, which had also been described in the circular about the wanted rapist, was in plain view.

But they all look alike, right? Those cedarwood blocks, I mean. And something like that wouldnt hold a print.

Not the fingerprints youre thinking of, Wolfe said. The block yielded a very clear sample of the victims DNA.

How could she have gotten?

It seems the victim used the blocks as . . . props, in one of her video appearances. And the wood is quite absorbent.

Ill bet the jury loved that.

Juries dont have to love the victim, Wolfe said, her eyes the color of dry ice. They just have to hate the perpetrator. Thats my job. The victim was quite candid about what she did for a living, and I voir-dired on that intensely.

I nodded, afraid if I tried to use words to express my respect Id screw it up. That happens a lot to me when Im around Wolfe.

She took a cigarette from her pack, offered me one. I accepted, and lit us both up.

DV call, huh? I said, keeping my voice as neutral as hers had been.

Yes, she said. The actual caller was never located.

The defense never subpoenaed the tape of the call?

They certainly did, Wolfe said, her mouth a thin line. All that could be determined was that the caller was a woman, in obvious distress. The caller said she feared someone was getting killed, and provided the specific apartment number. At the time, it was assumed the call came from a neighbor. However, 911 records indicated the call was made from a pay phone on the corner of the building where the suspect resided. It just so happened that there was a radio car in the immediate vicinity.

Bad luck for Wychek, I said.

He deserved some. And, yeah, she said, watching my face, after we arrested him, we did get a search warrant. But none of his other trophies were there. He had another placehad to have but we never found it.

Yeah. Well, what else did you have, to make that pattern you were talking about?

In each case, the perpetrator remained on the scene for some time after the rape was . . . accomplished. Always wore a condom. And gloves. A long list. And we had victims ready to testify. They couldnt ID him, specifically, but they sure could ID the pattern.

It was too great a risk for him to take. If we got the pattern in, there was always the chance some other pieces would fall into place. And I think he was confidentvery confident about beating the case, anyway, even without that consent defense.

Was that in the appeal?

What?

The ski mask. Did he claim he would have used the delusional defense you talked about, except that you would have brought in the little girl? The one from Nassau County? Not for the . . . not for what he did to her, but because she would have talked about how he always used a ski mask when he . . . ?

Never mentioned it, Wolfe said, emotionless.

Davidson said the DAs Office didnt even fight Wycheks appeal.

Oh, my former office has a special reputation for justice and equity. They do whats right, even if its not popular. After all, she said, her voice venomous with contempt, theyre prosecutors, not politicians. 

And that makes them different from any of the others . . . how?

Its a matter of degree, she said. Remember, a little while back, that judge who stabbed his wife a few times, collapsed her lung?

Yeah. He got off on insanity.

He got off all right, Wolfe said. But there never was a trial. He pleaded to insanity.

How can you?

You can if the DA consents. The poor judge is getting counseling.

Jesus H. Christ.

I cant tell you why my former office does any one specific thing. Like with Wycheks appeal. But I know how they work.

Maybe thats why they want you so bad, I thought.

Im going back in. Davidson, on the phone. With a new bail application.

What for? I asked. She already walked.

Its just an excuse, he said. So long as theres any bail, I can keep making applications for reduction. What I really want to do is get in front of a Supreme Court judge and turn up the heat. I want that goddamned discovery, and the DAs Office is stringing it out as long as they can.

You need me there?

That reporter? The one youre pals with?

Yeah.

The press has gone pretty dry since the arrest. With Wolfe sprung, and the fucking weasel out of his coma, its not a story anymore.

Got you, I said. Just let me know when.

I was married when it . . . happened, the woman in the floral-print dress said. We were seated in the breakfast nook of a well-maintained brick cottage in the North Bronx. Im not now. This, she said, waving her hand to indicate the house and furnishings, is what I got to keep.

Soft interrogation techniques are all rooted in the same ground. The sequence is critical. Empathy is your trump card. You cant play it too soon, or too heavy. Its not hard to get some people to talk; its listening that takes real skill. You cant shift to recorder mode until you confirm the channel is open and the signal is strong.

Whenever they volunteer something, they have a reason. Sometimes, its misdirection theyre after. Sometimes, they just need to tell you something important to them before they tell you anything important to you, like uncorking the wine and letting it breathe before you have a taste. So, instead of expressing any sympathy for a bad divorce, I asked, You dont have children?

Because of the house, you mean? Well, youre right. Thats why we bought it. So our kids could have their own room. And a yard. Even a dog. In the City, those things, they cost so much. Ted my ex-husband he said this would be a better place to raise kids, even with the longer commute. Besides, were both from around here. The Bronx, I mean, not right here exactly.

High-school sweethearts?

We were, she said, nodding as if Id confirmed some long-held suspicion.

I gave her a ten-count in my head, then said, It just didnt work out?

It was working out perfect, she said. Until it happened.

Im not sure I understand. . . .

After I was raped, she said, looking in my eyes for the first time since she had let me into her home. After I was raped, Ted was never the same. Oh, he said he didnt blame me for it. How could he? It wasnt like Id picked up some guy in a bar. Or even if I had been walking around in some bad neighborhood in the middle of the night. It happened right . . . it happened in this house. This same house.

He couldnt be . . . supportive?

Maybe thats the word for it, she agreed. I think he tried. Teds an intelligent man. He knew what he was supposed to do we went to counseling together for a couple of months. I think, I know he tried. But it . . . it wasnt the same. He couldnt stop asking me about it. Over and over.

Trying to figure out what you could have done?

Yes! Thats what I thought he was doing. He denied it, but it always felt like that. To me, anyway.

I . . . read the reports, Ms. Stansik, I said. There was nothing anyone could have done.

She made a brushing-away gesture, as if dismissing my lame assurances. After it . . . after it happened, I read all kinds of things about What to do if . . . You know the kind of stuff I mean?

Sure. And none of it fits every situation.

Some of the things I read said that its always better to resist. To fight. A lot of time, if you put up enough of a struggle, the . . . the rapist will run.

Or kill you. And this one, he had a gun, right?

Yes. I can still see it. Chrome. The bullets in the round thing on the side. Brass tips. Pointed at my face.

You did the only thing you could have done, I said.

You know about this . . . about this kind of thing, Mr. Baker?

Yes, maam. I do. My work has brought me into contact with it many times.

With victims?

And with perpetrators.

You mean you worked for?

No, I said, smoothly sliding into the truth on the slope of all my lies. I never worked for a perpetrator. But I had to interview them in certain cases.

Why would you?

In one, I said, the victim was suing the apartment building where she lived. She had complained over and over about the broken lock on the front door, but it had never been fixed. I had to interview the perpetrator, because I needed his statement about how hed gotten into the building.

Oh. You dont mean you were the one who caught him?

No, maam. He was already in prison when I spoke to him, I said, back to the truth.

Why would he tell you anything? she asked.

Oh, a lot of them like to talk, I told her. And this one, he was very easy.

What do you think? she said, eyes hard on mine.

About whether a sexual-assault victim should resist? I think its exactly what I told you before: it depends on the circumstances.

I know what you said. Its my fault. I was being too . . . general. Let me . . . All right, will you answer me this? Is there ever a time when a man points a gun at you that you shouldnt do what he says?

Yes.

Oh! she said, taken aback. When?

If youre on the street, and a car pulls up, and someone points a gun at you and tells you to get in, thats when.

What could you?

Run, I said. Run in the direction that would make him have to reach way out and turn around to get a shot at you. Run and scream.

But wouldnt he just shoot if you did that?

He might. But youd be dealing with a rapist, not a professional assassin. Odds are, hed miss. But if you got in that car, he wouldnt.

Oh. Do you think, maybe, if I had

I read all the reports, maam. If you had resisted, he might have killed you. He certainly would have done more. . . . I mean, he would have hurt you in ways other than . . .

I know what youre trying to say. But that isnt what I want to know. I want to know if

Yeah, I told her. He would have raped you no matter what. Even if he had shot you first, he would have gone ahead.

I wish my husb I wish Ted believed that.

Youre sure he didnt?

I dont know what Im sure of. Not now. I was sure of Ted. For better or for worse. I believed that.

Theres some worsts nobody ever thinks about.

I cant stop . . . blaming myself. Those kids . . . we never had them. Ted could never . . .

Ms. Stansik, I want to tell you something. If Im out of line, just stop me, all right?

She looked at me expectantly, a dullness to her eyes that came from a place past fear.

What if your husband had gone to prison?

Ted? Why would he?

Lets say, for something he didnt do. A mistake. But while he was in there, he got raped.

By another . . . ?

Yeah. By a man. It happens.

I know, but . . .

Just say it happened, I pressed her. And, afterwards, they find out Ted was really innocent. So they let him go. And he comes home. But he cant . . . he cant make love to you. Because he thinks, after what happened to him, that hes not a man anymore.

Thats . . . thats crazy.

Crazy things happen, I said. What would you do?

Do? Id tell him it wasnt his fault. And Id . . . Id show him he was still a man. Id prove it to him.

See? I said.

After she stopped crying, she told me everything, as if the details were payment of a debt. Wychek had planned his attack for her husbands bowling night Ted always went straight from work, didnt get home until eleven, at the earliest.

Ski mask, gloves, mouthpiece, condom, blindfold . . . all the same. Only the pistol was different.

It was almost midnight when Ted had come home. His wife was still strapped to a corner of the bed, still blindfolded and gagged. Drawers had been ransacked, as if the rapist had been looking for something, but all that was missing was a five-by-seven color snapshot Claudia Stansik had kept tucked into a corner of her bedroom mirror. We went to Niagara Falls on our honeymoon, she told me. It was so beautiful. . . .

Yes, she had gotten a strange postcard a few weeks ago. Just a plain shiny white one. Addressed on a machine. And, yes, she had thrown it away.

Thank you, she said, as I stood up to go.

Im the one who should be

You know what I mean, she said.

I put my hands together and bowed my head slightly. Could I make one suggestion? I asked.

Of course.

Get a dog. Youve got a perfect place here.

You mean, a guard dog?

Any dog will guard you, if you raise it right. Some do a better job than others, thats all.

Do you know a lot about dogs?

Yes, maam. I do.

What kind of dog do you think I should?

I know a dog that has a litter of puppies, I said, thinking of the white pit bull who lived in the Moles junkyard. Satan knows what she had mated with, but her kids would be guaranteed man-stoppers. Theyre just about weaned now, and theyre looking for homes. Would you be willing to adopt one of them?

I . . . I really dont know anything about them. But I could learn. Im good at . . . I could learn. Sure!

Ill have the owners son drop the pup off, maam. And Ill call you before hes ready to bring it over, okay?

That would be great.

On the way back, I kept thinking about loyalty. And how Ted had walked away from what most men spend all their lives looking for.

Wolfe sat silently at the counsel table, wearing a wedding-white dress.

If it please the court . . . Davidson, on his feet, facing the bench. I didnt recognize the ADA seated across from him.

I dont know him, either, Hauser told me, seeing where I was looking. Some kid they threw up there for cannon fodder. The judge I know. Names Griffith. Nothing special about him. Party hack. Been an acting Supreme since forever, not going anywhere. Certainly not up to the AD.

Counsel, the judge interrupted. This is a bail application?

Yes, Your Honor.

Your client, I understand, is already out on bond?

Cash bond, Your Honor. And when the People finally get around to dropping these bogus charges, theyre not going to pay interest on the money.

Your Honor. The ADA stood up. Bail is already well below the minimum for a crime of this

What crime? Davidson said. A convicted rapist was shot

That conviction has been set aside the ADA cut in.

Your Honor, the District Attorney has these proceedings confused with Judge Judy. May I be allowed to finish my argument without further interruption?

Just setting the record straight, the ADA muttered.

As I was saying, Your Honor, Davidson resumed. A convicted rapist was shot. True, his conviction was overturned. On a technicality I can only describe as grotesque, but this isnt the forum to argue that. My point is, the appellate court didnt find him innocent. And its no secret that this same individual is the suspect in several other rapes, rapes for which no arrest has yet been made.

Motive abounds, judge. The DAs Office has, quite deliberately, not furnished the defense with such simple facts as the time and place of the alleged events. They have represented to the court not this court, Your Honor; at arraignment that they have a statement from the victim, a statement which allegedly names my client as the shooter. We have never seen a copy of this supposed statement, judge. We dont know for a fact that it exists. What we do know is that my client, Eva Wolfe, is the same prosecuting attorney who sent him to prison

And who got a letter from the victim just before he the kid DA interrupted.

Judge? Davidson said, his voice heavy with weariness.

Sit down, counsel, the judge told the ADA. Youll get your turn.

As the court knows, Ms. Wolfe was once an Assistant District Attorney. In fact, a Bureau Chief. She personally prosecuted John Anson Wychek, the alleged victim in this case. When Wycheks case was reversed, and he was let out, he, apparently, sent a letter which could be construed as threatening to Ms. Wolfe, at the DAs Office. We say apparently because only the DAs Office, conveniently enough, has the original document.

In any event, the DAs Office maintains that letter represents some motive for Ms. Wolfe to track down and shoot Wychek. But, in reality, that letter proves only one thing animus running from Wychek to Ms. Wolfe. And, thus, a clear motive for him to concoct a story something the DAs Office has not seemed to even consider in its investigation of this matter.

Davidson waved some paper in one hand, as if it contained proof of what he was saying. While Ms. Wolfe herself is no longer being detained, her money certainly is. So long as the DAs Office maintains this farce of an accusation, my clients use of her own money is unfairly restricted.

So take a bail assignment, the ADA sneered.

Below the belt, Hauser muttered.

You see the overt hostility being displayed here, judge? Davidson went on, face flushed but still calm-voiced. The People would have you believe that the purpose of my application is to free up Ms. Wolfes funds so that I can be paid for my services. Is that what youre trying to say? Davidson suddenly snarled, whirling on the ADA. Come on. Get up and put it on the record. If youve got the guts.

Your Honor, the ADA said, getting to his feet, the People are not saying

I didnt think so, Davidson chopped him off. Judge, I dont know if the DAs Office are a pack of hapless buffoons, or if something more sinister is going on here. But its clear that the People have been deliberately and maliciously stalling. When the appropriate time has lapsed, the defense will get sufficient discovery to have this pathetic nonsense dismissed. Because, judge, I am saying, right here and right on the record, that the DAs Office is never going to put John Anson Wychek into the Grand Jury, unless theyre looking to prosecute him. For perjury.

 Hapless buffoons or something more sinister,  Hauser said, scribbling madly. I fucking love it.

Mr. Warren? the judge said, turning to the ADA.

Its only fifty thousand, judge, the clown said, weakly.

Anything else?

No, Your Honor.

Fine. Bail is reduced to one thousand dollars. That will be all.

Its good for one more round, Hauser told us on the courthouse steps. But the storys got no legs.

Thats okay, Davidson said. A little more heat means a little more light.

You understand why none of this has come out under my byline? Hauser asked.

Not really, Davidson said. But I see the Post

Dont say anything more, Hauser warned him. My paper is more concerned with the, shall we say, business aspects of lawyering. So, at this stage, Im covering the story for a . . . colleague.

Good by me, I said, not wanting Davidson to ask a wrong question.

Do you have anything to say, Ms. Wolfe? Hauser asked, turning to her.

On the record?

Yes.

No.

Off?

Sure, she said, her lipsticked mouth twisting in what no one would have mistaken for a smile, even with the flash of white teeth behind it. I didnt shoot Wychek. And whoever did, they did it at least ten years too late.

When I woke up, he was on top of me, the blonde woman said. She was very pale-complected, the expanse of her broad, doughy face broken only by a half-moon scar that started from the lower corner of her right eye and hooked back toward her nose. He had his hand over my mouth. I bit him. Hard. But there was something in the gloves he was wearing. Like, metal. It felt like I was biting on chains. Then he sprayed me in the face with something, and I saw a knife. . . .

Everything else she said tallied exactly with the police reports, including the no sign of forced entry.

I dont know how he ever got in here, she said. The cops, they didnt say I was stupid, or anything like that. But they asked me how come I could be living in this city and not have a deadbolt.

Well, you lived a long time without

My mother used to live here with me, she said. After she passed, I kept the place. Its rent-controlled. . . .

I wouldnt let something like that go, either, I assured her.

When Mom was alive, I wasnt afraid of anything. She wasnt afraid of anything, and thats how I was raised. It was just her and me. My dad was killed in Vietnam I was only four years old then.

It must have been hard.

On my mother, I guess it was. I didnt really know him. I was only a baby when he left. It was just before the end of his last tour when . . . when it happened.

So youve always lived here? In this same place?

Yes. But it wasnt always like this, she said, glancing involuntarily at the bars over the windows. I used to be a happy person. I worked hard. I had a good education. Mom was always after me to meet men, but . . .

I sat quietly, to see if she would pick it up on her own. Most people with anxiety disorders have on-off switches for conversation. Either their speech is pressured, almost impossible to interrupt, or you can hardly get them to respond.

After Mom passed, I went right on. It wasnt sudden. The doctors were very good, very caring. She wanted to die right here, not in a hospital, and everyone worked to make sure she could.

When it was all done, I went back to work. I had activities, too. And friends. I had friends.

But after . . . but after I was attacked, she said, touching the half-moon scar, everything changed. I dont go to work anymore. I dont . . . I dont go out. I cant. I tried.

At first, I was just scared of, I dont know, different television programs and things I would read in the newspapers. But then people started to make me nervous. I knew something was going to happen. Something horrible. I couldnt explain it, but I knew. It got harder and harder.

Now I just stay here. Im on Disability. Its not Welfare, she said, with a sudden spark in her expression. I worked. I worked all my life, even in high school. I paid into Social Security, like it was an insurance policy; theres no difference. In fact, did you know that the amount of disability you receive is based on how much you paid into the system before . . . before you couldnt work anymore?

I didnt know that, I said.

Its true, she said, the spark fading as quickly as it had appeared. I dont go out at all now. Except to see the doctor. And thats so hard, I dont know if I can even keep that up.

You have a lot of courage, I told her.

Me? I used to be a brave girl. Thats what my mother always called me when I was little. Her brave girl. Now Im afraid of my own shadow.

Thats understandable.

No, it isnt. Not to me. Other women have been raped, and they go on with their lives. Im . . . ashamed.

Your mother died of cancer? I guessed.

Yes. It started out as a

Was she ashamed of it?

Of having cancer? Of course not. Would anyone . . . ? Oh! Youre saying, why should I be? But its different! Just because they have a medical term for whats wrong with me doesnt mean Im not responsible for it. Im just too weak.

Illness isnt weakness.

How do you know? Youre not ill. Or weak.

How do you know? I came back at her.

Well, you dont look

Neither do you.

You sound like my doctor. He keeps trying to get me to take medication.

Youre not?

No. Im . . . scared of it.

What does he want to try you on? Paxil?

Thats right. How did you . . . ? I . . . I think, if you start taking medication, you can get addicted to it. And then youre really trapped.

A diabetic isnt addicted to insulin, I said, gently.

Are you a diabetic?

No. But I had bypass surgery a few years ago, I lied. And I have to take my medication. Every day. Or else I wouldnt be able to go out and do my work. I dont feel like an addict; I feel grateful that science has an answer.

Im not sick in my body; Im sick in my

Youve got a trauma-induced chemical imbalance, I said. That is your body.

You dont understand, she said. Youre like a . . . professional tough guy, right? A private eye? You dont know what its like to be scared all the time.

I reached out my hand. She gave me a look that was half terror, half prayer. Then she reached hers out, too.

Look at me, I said. You dont know me. Youre never going to see me again. Theres no reason for me to lie to you. I dont want anything from you. Understand?

She nodded.

Im going to tell you a secret, I said. I want you to watch my face. Watch my eyes. So you know Im telling you the truth. Okay?

She nodded again.

I know what its like to be scared. To be scared all the time. So scared I thought my heart would stop from it.

When you were sick?

No. When I was a kid.

I dont . . .

Its the same, I said, very softly. Were the same, you and me. People hurt us, once. Different people, different hurts, even. But the freaks who do it, theyre the same, too. All alike. You know why they hurt us? Because they like to. Because they like the way it feels. How it makes them feel. And if we let them keep on hurting us, they win, understand? Your mother wouldnt want that.

No, she said, crying. But she didnt let go of my hand.

Try the medication, Kristin, I said. Keep trying until you get one that helps. Otherwise, the wrong person is in prison, okay?

She wouldnt say the word, but I took her nod as a promise.

It wasnt until hours later that I realized Id never asked her about what the freak had taken. What more he had taken. Or about a white postcard, either.

Can you get in touch with our source? I asked, over the phone.

Sure, chief, Pepper said. But its not a direct-dial, okay? Could take a while.

Thats okay. Will you do it?

Okey-dokey.

Uh, Pepper, one more thing.

Speak.

You dont need to tell her about this, am I right?

This one time, you are, she said.

That other thing you were looking into for me?

We still are, Pepper said, her voice chilly. And not for you.

Walking back to my car, I wondered if Pepper thought she was telling me anything Wolfe hadnt said herself.

His favorite time is between mid-afternoon and ten at night, Terry said. A six-and-a-half-hour block. When we ran the ANOVA never mind, he said, intercepting my look, we didnt see any significant departure keyed to the other factors . . . not even location.

So hes got some centralized strike base, takes him about the same amount of time to do his work, and get back home?

It . . . looks like that, Terry said dubiously. But Clarence says . . . You tell him, he said, turning to the West Indian.

You believe that apartment building in Queens, the one where he was arrested in Ms. Wolfes case, that would not be his home base, yes, mahn?

I dont see how it could, I told them both. I mean, sure, he was living there. But he had to have another place, where he kept his tools and his trophies. The cops Hoovered the holy hell out of his apartment, and they couldnt find a trace of anything to connect him to the other crimes.

But Queens, Clarence said, it really is in the center of the grid we made. If you lived, say, near one of the major connectors the Grand Central, the Van Wyck, the BQE, the LIE, the . . . You see where I am going, mahn? From such a spot, it would not take more than ninety minutes to get to any of the places where he struck. If he knew the roads, the West Indian continued, getting to Westchester or the Island or into the City, all pretty easy.

It makes sense, I said. But the place where he was shot, that was in Manhattan. That would make using a car a lot less likely.

But we dont have those records, Clarence said, in the annoyed voice of a scientist denied data. We cannot know what they found in that place, mahn.

Im working on it, I promised them.

I was in Mamas, asking her if she could get me someone who spoke fluent Thai, just in case I got double-lucky with Sands, when my pay phone rang in the back. We used to forward the number from a Chinese laundry in Brooklyn, but when the city broke up into extra area codes, we had to bring the bounce closer to home, to keep the 212 mask in place. Now the chain starts in the back of an antique dealers in SoHo.

What? I answered.

Okay if he comes there?

Okay with me, I told Pepper.

I was in my booth when Sands came in the front door of the restaurant. As he walked past Mamas register toward my booth, she left her post to rearrange the dragon tapestry thats always on display in the front window. Three dragons, all identical. Red, white, and blue.

Our country has its own brand of patriotism. Mama would replace the white tapestry with the blue a warning to any members of our crew that the law was inside.

Sands sat down across from me. Didnt offer to shake hands.

You want something? I asked him, waving my hand to indicate I meant something from the restaurant.

Food good here? he said. I havent eaten since breakfast, and that was one of those Mc-somethings.

Very good, I promised him, watching Mama approach.

Could we have the house special, please? I asked her, politely.

Uh! is all Mama said, before she went back into the kitchen.

Have you ever been to the crime scene? I asked Sands.

Me? No. Its not my case.

Just thought you might have been curious about it.

He didnt say anything.

Sooner or later, the DA has to kick loose the address, I said. Its not really a secret.

He opened his mouth to say something, but just then Mama came back to the table, carrying a tray in both hands. She offloaded the single heavy white tureen and a pair of bowls, blue-glazed and very deep. Not saying a word, she filled each of our bowls, re-covered the tureen, and bowed.

Thank you, I said.

House special, she said. Good with cold beer. You want?

What kind do you? Sands started to say.

Very good beer, Mama interrupted him. You see.

Try the food, I advised him. Youll see, shes always right.

What is it? Sands said, peering into the bowl. Between the dim lighting and the dark glaze, it was all guesswork.

Its never the same, I told him, using my fork to scoop out a piece. I chewed it, reflectively. Beef in oyster sauce, I think, I told him.

What the hell, Sands said, digging in.

Mama came back, carrying two dark-amber bottles without labels and two sparkling pilsner glasses.

This is delicious! Sands told her.

Today only, Mama said. And walked off.

The crime scene . . . I began, watching Sands pour himself a glass of dark, grainy-looking brew.

Yeah. You said.

Im kind of curious myself.

Theyve been over it, Sands said. He took a sip of his beer, nodded approval, and went for a longer hit. Theyve been all over it, believe me.

Looking for proof she was there.

Not the techs. They just take whats there. Whatevers there. The detectives, theyd be the ones looking for that.

Sure, I said. We already know they didnt find so much as a goddamned hair follicle, or they would have been asking her for samples.

I dont know what they found, he said. Past cases, thats one thing. But an active case, outside my precinct, theres no way to

I dont want to see the report, I said. I want to see the scene.

Itll be taped, and

Anyone can buy a roll of that stuff, I said. Youre not telling me they have a man on the door?

Im not telling you they dont.

But you know where it is.

All I know, it was a building on West Forty-ninth. Over by the river. I dont even know which apartment.

Ill just look for the yellow tape, I said. Okay?

He took another long drink, put down the empty glass. I nodded in the direction of the other bottle.

You dont want it?

Im not a beer man, I said.

He poured himself another. Held the glass up to the light, appreciatively.

You ever follow a car? he asked me. Its not as easy as the movies make it look.

I know.

I parked where . . . where they told me to. Out back, in the alley. Piece of junk like mine, Im not worried about anyone stealing it.

Thats the only kind of car to drive in this town, I agreed.

Sands wasnt exaggerating about his car being a piece of junk. A mid-Eighties Oldsmobile coupe, in a dull-blue color the factory once had a fancy name for. He meandered through Chinatown until he got to Canal, then turned left and drove all the way down to the river. He took the West Side Highway uptown until the fork, then stayed on Eleventh Avenue to Forty-ninth, where he took a left, heading toward the Hudson.

I watched as Sands Oldsmobile stopped in front of a five-story gray brick building. He stayed in place for a long thirty seconds before he took off.

It is a pretty nice house, mahn, Clarence said, the next afternoon. He was still wearing his cover an off-the-rack tan suit and holding a red leatherette-covered Bible. The people, I think, they have mostly been there a long time.

You didnt have any trouble getting in? I asked.

No, mahn. None at all. There is no intercom, just buttons for each apartment. I pressed until I got buzzed in.

They just buzzed you through? Didnt come down and check you out through the glass or anything?

No. At least, not the one that answered, she did not. An old lady, but very sharp, I tell you.

Sharp, but not suspicious?

I think maybe she was lonely, mahn. She was a Jewish lady. I could tell that from the what-do-you-call-it on her door.

A mezuzah, I said.

Yes. The little stone thing, carved. But she listened to me talk about the glory of Christ. Even asked me some questions. Good questions, mahn. Made me think. And I had some tea with her.

She just let you right in her apartment, too?

That she did not do. She looked at me through the peephole first. Then, even when she opened the door, she kept the chain on until she was satisfied.

Did she ask for any ID?

No, mahn. She seemed like one of those old people who has been alive for so long they trust themselves more than any piece of paper, you understand?

Yeah.

After I left, I just went through the building. She was on the third floor, so I worked my way up first. There is no elevator. The apartment is on the top floor, the corner one.

Youre sure?

That yellow tape is all across the front, mahn. Wrapped up like a Christmas package.

Thats the door for sure, the Prof said. Damn things probably not even locked. From what Clarence says, its not the kind of place where the cops would be worried about anyone looting.

I could go back, Clarence said. Visit that old lady again. She invited me to come back. I would not mind doing that.

She already got a good look at you, I said, not liking it.

Nighttimes not always the right time, the Prof said, overruling my objection, and my son, hes the one.

The ancient Chevy Vega station wagon had sheet metal where the side and back windows originally resided, converting it into a minipanel truck. It was refrigerator-white, with Chinese characters painted on the side.

I parked it across the street and up the block from our target. Max and I watched from the front seat as Clarence strolled past, red Bible under his arm.

We checked for pedestrians, then climbed out. I was wearing a suit and carrying a clipboard. Max toted a large brown paper bag full of smaller white cartons and a delivery slip for the address of the target building, written in a hand so cramped that it would have been easy to mistake the number. There was a phone number on the printed delivery slip. If anyone called, Mama was ready to answer. In Cantonese.

Max crossed the street. I stayed where I was. The Prof slipped out the back of the van, dressed in Contemporary Homeless style, a canvas bag of leaflets for a downtown topless bar over his shoulder.

If anyone was watching, this is what they would have seen: A neatly dressed young black missionary was just about to enter the apartment building when he noticed an Asian deliveryman coming up the steps. The young black man courteously held the door for the deliveryman before going inside. The deliveryman, in turn, held the door open to a nondescript man holding a clipboard, who followed right behind him. The nondescript man must not have closed the door properly, because a short man with a sack of leaflets walked right in a few seconds later. Happens all the time.

Inside, we split up and went to work.

Yellow crime-scene tape crisscrossed the door to 5-C. The Prof held up one finger, meaning, Me first.

He played with the lock as I stood alert for any of the people on the floor suddenly coming out of their apartments. Max was on the stairway; nobody was going to surprise us from that direction.

The Prof let out a tiny snort of contempt as the lock gave way. He reached through the tape and turned the knob with a gloved hand. The door swung open. I took out a small pair of surgical scissors, and carefully slit the tape at the point where the door met the jamb, cutting only enough to let us slip through.

The Prof clear-taped the yellow strands back into place, then gently closed the door behind us. I pointed toward the back, showing him the area I intended to cover. The little man nodded, and went off in another direction.

The place was empty. Not just of people, of signs of people. Not a stick of furniture anywhere. Old-fashioned paper shades were pulled down in every room.

The refrigerator was empty. And warm. I stepped into the bathroom. The single tiny window was coated in light-blocking silver paint, starting to wear away in pieces. No shower curtain.

I opened the medicine cabinet, swept the interior with my pencil flash. A few stubby hurricane candles, a box of wooden matches, a disposable razor in a plastic sheath, two bars of soap, wrapped. An unopened tube of Xylocaine, a small jar of Vaseline, a fresh packet of Sudafed, and a dark-brown plastic bottle with a white screw-on cap. I opened the bottle. Empty.

As I was turning away, my eye caught something in the place where the grouting between the sink and the tile was wearing away. A little pointed . . . something.

I took a dental pick out of my kit, and gently worked it loose. Turned out to be a triangular pill, the color of old ivory, invisible in that slot unless your eye was at exactly the right angle. I pocketed it.

When I got back to the front entryway, the Prof was waiting. He shook his head, using the index fingers and thumbs of both hands to form a giant goose-egg. Zero.

I cracked the door, checked outside. The Prof stepped out. He pulled the door shut until the snap-lock clicked. Then I held the crime-scene tape back in place while he did a more permanent job of reattaching it, using a drop of epoxy between the slightly overlapping ends. When I stepped back, it looked as if it had never been touched. And we knew, when the cops re-entered, they would just tear it down without a second glance.

We followed Max down the stairs. He stepped through the front door first, still carrying his delivery, shaking his head in disgust at being given the wrong address. The Prof and I left together.

Gonna bail by rail, Schoolboy, he said, moving off.

When I stopped for a light, Max jumped out and dumped the food delivery in a wire-mesh trash can. The pigeons were on the job before the light changed.

He never lived there, I said that night.

Nobody lived there, the Prof agreed. Not for a long time. But the place was clean.

The techs . . .

Not the police, youngblood. They sweep, but they dont sweep up, see where Im going?

Yeah. It was vacant, but it hadnt been empty for long.

Max made a gesture of a man shoveling coal into a furnace. Then the universal sign for money. He raised his eyebrows in a question.

The super holding back a vacancy? I said. Sure, could be.

The power was off, right? the Prof said.

Uh-huh. Thats why the candles, I figure.

Didnt seem like a squat, though, the little man said. Not even a bedroll, or some old newspapers . . .

He wasnt living there, I said. But he knew about it. Had a key, probably. Maybe he had kept stuff there change of clothes, whatever and the cops hauled it away with them. No way to tell. The razor and the soap . . . but no towels, so maybe that is what happened.

But that place didnt connect with him, thats for sure. Only way anyone would know he was there would be if they followed him.

And had a key, mahn, Clarence reminded me. Two keys, even, one for downstairs, the other for the apartment itself.

Maybe he wasnt the only one, the Prof said. Its not like someone just walked in by accident and popped him.

He was prepared to stay there for more than a couple of hours at a time, I said. Maybe even overnight.

Because of the candles?

Because of these, I said, showing them the single pill I had removed from the off-the-books apartment.

You know what thats for, son? the Prof asked.

Its a double-oh seven, Prof. Dilantin. For epileptics. I spasmed my upper body, to sign it out for Max.

Thats him? Hes got that? the Prof said.

Easy enough to check, I said. Its one medication they let you take in the joint.

Wish we knew what the mangy motherfucker was doing in that place, the Prof said.

Theres two people who know for sure, I told them. And I think its time to try the other one.

The sister? Clarence asked.

She was there. Shes the one who called it in. Im still waiting for the package on her to come in. But as soon as it does . . .

You want a lot, Pepper said.

Its not for me, I reminded her.

I dont mean the work, she said. Keeping it all from . . . her. Thats not so easy.

I already told you why.

I know, she sighed. All right. This one shouldnt be too hard to run down. Ill call you.

The man behind the free-form birds-eye-maple desk was nice-looking, well put together, made great money the kind of guy youd want your daughter to marry. You really should be asking a neurologist, he said.

Doc, I said, when Mr. Davidson made the appointment for me to consult you, Im sure he made it clear that Im not looking for testimony. I dont need the reasonable degree of medical certainty thing here. Just tell me, could it have gone down the way I laid out?

If the . . . if the person had a seizure disorder and, yes, Dilantin would be the drug of choice in most such cases and he was subjected to a sudden shock, he certainly could have an . . . episode. We had a woman experience something quite similar here, a couple of years ago. The stimulus was nothing more than a nurse suddenly turning on an examination light.

And it would look like a coma?

It would be a coma, he said, depending on how you define the term. Certainly, the . . . person could lapse into an unconscious state. And remain there for some period of time before recovery.

Spontaneous recovery?

If you mean unassisted, yes, he said, carefully. But if he was a . . . gunshot victim, there would be a variety of stabilizers applied, starting with the EMTs in the ambulance.

Doc, could the person look dead?

Superficially, perhaps. But any trained medical

Sorry, I said, Im not expressing myself well. What I mean is, this person gets shot, okay? He gets a seizure, and just falls out. Would it look like he dropped dead?

A seizure is an all-body experience, he said. But there would be a pulse. And signs of breathing. It would depend on how closely anyone looked.

The Thai looked like a bantamweight boxer slim, with big shoulders and a tiny waist. He wore a white silk T-shirt tucked into a tightly fitted pair of broad-waisted, pleated black satin pants that billowed at the knees and narrowed to a severe peg at the cuffs. His shoes were black mirrors, and he sported gold at the neck, wrist, and fingers. His hair was thick at the back, cropped close on the sides, and spiked in front, held in place with industrial-strength gel.

This Jao, Mama said to me. Burke, she said to the Thai.

I started to bow when I saw his outstretched hand. We shook. His grip was firm, palm very soft.

You understand, were doing this with permission, right? the Thai said. The only accent in his voice was TV gangster. So we have to show respect.

Im always respectful, I said.

Bringing him, the Thai said, twisting his neck in Maxs direction, thats maybe not so respectful.

Max always go with Burke, Mama reassured him.

The Thai opened his mouth, then snapped it shut without saying a word. His teeth were perfect enough to make an orthodontist go back to drilling for money.

I dont know you, the Thai said. But I know your name. Lots of people know your name. I heard you were dead.

That was my brother, I said.

Yeah. Well, maybe it runs in the family. You know what I mean, right? No funny stuff.

All I want to do is talk to the girl, I told him. And the whole conversation is going through you, so whats the risk?

The risk is to me, if the people who gave permission get the idea its really them youre interested in.

If I was, I wouldnt need a translator, I said.

Had you ever seen him before the night it happened, Wawn? I asked.

How I see him? the tiny girl said. She had long, straight midnight hair, and a dolls blank face. Wearing a pale-yellow shorty robe, indifferent to the fact that she was nude beneath it. She couldnt have weighed a hundred pounds.

A customer, maybe? I asked.

The girl turned, said something in rapid-fire Thai to Jao. Whatever he told her seemed to reassure her.

Not look customer face, she said. And man, man who . . . find me, wear mask. She covered her own face to demonstrate.

Yes, I said, being very still within myself, so I could get this done. But there are other things.

I reached out my hand to her, palm down. She tilted her head in a question, but didnt speak. After a couple of seconds, she took my hand in both of hers.

See my hand? I said.

Sure. See okay.

Hands look different, just like faces.

Not have heart, she said, touching the tiny tattoo on my right hand.

Maybe a scar? I said, touching one of my mine with my left forefinger. Keeping the excitement off my face she had just told me that the rapist hadnt worn gloves.

She shook her head no.

Where it happened, in your house . . .

Another exchange between the girl and the bantamweight Thai.

Not in house, she said.

Not lying. Good. I already knew, from the police reports, that the rape had gone down in an alley behind the Roosevelt Avenue whorehouse where the girl had worked at the time.

Can you tell me what happened? I asked.

Another long exchange in Thai. When it was over, she pointed at the translator, indicating she had already explained everything to him.

She was leaving work, the Thai told me. A little after four in the morning. The guy jumped her in the alley. He had a knife. A switchblade, it must have been she said it scared her when it snapped out. He told her if she made a sound hed cut her throat.

Wawn didnt fight him. She just went limp. He turned her so she was facing the wall. He was in the middle of it when somebody yelled. Wawn thinks it was this drunk whos always hanging around the alley at night. An old man, with white hair and a long coat, is all she remembers. The guy who was on her, he took off.

Youre telling me she called the cops?

No, no. When the drunk, or whoever it was, started yelling, someone must have called 911. The cops showed up so quick, they must have been right around the block. She didnt have a chance to get herself together.

They took her to a hospital?

No hospital, the girl said. Probably same as she told the cops that night.

She dummied up, right? I asked the Thai. Said she didnt speak English, didnt see anything, just some drunk pawing her in the alley, no big deal wanted to get out of there before anyone started asking green-card questions?

Right, he said.

Did he hurt you, Wawn? I asked her.

No. Not even get . . . in me. I dont fight him.

You know my job is to . . . make him pay for doing these things to women?

Good job, she said, emotionless.

I just want to ask you one more question, Wawn. Did he take anything from you?

Take?

A piece of jewelry, maybe? Something out of your purse? Something you were wearing?

No, the hollow girl said. Not take nothing.

You were cool, the Thai acknowledged on the drive back. Maybe youre not so much like your brother after all.

Hows that?

What I heard about him was, you show him a girl whos been hooking since she was twelve, somebodys going to get fucked up.

Its just business, I said. People do things for money, right?

You mean what I got paid? That isnt what made it happen. I told you, man. Permission. That old womans got a lot of clout with my bosses.

Uh-huh.

Her restaurant looks like a ptomaine pit, though.

Tell all your friends, I said.

The Thai girl was in the first group, Clarence said, looking up from the computer screen. So was the stripper, the one who lived out in Middle Village.

They fit on a number of cross-correlates, Terry said. And the time line works, too.

Im not sure what youre saying, I said.

A prostitute and a stripper. Both in some kind of sex business. He could have been watching them for a long time, to get a sense of their movements. The prostitute, as near as I can tell from the data, she was the very first one. At least, the first one in this pattern.

He was still feeling his way, I said. Trying it on for size. Maybe he figured hookers wouldnt be as likely to resist.

That is stupid, mahn, Clarence said, indignantly. Just because a woman

It only has to make sense to him, I said. Remember?

That is true, the West Indian said, acknowledging the first rule of freakdom no matter what they say in the papers, theres no such thing as a senseless crime.

If the Thai girl was first, he had some support for the theory, too, I reminded them. She didnt resist. And youve got all the clips scanned in, T. did it even make the papers?

Terry worked his own keyboard a few strokes, said, No. Not a word.

Okay, now the girl who lived in Ozone Park. She gets off work; he follows her. Probably did it a few times. Knows she doesnt have a garage, but theres a driveway off to the side of her building where she parks. On the night he picks, he gets there ahead of her, lies in wait. She gets out of her car, he jumps her.

Only this girl, soon as he shows her a blade and tells her to turn around, she starts screaming. Had a set of lungs on her like an opera singer, too. And that part of town isnt Kitty Genovese territory: 911 logged seven calls in under a minute.

The victim, the report shows her as angry. She wanted the fucking maggot. But she didnt have anything to really tell the cops. It was dark; he had the mask on. Gloves, by then, too.

And she didnt report anything taken, Terry said.

And that one, she would have, I think, mahn.

Yeah, I summed up. And that was the last one he tried outdoors, is that right?

Right, they said, as one.

Mr. Ubell, my name is Baker. Scott Baker. Im a private investigator, working for

I already talked to the cops, the super said. He was one of those guys whose age you could miss by a couple of decades in either direction. He stood straight-spined in the doorway of the basement apartment the realty company provided as part of his salary.

Yes, sir, I understand that. But, like I said

The cops said if anyone ever came around I didnt have to talk to them.

Cops always say things like that, I said. They only look out for themselves. They didnt tell you that you couldnt talk to anyone else, isnt that true? Anytime theres money to be made, you know the cops, theyre not going to tell you about it.

Nobody said anything about money. He didnt invite me in, but he didnt slam the door, either.

Im saying something about money, I told him. A lot of money. For a few minutes of your time.

What are you, he said, tilting up his chin, writing a book or something?

No, sir, I said, handing him a business card. Im trying to prevent an innocent woman from going to prison. And its worth some real money to her lawyer to help me do my job. If youll just give me a couple of minutes, Ill show you exactly what I mean.

Come on, he said, stepping aside.

The apartment was solidly furnished. Heavy wood everywhere, period pieces. Even the kitchen table was wood, with a white oilcloth cover. Thats where we sat.

I hope you aint allergic, the man said, firing up a Marlboro.

Not me, I said. I took out a pack of Kools, lit one from a small box of wooden matches, and leaned it against the saucer he used as an ashtray.

You said a couple of minutes, the man said. And that you were going to show me something.

Absolutely right, I agreed. I reached in my side pocket, took out a thick roll of bills, and held it in my lap, in my right hand. With my left, I extracted a fifty and put it on the table, saying, The building you handle on Forty-ninth, the tenant in 5-C died back in March.

I put another fifty down, next to the first. Her name was Kravitz. Almost ninety years old. Been there forever, way before you took over.

Another fifty. The landlords been trying to co-op the building for a few years now. But hes never been able to get enough of the tenants to go along. The Kravitz apartment, that could be the swing vote, depending on who ends up renting the place.

Another fifty. I reached over, tipped my cigarette ash off, but didnt take a drag. The super didnt notice. His eyes were riveted to the tabletop as if his Get into Heaven hand of seven-card stud was being dealt out. So the landlord doesnt care if the place stays vacant long enough for him to find the right tenant. If he put it on the market, itd be snapped up in an hour. But if theres work that has to be done on the place first, to get it in rentable condition, well . . .

Another fifty. So a man comes to you, with a perfectly reasonable proposition. He wants to use the place. Just for a little bit. Not rent it, or anything like that. He isnt going to live there, just come by once in a while, clear his head, meditate. Hes not going to move in any furniture, not going to get mail, not going to have a phone installed. Hell, he doesnt even need the electricity turned back on. Not a soul would ever know hes there.

Another fifty. All he needs is a couple of keys. One for downstairs, one for 5-C. If anyone should see him around, well, hes just one of the helpers you hired to do some of the work in that apartment. No risk, no problem. Nobodys getting hurt.

Another fifty. Naturally, this is the guy who turns around and gets himself shot. So the cops show up with a lot of questions. Maybe you told them how it was. Maybe you told them you got no idea how he got a key. Doesnt matter. Not to me, not to anyone.

Another fifty. I ground out my cigarette, as he lit another from the butt of his first. Now, I figure youre a man who knows how to keep his mouth shut. And youre also a man who doesnt miss much. A man who can keep count. What are we up to, anyway?

Eight, he said, voice somewhere between greedy and scared.

Ill bet youre right, I told him, putting another fifty into the pot. Todays jackpot is five hundred. Want to go for it?

For what? he asked, eyes on the tabletop.

Did you ever deal with anyone else except him?

He shook his head no.

Ever see anyone but him go into the place?

Another negative shake.

The cops showed you his picture when they asked you all their questions?

This time, the shake of his head was an affirmative.

And that was the same guy?

Another nodding yes.

Okay, Mr. Ubell, I said, putting down the final fifty. Heres the question: what day did he make the deal?

Tuesday, June tenth, he said, promptly.

He got the keys right then, or he had to come back?

Right then.

You ever see him again?

No.

How long was the deal supposed to be good for?

Two weeks, he said. No more. Even if I had to change the locks.

Congratulations, sir, I said, getting to my feet, leaving the money on the table. Youre todays winner.

He was shot Friday the thirteenth, I said to Wolfe. Which means hed only had that deal going with the apartment on Forty-ninth for a few days.

We were sitting on a bench in Forest Park, a big piece of greenery that borders a few different communities in Queens. It was just turning dark too late for the kids who still watched after-school specials, and too early for the kids who knew they were all lies.

And you sure he wasnt planning to actually live there? she asked, thoughtfully.

The techs may have taken some stuff away with them, I said, but you know how they work. They take samples, not suites of furniture.

He could have had camping equipment, Wolfe said.

You mean like a sleeping bag and stuff?

Yes. You can carry enough stuff in a sea bag to be comfortable for a long time.

Thats right, I said. I remember. You were a Sea Scout when you were a kid.

Uh-huh, she said, absently, shading her eyes with the edge of her hand, as if she were scanning the horizon. Someday, were going to get a little sailboat and go out on the Sound, arent we, boy? she said, patting the Rottweiler.

The beast snorted hed heard that story before.

Its an old building, I told her. Solid brick, thick walls. And even if a neighbor heard footsteps, or a toilet flush, they would just think it was people working on the apartment. That was the story the super circulated the place needed rehab before he could rent it again. So Wychek could have been camping out, like you say, but I dont buy it. He only bought access to the place for a couple of weeks, anyway.

If you believe the super.

I do believe him, I said. Hes a guy who likes his money, but hes not a risk-taker. A couple of weeks, no big deal, he could explain it away if he had to. More than that . . .

You think he gave a statement?

Im sure he did. I dont know if he told them the whole story or not, but Im betting he did. Why not? NYPD, theyre not going to go running to the IRS, especially if they think the witness is cooperating all the way.

Wolfe took a long, deep drag off her cigarette. The white wings in her hair stood out against the night. They would have asked him about me, too, she said. Shown him some pictures.

Is she telling me that she . . . ? I rotated my neck, breaking the adhesions loose, buying time.

And they would have drawn a dead blank, she went on, even if they tried everyone in that building Ive never been there in my life. She took another hit of her cigarette. But that doesnt help all that much, she said, shifting to a more clinical tone. As far as we know, nobody noticed the sister going in there to meet him, either.

Or the shooter.

Or the shooter, she agreed. Thats a lot of traffic to miss.

Not really, I said. Not for that place. I was in and out, no problem. Never got so much as a strange look. And I had people with me, too. Theres only five units per floor, and I dont get the impression that anyone who lives theres all that sociable.

The sister wasnt the shooter, Wolfe said, sure of herself. She was the one that called it in. I know people do that, she said, holding up a hand as if I was going to say something, but thats an Ohmygod, what have I done? thing. In the heat of the moment. Or a fugue state, then they snap out of it, realize what happened while they were out. If the sister was the shooter, she would have said so, told her own story before he could tell his. Otherwise, all she had to do was walk away. He was in no position to call for help.

Theres a wild card, I said. Something I found.

What? she said, shifting position on the bench to face me squarely.

Dilantin, I said.

So he was an Oh!

Yeah. Getting shot hurts, I said. Hydrostatic shock . . . blood in the wound channel. Enough of that, you pass out. Or die. But theres also neural shock. Like getting punched or kicked, only from the inside. That can KO you, too.

You can shoot someone real up-close-and-personal with a twenty-five, and they wont necessarily die from it. Ask Amy Fisher. But this guy, he wasnt hit anywhere good. Sure, the thigh could do it, if you tore the femoral artery. But he had lots of time to bleed to death, if thats what he was going to do.

I know youre an expert, Wolfe said, nothing in her voice but distance.

Listen to me for a minute, I said. I think what happened was that he had a seizure behind being shot. The lights terrible there, no electricity. So the shooter probably thought he got the job done and took off. And the sister came later. Maybe even a lot later.

Its still attempt murder, Wolfe said, a career prosecutor on automatic pilot.

Yeah, I said. For the shooter, not for you.

Whats your point?

You didnt shoot him, I said. But he was shot. And before he lapses into this bullshit coma the DA was screaming about, he, supposedly, names you as the shooter.

Yes . . . ?

Weve been assuming, up to now, that he did it on purpose.

What?

Named you. That he did it to get even. Because he hates you for being the only one to put him away. But what if he was all scrambled when he came out of the fog? A grand-mal seizure, thats a brainwave malfunction, right? He had you on his mind, no question about that that letter he sent you proves it. So, when he opened his mouth, your name popped out.

That was a while ago, Wolfe said, thoughtfully. So its not the greatest defense, since hes had plenty of time to get his mind straight since then.

If he ever takes the stand.

You better not be saying what I

No, nothing like that, I said. Im thinking maybe hes already come clean.

Admitted it wasnt me who?

Im thinking it was more than that, I said. To get the kind of protection hes getting, he had to have told them a better story than the DAs been telling in court.

All right, Wolfe said, after a two-cigarette silence. I cant make sense out of it. What are you trying to say?

Theres no such thing as a three-shot accident, I told her. Wychek wasnt in the wrong place at the wrong time, like a drive-by, or a mugging that went wrong. This wasnt any case of mistaken identity, or where an armed burglar gets surprised in the middle of doing an apartment and panics. This was a hit.

Fair enough. Especially since you say he never really lived there. But so what?

Whoever shot him knew where to find him, I said. And they didnt do it by investigation that setup was totally off the books. So whoever tried to take him out, they had Wychek in the crosshairs way before the thirteenth.

Burke, I know youre going somewhere with this. . . .

I think he knew the shooter, I said. And hes got his own reasons for not naming him.

So why name me? Wolfe challenged. Maybe he gets to throw at me for a couple of rounds, but he has to know Im going to come back at him.

Anybody whos ever dealt with you would know that, I agreed. But youre talking courtroom stuff. That wouldnt seem real to him at the time. And even if it did, it wouldnt be an immediate threat. The real comeback Wycheks got to be worried about is the shooter making another pass.

So how does?

He names you when he comes out of the coma because hes not thinking straight. He knows what he cant say, but hes still foggy, so . . .

But youre saying you think Wycheks recanted, right?

Im not saying it, but I think its possible.

Anythings possible, Wolfe said. She didnt sound impatient, just . . . disappointed.

I leaned toward her, dropped my voice, even though there wasnt anyone within eyesight, and Bruiser was too calm for lurkers to be near. Wychek wants police protection. Not even a twenty-four/seven guards going to make him happy he wants to be held at some undisclosed location. You think theyre going to do that because he tells them youre gunning for him?

No, Wolfe said, thoughtfully. Ive got my enemies in the DAs Office, but none of them would buy a story like that.

Theyre buying something, I said. Because hes still under wraps. And that means only one thing. . . .

Wolfe fired up another cigarette, but didnt step into the pause.

Hes got something they want, I said. Some information thats important enough for them to keep him covered. And the only way they can do that, without tipping their hand, is to keep this bullshit case alive. Otherwise, the real shooter would know hes on the spot.

Youre saying Wychek admitted that he lied? About me, I mean. Why would he admit?

Because he has to establish credibility, I said. The cops know when he was shot the time period, anyway. As far as Wychek knows, they did their own checking. On you, I mean. If they know where you were when the whole thing went down, had you bracketed, they already know you didnt do it. Wychek, hed figure that out. If he comes clean on his own, theyre more likely to believe whatever else he has to say. Hes in that hospital bed, doing the math. He couldnt take the risk of staying with the lie.

Hes a liar in his bone marrow, Wolfe said, almost spitting the words. And an inventive one, too. Look at that delusional consent thing he was going to run with. Lyings what he does.

Sure. But hes not compulsive about it. For Wychek, lyings a tool; he knows when to use it, and when not to. Hes got something he says he wants to trade for protection, you know what the cops would do, first thing?

Polygraph, Wolfe said, quietly.

Bingo. So it would be the smart play for him to come clean, at least about you being the shooter. If they debrief him, and he shows deception on any of the questions, theyre going to kick him to the curb.

The only people who play like that are the feds.

Right. And we both know theyd never leave a bogus charge hanging over someone so they could camouflage an ongoing investigation.

Wolfe snapped her cigarette into a puddle, hitting it dead center.

What could someone like Wychek possibly have? she said.

He just got out of prison. He may have stumbled across something juicy in there, I told her. Like, Whos Who in the Brotherhood, I thought to myself, still wondering about that protection contract.

Maybe . . . ? she said, dubiously.

It could be anything, I said. A freak like Wychek, who knows what he might have crossed paths with.

So all we have to do is wait them out, Wolfe said. Sooner or later, theyll drop the charges against me. Theres no need to keep investigating.

You got that much faith in the system? I said. We have to keep going, even if its only for a safety play.

I turned my head, as if I was scanning the area, on the off-chance the truth would show on my face. Just fucking admit it, I thought to myself. You need this case to stay open. You want to be the one. You want to rescue her.

I guess it makes sense . . . she said. Until Davidson gets it knocked out, anyway. This one, its never going to go to trial.

Thats the truth, I said.

Sure, theres a way to do it, Terry said. But I dont have the skills. Not to where Id be real confident. Youre not talking about computers not the kind of thing I do with them, anyway youre talking about advanced Web stuff.

Why could you not learn, mahn? Clarence asked. A few weeks ago, I knew nothing about any of this.

Oh, you picked it up like a natural, Terry assured him. But I was right there with you, every step of the way. Like you did with me, teaching me to shoot . . .

The kid interrupted himself to flick his eyes over to me. I nodded him a promise to keep those lessons to myself.

If you made a mistake, I could show you where you went wrong, Terry went on. What Burkes talking about, wed be on our own.

What if I got you someone? I asked.

To teach me to?

To set it up. If you learned from watching, cool. But even if you didnt, all youd have to do would be the maintenance, once it was in place.

We could both watch? Clarence asked, eagerly.

Yeah, I said. I already told her there would be two of you.

You still working on that book? I asked Hauser. He had been putting together an in-depth investigation into a case where a woman who ran a day-care center with her husband had been convicted of killing three of the children, in separate incidents. Originally, the deaths were marked down to SIDS. But the pattern was too strong to ignore, and, eventually, they made the case with the autopsies. It was the prosecutions theory that the woman had Munchausen by proxy she killed the babies so that she would be the object of heartfelt sympathy from the shocked town. Hauser had a theory of his own.

Getting closer, Hauser said, grimly. Its a big manuscript. A hundred and fifty thousand words. I know Ive got to cut some of it, but even my editor cant see what could go. Its already lean. Theres just so many facts. . . .

Hauser loved and treasured and collected facts like some people do stamps. And he was just as reluctant to part with any of his prizes.

When do you think it will come out? I asked him.

Hell, I dont know. Not for another year and a half, minimum.

They dont run your picture with your column in the paper, right?

No, he said, suspicion clouding his voice.

You got a Web site?

Not a real one, he said. Just a home-page kind of thing. A bibliography, a few clips, links to stuff Ive had published in various places . . . When the book is ready to launch, Ill get a professional to put one together for me. Ive already bought a domain name. Why do you ask?

So your pictures not on the site, either?

No, why should it Oh! he said. Get real!

It would only be for a

Forget it, Hauser said.

After you hear me out, I promised. Ive known Hauser for years not hearing the whole story of anything would kill him.

I gave his silence a three-count, then went into my pitch. Youd get everything, I told him, when I was finished. I cant promise what, exactly, but you know theres a story in all this, somewhere.

Im not so sure, he said.

Look, theres nothing to give you away. You said it yourself nothing you wrote about Wolfes case came out under your own name. And it could mean the difference for her, I told him, playing my trump. All the difference.

Ah, Hauser sighed.

And all you have to do is not go near your Web site for a couple, few weeks. You told me youre taking the whole family on vacation, anyway. So how hard would that be?

Not hard at all, he admitted. I havent updated the damn thing in a year.

So it gets hijacked, I said. And you never know.

But my e-mail address is on the

That gets hijacked, too, I said, repeating what Id been told. Everything not from this one person, it gets forwarded right on to you, unopened, to any other address you say. So, from where you sit, there never was anything wrong with the site. And if you get a certain e-mail at your work address, you can just forward it on to me, see?

Did you ever think about not being a criminal of some kind? he asked.

God, shes beautiful, Terry said.

Oh, for true, mahn, Clarence echoed. That woman is a goddess.

Kim had quite an impact on you guys, huh? I said.

I meant her work, Terry said.

I did also, Clarence claimed.

Right. Thats why you asked her if she was married. Twice.

So she is both, Clarence said. One does not mean she cannot be the other.

Wait till you see, Burke, Terry said. Were ready to go, anytime you want. The hardest thing was talking Kim out of fixing his site when she added your picture.

Its not working right?

Well, it comes up when you dial the URL. But its all miscoded. The navigation sucks. And the frames are

I got it, I cut him off.

Whats next, mahn?

I go in, I said.

Laura W. Reinhardt, I read aloud from the paper in front of me. Born 1968, to Laura Smyth and Brian Wychek, of Richmond Hill, New York. Graduated high school in 86, right on schedule. Kept right on through to a B.A. in economics and an M.B.A., awarded 1992.

Im guessing she met her husband in college, I said. Shows she got married in 1990, the year she graduated. To one Matthias Reinhardt. Didnt last long: they were divorced in 93.

When the card turned green, he split the scene? the Prof said.

Could be, I told them. The divorce was a no-fault, based on a separation agreement. And theres a lot of foreign college students who dont want to go back home.

Well, she didnt exactly drop out of school to have babies, Michelle said. It doesnt sound like she missed a day.

How old is the man who is lying about your . . . about Ms. Wolfe? Clarence asked.

Hes . . . thirty-nine, I said. Born in 64. So shes younger.

Little sister, Michelle said, thoughtfully.

Little Sister sure took a different road than her brother, I told them. Shes got a good job with Rautroix International, a multinational financial-services firm.

Wasnt that one of the places that was in the?

Yeah, it was, I said to Michelle. They relocated to midtown after the World Trade Center was leveled. I guess she wasnt at work when it happened. Or else she got out in time.

But she lives in Queens? Michelle asked.

They all do. Or did, anyway. The parents stayed in Richmond Hill until the father retired in, let me see . . . 97.

The same year Wychek was convicted, Clarence said, consulting his laptop screen.

Everybody stopped talking. It is a simple search program, he said, embarrassment and pride tangling in his voice. We have the data, so we can sort by matches in date and time. You just type in the trigger phrase, and

Oh pul-leeze, Michelle cut him off. Talk English. You sound like the Mole.

It is Terry who is teaching me, the West Indian said.

Hes such a genius, Michelle said, reversing herself quicker than a bribed judge.

Where did they go when they retired? I asked Clarence, before Michelle got into a higher gear.

Not them, mahn. Just him. The wife, it says here she died in 1990. The same year the daughter married.

Died of what? I asked.

Just says natural causes,  Clarence said. There is no death certificate or anything in the data bank.

The daughter, Laura, she lives in Maspeth, in a condo. Has a three-bedroom, two-bath in a converted factory building. Supposed to be very high-end, state-of-the-art, I told them.

How much does one of those go for? the Prof asked.

Says here she paid three seventy-five for it. And that was back in 97, a long time ago.

Its not pennies, Michelle said. But she couldnt touch that much space for that kind of money in Manhattan.

Or in parts of Brooklyn, either, I agreed. But, for what she put down on the total, she could have swung a place in the City.

She bought it for cash money? the Prof said, leaning forward, interested now.

No. But it says here she owns two other units in the same building, I told them. Bought all three at the same time. Hers is on the top floor; the other two are smaller, both on the second floor.

Adjoining? Michelle wanted to know.

Yep.

Smart girl, Michelle said. She rents them out for now, probably covers her own mortgage that way. And if she finds the right buyer, she can always take down the wall between them, make a big place out of it.

How much? the Prof asked.

Total purchase price was nine fifty, I said. Probably made herself a nice package deal with the people who did the conversion. Theres one mortgage on the whole thing, all three units. And thats for . . . seven. So she put up around a quarter-mil in cash, Prof.

They make that kind of coin where she works?

I . . . think so, I said, shrugging my shoulders to show I wasnt certain. I dont think a six-figure salary and an annual bonus is out of the question. If she saved her money . . .

She wasnt working there long enough, Michelle said. She started after she graduated, so sometime late in 92. And not even five years later, she has that kind of money on hand? Maybe her mother left her something?

I looked over at Clarence. He tapped keys with confidence. Paused. There was no will, he finally said. Everything was in the names of both of them. The parents, I mean. The house, the bank accounts, everything.

Life insurance? Michelle asked.

There was . . . yes, Clarence said. Fifty thousand. But the husband was the beneficiary.

Maybe borrow money, Mama spoke for the first time.

A mortgage is borrowing

Sure, sure, Mama cut Clarence off. Borrow down payment. Plenty people do this. Not tell bank.

Thats right, I said. Banks dont like it when you have to borrow the down. They always have to be first in line.

Her father, Michelle guessed. He tapped his pension, maybe?

Clarence? I said.

A couple of minutes passed. But no matter how many key combinations Clarence tapped, he kept shaking his head. There is nothing in here like that, mahn, he announced apologetically, as disappointed as a played lover.

Michelle could be right, I said. Nothing in all this paper screams big bucks. She drives a nice car an Audi TT ragtop and her credit cards show she spends pretty decent, but nothing outrageous. Womans probably just smart with money. She should be; thats her business.

Mama pointed to the stack of paper in front of me. Big pile, she said, but not so much. She wasnt talking about money.

Yeah, I agreed. Lots of windows. But no doors.

There was nothing I liked about the neighborhood. Even in broad daylight, I could feel the waves of hostility wash against the Plymouths flanks before I turned off the ignition. Years ago, a black kid had been beaten to death not far from where I was parked, by some self-appointed protectors of the community.

Despite my skin shade, I was still guilty of that black kids crime I wasnt from around there.

Even before my face got changed, I had never looked my age. When I was a kid, I was always the one to buy the wine. There have been slashes of white in my hair since Ive been nineteen. But somewhere along the road, the process went into reverse. I dont mean I could pass for a man in his twenties anymore. But I can do forty easy enough, and my odometer clicked past that one a long time ago.

So I had dressed in a red windbreaker reversible to white zipped over a plain white T-shirt, a pair of jeans, and lace-up black boots. The car was part of my outfit. I was a working guy, spent my weekends restoring the Roadrunner maybe. Nothing special. Nothing threatening.

I had a phone number, but that was a last resort. The number was in another persons name, and unlisted on top of that. Security precautions, for a woman who had been raped in her own home and, for whatever reason, had stayed there afterwards. I didnt want to set off a How did you get this number? panic.

I knew the woman worked the evening shift at a local restaurant, and guessed she might be home in the daytime.

She wasnt home. Or wasnt answering the doorbell.

There were four of them waiting, lounging against the Plymouth like it was their clubhouse wall. Young men, looked mid-to-late twenties. Three of them had longish, neat haircuts, black running shoes, different-colored warm-up outfits. Two sported gold around their necks, one wore wraparound blue sunglasses. All three had pagers clipped to their waistbands.

The fourth one came extra-large, a fat guy whose hard bulk probably made him look older than he was. He was wearing a short-sleeved black shirt outside his pants, cream-colored slacks with cuffs, and black slip-ons. A heavy gold watch hung at the end of a forearm so incongruously thin that it looked like someone had mismatched the parts. His other forearm was normal. I mentally shrugged my shoulders too many possibilities.

As I approached, I ran through the options in my mind. Its always tricky. Come on meek and they might be content with a little bullying and the kind of physical stuff that wouldnt send you to the ER. Come on too meek and they might get excited enough to do some real damage.

Or you could get off first. Hurt one of them quick, buy yourself enough room to get gone. Thats a desperation play, especially in daylight, where they can get a good look at you, at what youre driving. Because, even if it works, its not over.

Sometimes, money pays the tolls. But flashing it can also make people greedy. And suspicious.

I wished I had gone with a good suit, and a nice upscale rental car, too.

I wish a lot of things.

You looking for someone? one of the gold-chain guys asked, when I got close enough.

No, I said, not reaching for my keys.

You just like going into buildings, ringing the bells? Sunglasses said.

I like doing a lot of things, I said. One of them is minding my own business.

The gold-chain guy who hadnt spoken pushed himself away from his lounging position and took a step toward me. The fat guy made some sound I couldnt decode, and the gold-chain guy stopped in his tracks.

Angie is our business, the fat guy said. He pointed to the building Id just left. You just went up to her place, rang her bell, he said, pulling a cell phone out of his pocket to tell me he was interfering by invitation.

My apologies, I said. I dont just mind my own business, I never talk about anyone elses.

But now that you know . . . the fat guy said, stepping closer to me, his eyes on my hands.

Now that I know . . . what? That you men are looking out for her? Im glad you are.

Is that right? the fat man said. Maybe you know some special reason why we should be doing that?

I might, I said. But I dont talk about people if theyre not in the room.

Dont talk about her, he said, barely moving his lips. Talk about you.

I cant do that without talking about her.

How come?

Lets say I told you I was a doctor. Youd want to know, Whats wrong with Angie, a doctor has to come and see her? Am I right?

Youre not a doctor, Sunglasses said.

Ill go halfway with you, the fat man said, moving his shoulders to show me he spoke for them all.

I nodded, as if overwhelmed by his logic. Im a private investigator, I said.

You dont look like no one of the gold-chain boys said.

I made a Thats the point, right? face at the fat man, who chopped the gold chain with a glance.

You carry? he asked.

Im licensed to, I said. But I usually dont bother. My job isnt going after people, its helping them.

And youre here to help Angie, is that what youre saying?

Thats as much as Im going to say, out here in the street, I told him.

You supposed to be, like, undercover, dressed like you are? Sunglasses said.

Somebody sees me walking over to Angies building, I look like what? I said to him. Nothing, right? But I show up in a suit, carry a briefcase, thats the kind of thing people pay attention to. And you know how they are, with the mouth, all the time. I figure Angie doesnt need that kind of aggravation.

Thats why you drive this shitbox? Sunglasses said. Keep up your image?

No, I said, seeing the opening. The cars a fakeout. Part of the job.

Fakeout? one of the gold-chain guys said.

Want me to show you? I asked them.

Motherfucker! Sunglasses yelled.

He was in the Plymouths backseat, directly behind the fat man, the gold-chain boys to his left, watching the picket fence of cars out his right window. The Plymouth blasted through the left lane of the Belt Parkway at a buck and a quarter, closing on traffic ahead like an incoming antitank round until I backed off the gas and gave the brakes a chance to do their stuff.

Holy one of the gold chains said, as I took the off-ramp at double the limit, deliberately letting the rear end step out a little, just for the drama.

By the time we were back on city streets, the Plymouth was sounding as docile as a taxicab.

Do him, the fat man said, pointing at a jacked-up yellow Camaro with tomato-can-sized dual exhausts. It was in the right lane a block ahead of us.

You do the talking, I told him.

I pulled behind the Camaro. Trailed him for three lights, until I saw an opening, and slid in alongside. I hit the Roadrunners meep-meep horn. The Camaros driver looked over at us.

Fifty bucks says that thing cant run, the fat man said.

Whatve you got? the Camaro man asked.

Ah, never mind, the fat man said, disgusted.

The Camaro revved his engine sharply, clearing out the induction. I feathered the Plymouths throttle against the brake. Most stick-shift cars can leave on me, but unless theyre packing nitrous, I can usually drive around them between lights.

This one wasnt even that close. By the time the Camaro got done spinning his rear tires, I was gone. The backseat echoed to the sound of high-fives.

You could make real money with this, the fat man said.

Its a sleeve ace, all right, I told him. But its for bigger games.

Angies always worried hell come back, the fat man said on the return run. His soft tone was a counterpoint to Magic Judy Henskes Betty and Dupree torching through the Plymouths tinny speakers. But wheres she going to go? Shes a neighborhood girl, all her life. People look out for her, here.

I can see that, I said.

When Angie called, thats what I thought, at first that the motherfucker really came back, he said. She was whispering looking at you through the peephole. I got my hopes up. But then she says, no, it you wasnt him.

But she never saw?

Not when it happened, the fat man said. Not then. But she went to court. Over in Queens, when they finally got him. She wore a scarf and a veil and everything, looked like she was an old lady. He never would have recognized her.

She had a lot of heart, to go there, I said.

Ah, Frankie was with her all the time, Sunglasses said.

Angie was a frail, parchment-skinned young woman with long black hair that looked too thick and heavy for her delicate face.

Im afraid, she said. Im afraid all the time. Ever since it happened. I wasnt always like this. I used to go out. To work. And to have fun, even. I loved to dance. . . .

Did you know someone shot him? I asked.

No, she said, glancing at the fat man. Frankie never said. . . .

I didnt want to . . . I didnt even want to say his fucking name in front of

Frankie!

Sorry, he said, looking at the floor.

He was shot several times, I told her. But he didnt die from it.

Too bad, she said, more sad than angry.

It is, I agreed. Do you remember the woman who prosecuted him over in Queens? The DA?

Do I remember her? I pray for her every Wednesday and every Sunday of my life. I say a special prayer, that God always keep her safe.

Wychek said she was the shooter, I told her.

The DA? Eva Wolfe? Her?

Yes.

Could I help her? Angie asked, eyes alive for the first time since Id entered the apartment. Is there anything I could do?

There might be, I said, cautiously. But I would have to ask you some questions.

I dont care, she said, chin up defiantly. She stood up, walked over to the couch where the fat man was sitting, and sat down next to him. Right, Frankie?

Right, princess, the fat man said, reaching for her hand.

What the freak had taken was a rosary.

My aunt Jean gave it to me, when I made my first Holy Communion, the woman said. I always kept it in a little wood box. My treasure box, I used to call it.

You didnt see him take it?

No. After he . . . I . . . I think I fainted. He was gone. I was still . . . tied up. If it hadnt been for . . .

When Angie didnt answer the door, I took it down, Frankie said, no emotion in his voice. I called for an ambulance, and they sent the cops, too.

How did he get into the building? I asked. This neighborhood . . .

He just walked in, Angie said. I mean, I let him in. It was January, after New Years. It was snowing real bad. He was wearing a ski mask and gloves and a big coat and boots. He was stomping his feet and clapping his hands, like from the cold. He said he came to see Mrs. Trotti; she was his aunt, he came all the way from Jersey.

Mrs. Trotti, she had to be home, but she wasnt answering her bell. I even pushed it myself. It didnt work. So I let him in, so he could go up and knock on her door himself. Thats when he took out the razor. . . .

That white postcard, I told Frankie later. We were sitting in the front seat of the Plymouth, alone this time. He sent them to all the victims who still live at the same address where they were first attacked.

You think that means hes going to?

I dont know what it means, I said. Not for sure. I know, as soon as he got out, he sent a letter to the DA who prosecuted him. Kind of a fuck you note.

You know where he is? the fat man asked, like he was asking if the Mets were playing at home that weekend.

No. So long as the charges are hanging over Wolfe, the cops are keeping him under wraps.

I never even knew he got out, Frankie said, bitterly.

You cant do her any good in jail, I told him.

He didnt say anything, just stared straight ahead.

Shes much better now, isnt she? I asked.

Thats . . . How did you know?

I know about things like . . . things like what happened to her, I said. She needs you with her, not doing time.

He did . . . that to Angie, he deserves to die, Frankie said. Youre not arguing, right?

Not me, I said. But, for some things, a wedding gets it done better than a funeral would.

Who knows what a reporter dresses like? Michelle bitched, rummaging through the row of metal lockers I use as closets.

Honey . . .

Yes, yes, I know. You didnt ask me. But you know what they say first impressions?

Right, I said, surrendering to the inevitable.

If you were younger, we could probably go with casual, but . . .

I get it.

You do not get it, you thug, she mock-snarled. We are looking for a look, and Im not sure you have anything here that will

Michelle, I said, youre not going shopping.

Oh, grow up! We certainly cant have you wearing brand-new togs. This isnt a date. Now, let me see. . . . She continued, an unstoppable force, going through every piece of clothing I owned. You dont even own a single sports jacket. Ridiculous. You know, a nice suede jacket is something every man should have in his wardrobe. You can wear it with anything, and you look dressed.

I dont

A suede sports jacket, she said, in a tone of finality. But not some boxy American cut, and not three-button, either. A cotton shirt. Blue. Oxford cloth, button-down collar, but no tie. Gray slacks, a good pair of black shoes . . .

Michelle . . .

Oh, just stop it, Burke. A suit would be too much. Especially those gangster things you have.

Hey, those are lawyer suits, I protested.

Michelle put her hands on her hips and stared me down.

No silk shirts, either, she said, satisfied she was in control. Or those hideous pullovers. You can wear the jacket I am going to get you every time you see her, like a trademark. Shell love it.

I dont know if shell even agree to meet with me, I said. Why dont we wait until I?

No, is all my little sister said.

Ms. Reinhardt, my name is J. P. Hauser. Thank you for taking my call.

You told the receptionist this was a family matter,  she said. Her voice was measured, precise . . . just this side of wary.

I understand you have an important position, I said. I assumed I wouldnt be able to reach you without giving some sort of reason. I didnt want to lie, but I didnt want to give out any information to a third party. So I

What is it you want? She didnt sound frightened, or even nervous, just impatient.

I want to talk to you about your brother, I said.

Are you with the?

Im an investigative journalist, Ms. Reinhardt.

You mean youre a reporter.

I am a reporter, I said, but Im not calling you in that capacity. My goal isnt some article, or a column. Im writing a book. And I was hoping we could

A book? About my brother?

A book about how Americas criminal-justice system has gone off the rails, I said. A book about how innocent men are being sent to prison, even executed, every day, for crimes they never committed. About how, every time an innocent man is imprisoned for crimes, the real criminal remains at large.

And you think my brother . . . ?

Your brothers case would be the perfect centerpiece to the book, Ms. Reinhardt. Plenty of people have been sent to prison by overzealous prosecutors, but how many have been shot by them?

Ah. So youre covering the trial, is that it?

No. I mean, certainly, Ill be at the trial, but that isnt the point of my book. It wouldnt surprise me at all if the same system that wrongfully convicted your brother in the first place now finds a way to acquit the person who tried to kill him. I see your brother as a personification of everything thats wrong with the way we fight crime in America.

So why call me, Mr. . . .

Hauser.

Hauser. Isnt it my brother you really need to speak to?

Not really, I said. I dont mean I wouldnt welcome the opportunity, but what Im really looking for are those within what I call the concentric circles of impact from a wrongful conviction. My thesis is that it isnt just one life that can be ruined, its all the lives surrounding it.

Im a very private person, Mr. Hauser.

I respect that, Ms. Reinhardt. All Im asking is maybe an hour of your time, entirely off the record. The truth is, I havent made my decision yet.

I dont understand.

Well, I am absolutely committed to the book. In fact, Ive signed a contract for it, and accepted the advance. I was working on it, in my off-hours, a year before your brothers case came to light the one where he was shot, I mean. I thought it would lend some real . . . drama to the material. Put a human face on the problem. But there are other, equally outrageous miscarriages of justice all around the country. To be brutally honest, I have a . . . point of view. Or, I should say, a point to make. I have to be certain my lead actor, if you will, is right for the role.

Mr. Hauser . . .

I apologize, I said quickly. Ive been so caught up in this project for so long that I seem to assume other people I talk to understand exactly what Im doing. Let me be very clear, all right? I dont want the . . . centerpiece of my book to be a person with a . . . negative background. I have several documented cases of innocent people sent to prison, but in some of those the individuals life prior to conviction wasnt exactly . . . Well, they werent what you would call model citizens. I researched your brothers case, and it seems, before his wrongful conviction, he led an exemplary life. Thats really what I want to talk to you about.

I wouldnt want my name to be

Ms. Reinhardt, I said off the record, and thats what I meant. I cant give you Im sure you understand any form of approval over what I write, but I can promise you that your name, or any information about you, will not be in the book, period. Fair enough?

I . . . dont know, she said, calmly. Is there a number where I can reach you?

Of course, I said. And gave her Hausers private line at the newspaper. I also carry a cell phone with me at all times. Let me give you that number, too. . . .

Why should she talk with you, mahn? Clarence asked.

We were sitting around my green-felt-topped poker table, playing five-card draw. Table stakes, for wooden matches.

Damage control, I said.

Schoolboy means she might show just to see what he know, the Prof amplified.

You didnt tell her you knew anything about her? Terry asked. Like where she lives?

Thats the next round, I told him. Its already chambered, but we dont pull the trigger unless she nixes the meet. Calling her at home would spook her the numbers unlisted and so would a surprise visit. She doesnt even know that I know she was the one who made the 911 call . . . not for sure, anyway.

We have the next screen done, mahn, Clarence said. You know, the one you asked for?

The victims who changed addresses after the rapes?

Yes. That was most of them, the West Indian said. In fact, five of them left the city altogether.

 City? I asked.

Burkes talking native tongue, son, the Prof explained to Clarence. When you born here, the City, thats Manhattan, okay? But you, you talking New York City, right? They got themselves all the way out of town, not just over to Brooklyn or someplace?

That is right, Clarence said. In fact . . . give us a minute, mahn.

He and Terry got up and went back into the part of my place that they had turned into their personal HQ.

Hes picking up stuff from Terry like he was born to it, I said.

Yeah, bro. True clue. Only . . . you might want to have a little talk with the kid about whats hes picking up. Lot of heat on that two-way street.

You mean Clarence has been teaching him to? I asked, shading that Id already been tipped.

Oh yeah, the little man affirmed. Kids not going to be no Wyatt Earp, maybe, but he can handle a piece pretty good already.

Dont even, I told him. If Michelle gets wind of that, shes going to

Whatd I just say, okay?

Burke! Terry said, busting into the room.

Terry, I want to

Wait. Just a minute. Clarence had this idea, for another field. It only took a couple of minutes to run it.

And . . . ?

And the ones who moved, we thought it might be split like, maybe the ones who werent born here, theyd be the ones to go back home. But that didnt work. I mean, two of them were students, just here to go to college, and they went back home . . . to where their parents lived. But theres no pattern to any of the others. Some of the women who came here, like for jobs or whatever, they just moved to different addresses. And a couple who were born here, they just up and left. Like starting over.

Fifty to one, none of them got a white postcard, I said. You got a list of the ones who stayed around here?

Sure, Clarence said. But these records are not fresh, mahn. They could have kept moving.

Yeah, I know, I said, reaching for my cellular.

What do you think, Mama? I asked. It was the following afternoon, still light outside, but in my booth too dark to read a newspaper. Id been talking nonstop, from the first cup of soup through the crackle-skinned duck, running it down from the beginning. Mama hadnt said a word, just making the occasional sound to let me know she was listening. Like always.

Must be money, she finally said. Money someplace.

Money for us? I asked, getting to it.

Girl have money, yes? she demanded.

Wycheks sister?

Yes, sister.

Well, like you said before, Mama, it may not be cash money. Just on paper. A woman who does what she does in her business, I mean she probably knows how to leverage. It could all be a house of cards, no way to pull cash out of it.

You think police girl not shoot him, right?

I know she didnt.

Mama watched me with an assayers eyes for a long moment. Not make sense, she finally agreed. And you think they know, yes?

They almost have to, by this time.

But keep . . . fake because he have something they want?

Right.

So?

I dont

So money, Mama said, in a tone of finality. Maybe not cash money, but worth money.

Thats what I think, too.

No matter, Mama said.

What? I said, shocked at the blasphemy.

You not looking for money, she said, accusingly. You do all this for police girl.

Wolfes done plenty for

Sure sure, she said, done.

She called. Hausers voice, on one of my cell phones.

How long ago?

Fifteen minutes, he said. She was pretty slick about it, too. Didnt ring the direct line; just called the switchboard and asked for me.

Youre sure it was?

She asked to speak to me . . . to J. P. Hauser. I told her, Hes out in the field, but we have his pager if its an emergency. Or she could just leave her number and . . . Thats when she hung up.

Sounds right, I said. I guess well know pretty soon.

Just be sure you Hauser started to say. The ringing of another of my cell phones cut him off.

Hauser, I answered.

Its Laura Reinhardt, Mr. Hauser.

Thanks for getting back to me, I said. Does this mean we can talk?

We can meet, she said not hard, but in control. And I can listen a little more.

Fair enough. Just pick a time and a place.

Do investigative reporters have expense accounts? she said, the barest hint of teasing in her tone.

Well, as I told you, this isnt a job for the paper. But expenses are part of my book contract, so . . . ?

So do you know Tramellos? Its in Richmond Hill, Queens?

I can find it, I said.

Eight oclock, then, she said, firmly. Therell be a reservation. In my name.

Tramellos turned out to be just off Hillside Avenue, in the shadow of the Long Island Railroad trestle. I gave it a quick pass at seven-thirty, a slower one a few minutes later. All I could tell about the place was that it wasnt any new addition to the neighborhood.

I found a parking spot near the public library and strolled over, checking my watch. At five minutes to eight, I walked into a joint that looked like it had been lifted from a Scorsese movie. The man at the front desk was wearing a morticians suit, thinning black hair plastered to his scalp, like the greeters grin to his face.

Im meeting Ms. Reinhardt, I said, politely. I believe we have a reservation?

Your party is already here, sir, he said. Let me show you to your table.

He was moving off before I could thank him, threading his way through a large, dark room that was maybe a third full. He turned to his right and stepped aside to usher me into a much smaller space four tables, lots of room between them.

The woman sitting alone at the corner table was wearing a business suit the color of dried blood. Her blouse was a white, frilly-front affair, defying closer examination. She stood up as I approached, extended her hand.

Mr. Hauser, she said.

Ms. Reinhardt. Thank you for taking the time to

Oh, I had to eat anyway, she said, making a brushing gesture with her left hand as she sat down, smoothing her skirt.

She was a small, slender woman, with auburn hair worn in some short, stylish cut that Michelle would have a name for. Dark-blue eyes, highlighted with more mascara than I would have expected. Her lipstick was the same shade as her jacket. No rings on her fingers, but the Patek Philippe watch on her right wrist a small, black-faced rectangle on a gold bracelet had double rows of diamonds running along its length.

Not what you expected? she said, giving me a tiny smile.

This place? I said, looking around at the heavy dark-purple crushed-velvet drapes that blocked all the windows.

Ive been coming here since I was a little girl, she said, ignoring my question. The food is a little on the heavy side, but its as fresh as anything you could find in Little Italy.

Youre part Italian?

Just in my soul, she said, chuckling softly. Id rather shop in Milan than Warsaw.

I didnt mean to pry, I said. Although I guess that sounds ridiculous, coming from a reporter. I meant

Oh, I understand, she said. Maybe we should

A waiter materialized, standing more behind me than between us.

Do you know what you want? she asked.

Chicken Marsala, I told the waiter.

She ordered a house salad, pasta primavera, and a glass of wine.

I hope you dont mind, she said, taking a silver cigarette case out of her purse.

That would make me a gross hypocrite, I told her, reaching for my own pack.

She handed me a heavy gold Dunhill lighter, and I fired up both our smokes.

Neither of us said anything until she had smoked hers almost down to the filter.

Your Web site isnt very impressive, she said, smiling, as she ground out her cigarette.

How did you . . . ? Oh, that thing. Yeah, Im kind of a technophobe. Old-school all the way. No laptop, no PDA I even take notes the old-fashioned way, with a pen. But everyone kept telling me I had to have a Web site, with a book coming out and all, so I just followed the instructions. I guess I should have hired a professional to do it right, but it seems like, I dont know, a waste.

It had good information, though, she said. Your credits, stuff like that.

I . . . guess, I said, unconvinced. But theres not much point in a résumé when youre not looking for a job.

At least your photograph did you justice.

Hey! I said, half grinning at her. I said I was a journalist, not a movie star.

I

The waiter appearing with our food cut off her response. As if by mutual agreement, we stayed silent until he was done placing everything to his satisfaction.

Good, I said, taking a bite.

It is, isnt it? My favorite is the bracciole, but every time I have it, I have to go out and buy bigger skirts.

It cant be that bad.

Bad? Its wonderful. But I know me. My personality, I mean. When I like something, Im always at risk for overindulgence. And I dont have the time to go to the gym three times a week like Im supposed to.

You look . . . Im sorry, I . . . I realize this isnt a date. Its just that . . .

What?

You look like you spend a lot of time in the gym.

What I spend a lot of time doing is sitting down, she said, twisting her mouth into a mock pout. And even female executives are prone to secretarial spread.

I didnt mean to . . .

Oh, relax, she said. Dont you like flirting?

Im no good at it, I confessed.

Maybe you should take lessons.

I never . . . Ah, I get it.

No, you . . . Oh, never mind. I dont think small talk is your forte, Mr. Hauser.

Could it be J.P.?

J.P. it is. Does it stand for anything? The initials?

Jonas Paul. But nobody ever called me that.

Not even your mother?

Only when she was mad at me.

Thats the only time I ever heard my full name, too, she said, delicately working on her salad.

I had a little more of the chicken, sipped the ginger ale Id asked the waiter for when hed come back to replenish the bread basket.

Accordion music started up in the large room. I turned toward the source of the noise, spotted a short, fat man in a dark-blue tux, strolling from table to table.

Dont worry, she said, he never comes back in here.

Whew! I said, miming great relief.

We ate in silence for another couple of minutes, stealing glances at each other, then looking away.

Why my brother? she said, suddenly.

Well, like I told you on the phone, you cant write a book about a concept. It has to be . . . personified in some way. You need a character the reader can identify with. Otherwise, all the research gets dismissed as academic.

Academic? I would think that would be a credential.

Maybe for a professor, I said. Not for a journalist.

Meaning, it wouldnt sell as many copies?

Not even close, I conceded.

The waiter cleared away the remnants of our meal, asked us if we wanted dessert. Laura Reinhardt raised her eyebrows at me. I could go for a little tórta, I said.

She held up two fingers.

Now, that may have been going too far, she said, patting her lips with a white napkin when she was done. She leaned back in her chair, seemed to think better of it, and bent toward me. I lit another cigarette for her.

Tell me about the book, she said.

Youve been reading about the death-penalty cases the ones where they find out, years later, that a man sentenced to death was innocent all along?

Ive seen things on TV, thats all.

Its a national scandal, I said, locking her eyes with my sincerity. In Illinois, the last governor canceled every single pending execution before he left office. He said he just couldnt be sure that people on death row are really guilty. In one case, this guy was accused of raping and murdering a little girl. Turned out it wasnt him.

How would they?

Sometimes, its DNA, I told her. Sometimes, believe it or not, the actual criminal confesses usually when theyve caught him on a whole bunch of other things. Sometimes, its as simple as an alibi they never checked out. But it always comes down to the same thing, which is what my books about.

Innocence?

No. I mean, innocence is a part of it, but thats not the theme, not the . . . drive-force. Im trying to go deeper. These things arent due to incompetence. Well, some of them are, sure. But the dark underbelly to all this is the kind of people who become prosecutors. Im not talking about corruption, either although that happens, too Im talking about people who have lost their way.

Prosecutors?

Prosecutors. Some of them lose sight of the difference between fighting crime and fighting criminals.

I dont see the difference myself, she said. If you fight criminals, you do fight crime, isnt that true?

In that order, yes, I agreed. But not when its reversed.

How could it be?

A child is murdered. A woman is raped. A building is torched, and a fireman dies when the roof collapses. A . . . You know the type of crime Im talking about. Public outrage. Lots of media attention. Demands for results. The pressure on prosecutors is tremendous. And, sometimes, they can be so hyper-focused on the crime that they ignore the criminal. Its almost like, if they can put someone in prison, the crime is solved. It just . . . consumes them. Like going snow-blind.

And its our the publics fault, too. How do we judge prosecutors? On their conviction rates, right? So, if a DA has any sort of political ambitions, hed better clear his cases. Thats where plea bargaining came from, originally. It is a bargain. The criminal gets a much lighter sentence, and the prosecutor doesnt take a chance on losing a trial.

But why would an innocent person agree to a plea bargain?

They dont, I said, lighting another cigarette. I left it in the ashtray next to the candle-in-Chianti-bottle that had been burning since before I sat down. And thats where the gate to hell opens. Thats when the pressure builds to get a result. Any result. Thats when an innocent man goes to prison.

A man like?

John Anson Wychek. You understand what they did to him, dont you? I dont mean the wrongful conviction, I said, holding up my hand to stop her from speaking, I mean the rest of it.

I know it ruined his

Ms. Reinhardt . . .

Laura.

Laura, the fact that you couldnt be closer to the situation and even you dont understand the scope of the tragedy, well, that proves why my book has to be written. Look, your brother was convicted of a single crime, right?

Yes. They said he

In fact, I interrupted, he was convicted of more than a dozen.

What? How can you?

Laura, these cases dont have to be solved. They just have to be cleared. Do you understand the difference?

I guess I dont.

When your brother was convicted of that one crime, the police cleared a whole bunch of other crimes, naming him as the perpetrator. I dont mean they charged him with the crimes. I dont mean he was ever tried for them. But, as far as the police are concerned, those crimes are closed cases now.

They never could have proved those cases against your brother. He was innocent, and I think they must have known that. So they never brought him to trial. But with that one single conviction they announce that all the crimes all the similar crimes that were committed throughout the entire metropolitan area! are solved. And John Anson Wychek, well, hes the guilty man.

They never said

They dont have to say anything to you. All that counts is the press. And for the press, its an instant no-story. They cant print that your brother is guilty hed sue them for millions. But they cant pressure the DA to solve the cases, either. See how it happens?

My God, she said, eyes widening.

Yes, I said. I know just what youre thinking. Somewhere in this city, maybe somewhere close by, a vicious serial rapist is walking around loose. Thats the hidden penalty society pays every time we stand by and allow an obsessed prosecutor to railroad an innocent man.

And you think Johns story could change all that?

For what I want, I think hes perfect, I said, pure truth beaming out of me, like I was radioactive with it.

The check came inside a small leather folder. The waiter dropped it off and vanished. I opened it up. Much less than Id expected. I put a fifty inside the folder, closed it back up.

Wouldnt credit cards make a better record for your accountant? she asked.

The only accountant wholl ever see this bill is the publishers. And theyre not going to care.

Youre not one of those guys who pays cash for everything, are you?

Me? No. I use credit cards when I have to, I guess. Probably more of that old-fashioned thing. Im a long way from paying bills over the Internet.

Because youre worried about the security?

The security?

You know, she said, raising her eyebrows just a touch. Identity theft, stuff like that.

Oh. Well, you cant work where I do without hearing about it. But . . . no. I guess I just dont see whats so great about doing it any new way.

Sometimes, to make things better, you have to try new ways, she said.

The waiter came back, picked up the leather folder, and walked off without a word.

Whats the next step? Laura Reinhardt asked me.

That depends on you, I said.

But youre going ahead, doing a story on my brother, even if I dont . . . cooperate, I guess is the word I was looking for.

I . . . I cant say that. Not for sure. My contract is for a book on the consequences of false or, I should say, wrongful imprisonment. I thought your brother would be the ideal way to present the material, but hes not the only candidate. Lets face it, if he was, I wouldnt have much of a book.

I dont under

If this kind of thing was an isolated incident, it makes a good news story, but its not a book, I told her. What Im talking about is a phenomenon. An epidemic. Theres a lot of reasons for wanting your brother to be the centerpiece. I admit, it would be easier for me, with everything based right here in the city, but there are others who would fit the bill.

The waiter came back with the leather folder. I opened it. Found a ten-dollar bill, a single, and some change.

Youre a gambler, huh? I said to him.

OTBs right down the street, he said, flashing a grin.

I extracted the single, closed up the folder, and handed it back to him.

Thank you, sir, he said, nodding as if a deeply held belief had just been confirmed.

Can I give you a lift anywhere? I asked, as we stepped onto the sidewalk.

I have my own car, she said. But Id appreciate you walking me over to it. This neighborhood has changed a lot since I was a little girl.

My pleasure.

She walked with a compact, efficient stride, matching my normal pace easily, despite the difference in our heights.

Did you and your brother eat at that same place when you were kids?

No. It wasnt really for family outings. I mean, it is, but I only went there with my father. Like for special treats, just the two of us. There was a Jahns close by, too. I always had a sundae I used to think they made just for me pistachio ice cream with butterscotch topping.

You ate that voluntarily?

Im a lot more adventurous than I look, she said, with a little giggle. I liked eating something the boys were afraid of.

Just hearing about it scares me, I admitted.

Thats mine, she said, stopping midblock. She reached in her purse and took out a set of keys. A chirping sound identified her silver Audi convertible as clearly as if she had pointed her finger.

Very nice, I said. You dont see many of those in the City.

The TT?

Convertibles. Costs a fortune to garage them. And if you dont . . .

Thats true, she said. But where I live, indoor parkings part of the deal.

Ive heard about places like that.

You dont look as if youre starving, she said, fingering my new suede jacket.

Im not, I said. But this coats not part of my wardrobe; it pretty much is my wardrobe.

So I cant interest you in some of our more . . . adventurous investing prospects? she said, smiling.

Maybe after my book hits the charts.

She crossed the street, opened the door to her convertible.

I had a very nice time . . . J.P., she said, almost formally.

I did, too. I wish . . .

What?

Never mind. I . . . I dont want to . . . Look, Laura, I know youve got a lot to think about. About what I told you, I mean. Or people to talk it over with, or whatever. But can I ask you just one thing?

What would that be?

Will you call me, either way? I mean, if the answers no, even then?

If you want, sure. But couldnt we just say, if you dont hear back from me by?

I would much rather you called, I told her. And I promise you, if the answers no, I wont try to talk you out of it.

She climbed into her car, got behind the wheel, looked up at me. Ill call you, she said. Count on it.

All right, Schoolboy. You got a look, but did you set the hook?

Tried like hell, Prof. But I cant know unless I feel a tug on the line.

Yeah, he said, unconvinced. Your girl, shes holding the case ace, right?

Wolfe? If Im right about Wychek already recanting, sure. But we cant know if

And we got the boss hoss for a shyster, too, right? the Prof pressed.

Davidsons as good as there is, I agreed.

But you still got my boy and the T-man working those computers like they trying to find the cure for cancer, the little man said. And you, you got no doubt, but you still out and about.

Am I missing something here? I said.

Not you, bro. Its me that dont see.

Why Im still working?

Dont play dumb, son. Every one of us know what you got in this. And when it looked dicey, dealing us in, that was fine. But now . . . ?

What, Prof?

Tell me theres some green in the scene, the little man pleaded. Tell me you a man with a plan. A scheme beats a dream, every time.

Its not a

Dont have to be no sure score, honeyboy. But theres a longshot that we got money on somewhere in all this, true as blue?

True as blue, I promised.

He wants to meet you, again. Peppers voice, over my cellular.

Did he say why?

Another file, is all he said.

Couldnt he just leave it with?

I got the impression he couldnt even copy it.

Tell him

I did, she cut me off. Tomorrow night, Yonkers Raceway. In the outdoor grandstand at the top of the stretch. Its a Thursday; hell find you easy enough, he said.

I moved the first two fingers of each hand across the tabletop, miming a trotting horse. Not a pacer, a trotter Max knew the difference. Then I turned an imaginary steering wheel, spread my hands to ask a question I already knew the answer to.

You know how I like it, honey, Michelle insisted.

Word for word, I acknowledged. Then I started again, from the beginning.

Michelle made a moue of annoyance when I told her I didnt recall whether Laura Reinhardt had worn any perfume, never mind what it might have smelled like. But mostly she stayed patient, her long red fingernails resting on the tablecloth.

Maybe its just her . . . habit, Michelle said, when I was finished. Theres no way to tell unless we could talk to someone else she met for the first time.

What habit?

Playing.

Just what she said about flirting?

No, stupid. Talking about her . . . When a woman mentions a body part, she either wants reassurance about it, or she wants you to pay attention to it.

I dont

Yes, I know, she cut me off. Look, Im not talking about asking. Thats more . . . intimate. You dont ask a man if he thinks a certain dress makes you look fat unless you have something going with him.

She didnt ask me

She didnt ask you anything, sweetheart. She told you all about secretarial spread, though, didnt she?

I . . . Yeah, she mentioned it, anyway.

But you couldnt see what she was talking about, right?

Not with her sitting

Exactly. Now, sometimes, if something bothers a woman, they cant keep themselves from picking at it. The way magazines are today, Im surprised more young girls dont starve themselves to death or run around getting plastic surgery. So a woman says to you, I know I have a big nose, youre supposed to say, What?, as if it never occurred to you. But she tells you she has a big butt, what are you supposed to say then?

I dont know.

For once, that was just as well, she said, grinning. There is no right answer to that one, not in the situation you were in. You cant deny it, because you havent seen it. And you cant say you like big butts, because this wasnt supposed to be a date.

So what you said about habit . . . ?

Either its something that really bothers her, and she cant keep herself from referring to it therere women who are compulsive like that, God knows or its her way of getting sex into your mind.

She didnt do any of the . . . other stuff.

Like bump her hip into you by accident when youre walking together? Or licking her lips after she has some ice cream?

I . . . Im not sure, I said, trying to remember. But she . . . It was more than that. More than not that, I mean.

Well, the way you left it, the next move is all hers, anyway.

What are you saying?

That she cant tell, either.

Huh?

Burke, sometimes you are the thickest-skulled . . . Look, baby, lets say the girl was interested in you. Not in this book youre supposedly writing, or in doing something for her brother, or whatever. Just in you, okay? So she shows you a couple of little things, sees what you do. But you, being you, dont do anything.

Now shes confused. Maybe you missed her signals. Maybe you werent interested. Or maybe you were interested as all hell, but youre trying to be a professional the book and all and you didnt want to blow it. See?

I cant read her, honey. All I can tell you is, shes not from down here.

 Down here is not an address, baby, she reminded me.

I moved my head. Not so much a nod as a bow, to the truth, letting my little sisters core sadness reach out to hold hands with my hate, like the first time we met. So youre saying, even if she blows off the book, I could maybe?

What could you possibly lose? Michelle said. You know what the Prof always says: When youre looking to score, a window works as good as a door . . . ?

And a nun lies as good as a whore, I finished for her.

You got an e-mail! Terry, on the phone.

Me?

Hauser. It came to the e-mail address on his site, and bounced right over to us. Just like the Dragon Lady said.

Read it to me.

It just says, I knew I shouldnt have had that torta. The word knew is in italics, well, not really italics but if you put asterisks around a word it means

Just read the whole thing to me, kid, okay? Then you can fill in whatever I dont understand.

Right. Okay, it says, I knew I shouldnt have had that torta. Its back to the gym now for sure. I enjoyed our conversation, and I would like to have another. And to hear more about your project. Call me. 

Was it signed?

Yes. Just the letter L. 

Okay, can we just?

Wait, he said. Let me tell you what else, remember? Okay, first of all, after the word torta, theres the Internet symbol for a smile.

Like one of those happy-face things?

No. Its just keystrokes, like from a regular typewriter. You take a

Never mind, kid. Sorry to have interrupted you. What else?

After she says for sure, theres an exclamation point. And where she says she enjoyed your . . . conversation, there are three periods between the two words, like a pause.

Like you just did?

Egg-zact-lee! he said. Dealing with my slow learning curve, the kid had learned to take his happiness where he found it . . . just like his mother. The only other thing is, the letter L that she signed it with? That was in lowercase, with no period after it.

Does that mean something?

Well, it could . . . he said, doubtfully. But theres no way to tell. Some people use that lowercase l to stand for love, some people use a lowercase initial to be modest, or even to be . . . submissive, I think. But with e-mail, you can never really tell, because people write it and send it off so fast, they never check what they type. So sometimes you think something means something, and all it means it that whoever wrote the e-mail was sloppy.

Not this one, I said.

Huh?

Whatever she is, shes not sloppy.

Oh. Well, you want to answer it?

Couldnt I just call her? That way, shed know I got her message.

You could, sure. But the message just came in, and its almost midnight.

I see what you mean. Anyway, Im not supposed to have her home phone number its not listed.

The e-mail came from her home account, Terry said. So we have that now, too.

What good does that do us?

I dont know, not for sure. But the Dragon Lady says she might be able to tell us some things from the headers and the IP number

Terry . . .

Sorry! I just got . . . Anyway, sure, you can answer her. But if you do it now, shell know youre awake, and she might want to IM. You cant do that from your computer the one we left there not without me there. Shed know pretty quick you werent used to doing it.

Doing it? I dont even know what it is.

See?

Yeah. Hey, wait a minute, T. Would she have any way of knowing when her mail was received?

Not unless you have the same . . . Ah, never mind, the short answer is no.

Okay, let me think for a second. I have to go meet someone tomorrow night, so it cant be then. For her, I mean. How about this? We send her a message around three in the morning . . . like I couldnt sleep, so I turned on the computer and found her e-mail.

Thats easy. All I have to do is queue it to . . . Never mind, the kid said, cutting himself off again. His learning curve was a lot flatter than mine.

All right, how about this, then: Me, too. All counts, except the gym. Im meeting a source tonight, but Ill call you at work, okay? 

Thats cool, Terry said. Youve got the e-mail rhythm down just right.

Beginners luck.

How do you want to sign it?

Uh, how about J.P.?

Caps, with periods like initials?

Perfect. Thanks, T.

Hey, this is fun. And itll give Clarence another excuse to talk to the Dragon Lady, too.

It was just going on eleven the next morning when I dialed her number.

Hi! she said, when they put me through. Boy, you keep late hours.

More like erratic ones, I told her, setting the stage.

I was planning to call you if I didnt hear from you, she said. I realized, as soon as I sent the e-mail, that you might not check it for days. Some people dont.

Thats me, I admitted. Only its weeks, not days. I dont get a lot of e-mail at that address; mostly, it just comes to work.

Im surprised, with that sexy picture of you on the site, she said, teasing.

Dont remind me, I groaned. That was the publishers idea. They said there has to be a photo on the book jacket, anyway, so it would be better if . . .

I think its cute, she said.

You and my mother, I said. Thats about it.

Mothers are like that, arent they?

I guess they all are, I said, thinking that was the biggest lie that had ever come out of my lifelong liars mouth.

 Meeting a source. That sounds so mysterious. But I guess, when you think about it, thats what I am, too, right? A source.

I hope not.

What do you mean? she said, softly.

Its . . . kind of complicated, I said. Id rather tell you in person.

All right. Not tonight, I know. Tomorrow?

Just name the

Can you pick me up after work? I know the traffic is hellish at that hour, but it would be a real treat not to have to ride that miserable subway. Especially this time of the year. Double-especially on a Friday night.

No problem. Is there a place to park around there?

You wont need one. Just be out front you have the address, yes? at seven.

Oh. Sure. I thought you meant wed eat someplace close to where you worked, and then Id drive you home.

Would you prefer that?

To what?

To what I have in mind.

No.

How do you know?

Journalists instincts, I told her.

Sands hadnt mentioned a specific time to Pepper, and Max wanted to get there early enough to plot out the first race, anyway. I scored a prime parking spot around back, right near the entrance closest to the grandstands.

We bought a program and found seats about midway up and over to the left side, facing forward. The grandstand was more than three-quarters empty. Over an hour to post time all the tote board showed was the morning line.

I started working on the program, Max watching avidly. Id taught him to handicap years ago, and he understood all the arcane symbols I used to make notes. But what he was really checking was to see if my scientific method squared with his mystical one. Between gin rummy and casino over the past twenty years, Max was into me for a good quarter-mil. He wasnt any better at picking horses, but his faith was too pure for him to be deterred by mere experience.

There was nothing I liked in the first. A sorry collection of pacers going for a twenty-five-hundred-dollar purse. You could claim any of them for four grand, and the only sure thing was that there wouldnt be any takers.

But there was one that drew my eye in the second a shipper from the Midwest that looked good on paper. I noticed she was a front-runner, with a nice clean stride. No breaks on her program, unusual for a trotter. She always seemed to tie up a bit in the last quarter and get shuffled back, unless the pace was leisurely enough for her to hold on at the end. She was coming out of Sportsmans Park a five-eighths-mile track, favoring closers but Yonkers is a quarter-mile, with a very short run to home.

The mare I liked was in a twenty-K claimer. A couple of the other horses had pretty decent last outs, so I expected her to go off at a nice price. I wasnt crazy about the post shed drawn, but, with her early speed, I thought she could grab the rail from the five-hole before the first turn.

I put a big question mark at the top of the first race, then drew a box around the one I liked in the second.

Max made a circling gesture.

I nodded agreement. Wed wheel the Daily Double, putting the five horse in the second race against all the entries in the first. If my horse won the second, wed have the Double. But even then, it didnt mean wed show a profit. The Daily Double wheel was eight bets. At a deuce per, wed have to win and get a payoff of more than sixteen bucks to come out ahead.

You might think, what kind of Double wouldnt pay off more than that? But if the crowd liked one of the horses in the first race well enough to send him off real cheap, the chalk-players might be spinning their wheels, too. So we could win and still end up short.

Max knew all this. He held up his hand, for Wait! I nodded agreement wed see if the money got distributed nice and even on that first race before we made our play.

Max took the program from me and started working on that first race, paying special attention to each horses mothers name.

I spotted Sands a few seconds before he saw me. He had a giant paper cup in one hand; I was pretty sure it wasnt popcorn.

I stood up, like I was stretching. Sands walked past us, then sat down at an angle, so he could watch us without turning his head.

I strolled over, sat down next to him.

Who do you like in the first? I said.

I see you brought a friend, he answered.

Hell stay where he is, if you want.

Is he who I think he is?

Yeah.

I heard about him for years. Friends of yours, stories get so wild about them, people never seem to know if theyre real or not.

Your call, I said.

Some of your friends, people dont even know if theyre dead or not, Sands said, dropping his voice.

People dont know a lot of things, I said. But it never seems to stop them from talking about them.

Nobodys doing a lot of talking about her now.

I knew he meant Wolfe. Meaning they do know something? I said.

Youre too cute for me, Sands said. I get enough of that on the job. The way things are today, the smart guys are wearing their vests on backwards. Why dont you go back to your friend? Ill let the place fill up a bit before I stop by.

Max and I each bet a sawbuck on his pick in the first. Or, I should say, we bet twenty bucks together if we didnt go partners, it wasnt any fun for either of us. Max came back from the window with a ten-dollar wheel on the Double, too, meaning we had a hundred invested, total.

By the time they called the pacers for the first race, it was dark enough for the track lights to come on. Maxs horse, Dinos Diamond, was a ten-year-old gelding who had been racing since he was a kid. He slipped in behind the gate like a journeyman boxer climbing through the ropes. Another tank town, another nickel-and-dime purse getting paid to be the opponent.

The pace car made its circuit, then pulled in the gate. None of the horses seemed to want the lead they hit the first turn in a clump. On the backstretch, Maxs horse fitted himself sixth along the rail. Saving ground, the track announcer called, but it looked more like phoning it in to me.

The horses came around the second turn Indian-file, Maxs pick still where he started. Two horses came off the rail, one drafting behind the other as they challenged the leader. Maxs horse closed up the gap they left. When the two challengers stayed parked out past the three-quarter pole, the file passed them by, moving them out of contention. At the top of the stretch, the leader was tiring, but none of the others seemed to have the will to make a move.

I felt a sudden stab of pain in my forearm. Max, using his rebar forefinger to tell me what my eyes had just picked up the lead horse, exhausted, was drifting wide . . . and Dinos Diamond was charging the inside lane like a downhill freight.

It was photo-close, but Maxs horse got a nose in front at the wire. Max stood up and bowed to the valiant warrior who had found his way home one more time. His flat Mongol face was split in a broad grin.

I spent the next few minutes acknowledging the celestial perfection of Maxs handicapping methods, admitting that we should have wheeled his pick instead of mine sharing in my brothers joy.

Dinos Diamond paid $35.20, making us major winners, no matter what happened in the Double. Max would brag on this one forever, starting with Mama.

It was one of those times; anyone Id have to explain it to, I wouldnt want to.

They had just called the trotters for the second race when Sands sat down next to me.

Theres three more, he said, without preamble.

Three more not in the?

Yeah.

Why not?

No complaining witnesses.

Then how would you know they were cases at all, never mind his?

One of them, he was almost caught in the act. But the vic denied it ever happened.

A hooker who?

No. Stop asking questions. I cant hang around here. Just listen. It was on the Lower East Side. A neighbor hears sounds of a struggle. Glass breaking, a scream. She calls it in; shes too scared to go out and see whats happening herself, so she turns off all the lights in her apartment, peeks out the window. And theres the perp, going down the fire escape. She doesnt get enough for an ID, but its our man, no question, right down to the ski mask and the gloves. In fucking July.

By the time that one went down, everyone knows theres a serial rapist making the rounds, so the uniforms dont bother to knock. The door goes right in. And theres the vic, still tied up, blood coming out of her. Nails on one hand all broken. She must have put up a hell of a fight. Place is ransacked, too.

But the woman, she says nothing happened. She was playing with the ropesexperimenting, is what it says in the report then she fell down and hurt herself. Utter, total bullshit. But she doesnt budge an inch.

The uniforms dont know what to do. Fuck, neither would I whoever heard of something like this? I mean, sure, people playing sex games, they get carried away, someone gets hurt . . . so they dont tell the truth about how it happened. Anyone who works ER around here is going to see a few of those every year. But this one, with the witness and all, it was for real, all the way.

So they call in the detectives. Nothing. They even try a social worker. Blank. Zero. Nada.

Christ.

The second one, she gets found by her aunt. Comes to pick her up in the morning for church, can you believe it? We get a statement. Same pattern, right down to the mouthpiece.

Then, a week or so later, out of the blue, the vic calls up, says she doesnt want to press charges. Like it was some bitch-slap incident or something.

Okay, so the plainclothes guys go to see her, too. A total washout. Shes not talking. Not saying it didnt happen, just saying shes not going to cooperate.

So they figured she probably knew the perp? I said.

That is what they figured. And we were going to put surveillance on her. If she was covering for the guy, or, better yet, blackmailing him, we could end up with a solid ID.

What happened?

She moved. To fucking Cedar Rapids, Iowa. Lock, stock, and barrel. They tried to get a wiretap going, but the judge laughed at them, said they were a mile short of probable cause. And what was the crime, anyway?

Maybe she just wanted out of New York, I said. Some people do that, put a lot of distance between themselves and . . . whatever happened to them.

I dont know, Sands said.

You said three.

Yeah. The first one, who denied anything happened? She turned up, later. Dead.

You think it was Wychek?

He was already locked up by then, Sands said. For the one Wolfe nailed him on. Besides, something else was going on.

What do you mean?

She was tortured, Sands said, voice flat and hard, a shield against his feelings, like the booze. Somebody worked her over with a stun gun. Or electricity. Had those burn marks all over her . . . in the worst spots.

In her own apartment?

Nobody knows where it was done. Where they found her was in a building that was getting rehabbed over in Williamsburg. One of the workers spotted her, hanging, when he opened up in the morning. It was in the papers.

She was hung?

Not to kill her. They did that with a bullet. Two of them, one in each eye.

A message.

Yeah. Maybe it was for the third one.

Huh?

Her best friend. Roommate. Wasnt home when the rape the one she said never happened went down. That one the third one just plain disappeared. The detectives looked for her as soon as the original vic wouldnt cooperate. On the books, shes a missing person.

Missing and presumed.

Yeah.

So the homicide case is still open, too?

Yeah.

You got names and?

I see you already got a pen, he said, nodding toward the program.

Max nudged my shoulder, bringing me back from wherever Id gone. I looked up at the board. The third race was two minutes to post.

Max pointed to the info Id jotted down, held up three fingers, made a questioning gesture.

I dont know, I told him. I drew a stick figure of a man, surrounded by a ring of swastikas. But it looks like Wycheks friends may have started taking care of him earlier than we thought.

Max hadnt left my side, so I knew he hadnt gotten a bet down since the second race. I turned to that page in the program, made a What happened? gesture.

He held up the ticket. All the answer I needed. If my horse hadnt gotten home first, he would have torn it up.

I found a place in the program with some white space showing, handed it to Max. He diagrammed the race for me in increments, drawing it as clear as a video.

My mare had left hard, cranked off a good first quarter, put some real distance on the field without a challenge, and maintained strong fractions until her second time past the clubhouse turn. Then they all came at her, slingshotting around at the top of the stretch. She was fading fast, but still game, staggering home a half-length ahead of the nearest horse. Paid $8.80 to win, anchoring our four-hundred-and-change Double, a personal record.

Max held up his hand, fingers spread, to emphasize that we didnt just have it, we had it five times!

Neither of us wanted to stay around after that. The minute they get ahead, suckers say theyre playing with the tracks money. Thats why theyre called suckers.

Anything new?

Stone-fucking-wall, Davidson said. Cocksuckers must think theyre playing with an amateur.

I spoke to Wolfe; she doesnt seem worried.

I wouldnt play poker with her, I was you.

Yeah, I know. So youre saying . . . ?

Im saying that somebodys cooking up something. I dont give an obese rodents rump what that is, so long as it isnt my client on the burner.

Im still with it, I promised.

You maybe got something?

Maybe. A long maybe.

Want to tell me?

Im your investigator, I said, not your client.

No, no, no, Michelle said, hands on hips. You cannot wear that same jacket.

But you said it would be like a

Never mind what I said. This is different.

How?

Stop being such a dolt, Burke! We already went over this. That girl wants something. And if Im right, we have to go for it.

I dont see why I cant wear the

Shes a money-girl, right?

I . . . No, I dont think so. Everything we have about her background says middle-class.

Give me strength, Michelle muttered. Sweetheart, she said, her voice a mockery of patience, I dont mean a from-money girl, like a trust-funder. I mean she works with money. Thats her thing.

So?

So Im guessing she wants to see you know how to make some. Or you already have.

Maybe she just wants to go slumming.

That could be, Michelle admitted. But any woman whos willing to buy a man a cell phone and let him use her credit card can get all the downmarket action she wants. We play it like its something else, she said, firmly.

What do I have to buy this goddamned time?

You dont have to buy anything, she said, triumphantly. Remember that beautiful Bally jacket I got you when we were working that movie scam?

How could I forget? It cost

Well, maybe now you see the value of the classics, she said. You wear that number over a nice shirt with a plain tie. . . .

A tie now?

She said dinner, am I right?

Yeah. But she said dinner that first time, and you said

Oh, do shut up, she said, closing the subject.

That night, I motored up Third Avenue, taking my time as if I had any choice, at that hour. Still, I was in place twenty minutes before I was to meet Laura. The Plymouth isnt the kind of car any cop lets sit at the curb, so I circled the block, budgeting ten minutes for each pass.

I wasnt far off. At 6:55, she was already standing at the curb, wearing a fuchsia dress. As I pulled over, I could see her shoes matched it.

I hope I didnt keep you waiting, I said, out the window.

Oh! she said, as if startled. But she trotted around to the passenger door and let herself in.

You look I said, deliberately cutting myself off, like Id said too much.

What? she said, flashing a smile. Her lipstick was only minutes old.

I was going to say great, I guess. But I didnt want you to think I was

What? Being polite?

No, no. Being . . . unprofessional.

Hmmmm . . . she said.

Where to? I asked.

The Midtown Tunnel, she said. Ill guide you once we get out.

Yes, maam, I said, touching two fingers to my forehead.

This is quite an . . . unusual car, she said, as we waited in line at the tunnel entrance.

Its one of my hobbies, I said. I restore muscle cars from the Fifties and Sixties. This is an original Plymouth Roadrunner.

Roadrunner, like in the cartoon?

I meep-meeped the horn for her. She clapped in delight.

Oh, thats exactly it. Are these . . . cars valuable?

Well, its not a Bugatti or a Duesenberg, I said. This one was mass-produced, and not exactly to the highest standards. But clean survivors are pretty rare now. When I get it all done, it should be worth, oh, thirty-five thousand.

And how much will all that cost you? she said, looking over the raggedy dashboard out to the gray-primered hood.

Depends on how much of the work I do myself, I said. Like, see this steering wheel? Its an original Tuff model, I bragged. Pretty hard to find.

I tapped the thick-rimmed, smaller-than-stock wheel, with its center horn button and three brushed-aluminum holed spokes. It wasnt exactly a bolt-in the turn-signal lever had to be shortened, so I wouldnt risk snagging my left leg when I got out but the look was still semi-original.

Were they fast? she asked, rolling up her window as we entered the tunnel. When they were new, I mean.

The Hemi Roadrunner was one of the legitimate kings of the street, back in its glory days, I said, not mentioning that the reincarnation I was driving wasnt a Hemi. Or that the hogged-out wedge motor in mine would have inhaled anything that was prowling the boulevards back then.

Didnt they come with air conditioning? she said, reaching in her pocketbook for a tissue.

Not the serious ones, I told her. Those were stripped to the bone.

That doesnt sound very pleasant.

Different people, different pleasures, I said.

Did you want a car just like this when you were a kid? she asked, as we exited the tunnel and got in line for the toll booths.

I wanted a lot of things when I was a kid, I said, wishing I could pull back the ice in my voice as soon as I spoke.

Oh! I didnt mean to . . . Ive just noticed that some of the men I know, they collect all kinds of things they wanted when they were young. One of the guys I work with, hes got every baseball card ever made, I bet.

Well, I say its my hobby, but this is the only car I have, I said, chuckling to muffle what she had triggered with her innocent question. And Ive had it a long time, like a project that never gets completed.

Are you going to make it perfect?

Perfect?

Like, whats the word Im looking for . . . concours? I have clients who fix up old cars so theyre exactly like they were brand-new. Then they have shows for them.

No, I laughed. Im going to make it perfect, all right. But perfect for me, not for anyone else. Besides, I dont see a piece of Detroit iron like this making the grade in that company.

We took an E-ZPass lane, letting the scanner read the box I had fastened to the windshield instead of having to pay the toll in cash. Very efficient system. Speeds the traffic flow. And keeps very good records. I have spares I can use when I want to go certain places to do certain things, but tonight wasnt anything I cared if the government knew about.

The LIEs a pain at this hour, she said. But its still the fastest . . .

Im in no hurry, I said.

It must be frustrating.

What?

Having such a fast car, and not being able to go fast.

Not all the time, no. But thats okay. Sometimes, knowing you can do something is pretty much as good as doing it.

Thats how I feel, she said. About my work. But thats a mistake I cant make too often.

I dont understand, I said.

In my job, being very good at something, even being brilliant at it, doesnt count. Only results do. If you allow yourself to just, I dont know, luxuriate in your abilities, like a bubble bath with soft music and candles, you can forget that the worldmy world, anyway isnt about strategy, its about success.

I thought those were the same thing.

No, she said, turning in her seat so her whole body was facing me, despite the seatbelt. Strategy is what I love. The game of it. But if I come up with a perfect strategy to, say, put a deal together, and I dont make the deal, my bonus is going to be light that year.

I think I know what you mean. I goosed the throttle to switch lanes ahead of an overfilled minivan. Kind of like my book, isnt it? I said.

Strategy?

Not exactly. I mean, I already sold it. The book, that is. Im talking about my idea for it. I know its perfect. But if I cant bring it off, the book will still happen, but it wont be as good as if

Thats one idea, she said. I was talking more about . . . models.

Models?

Ways of doing things. Ones you develop over time, testing and retesting . . .

Like a system for picking winners at the racetrack?

A little more sophisticated than that, I hope, she said, chuckling. And a little more successful, too. None of those systems really work, do they?

I never heard of one that did, I told her, pure truth.

Here we go, she said. You know the Maurice Avenue switch-off?

Sure, I said. I once worked as a cab driver. To get perspective for a piece I was doing.

Okay, now just follow it around until we get to Sixty-first.

Thats Maspeth, right?

Yes, it is. Not many people from the City know that.

Thats one of the things about having a car, I said. You go places where the subway doesnt.

I have a car, too, remember? Turn . . . there! Yes. Now just go along until I tell you to turn again.

You like that Audi? I asked her.

Oh, yes, she said. Whoever did the interior-design work on it was a genius.

Is it pretty quick?

It has a turbocharger, she said, almost smugly. I got a ticket when I went upstate for a ski weekend once. The officer said he clocked me at a hundred and ten. But he only wrote me up for eighty-five.

If it had been me, he would have written me up for a hundred twenty.

Because your car is so fast, you mean?

No. Because Im about the polar opposite of a pretty girl.

Thats cynical, she said, grinning to show me she didnt really think so.

I followed her directions for a few minutes, watching the densely packed little houses give way to flatland.

There! she said.

Where? Thats not a restaurant. It looks like

An old factory? she said, pleased with herself. Thats what it was, once. Now its condos. And one of them is mine.

Okay, I get it. You want to change out of your work clothes before we?

I do want to change, she said. But I also want to cook. Okay?

Beautiful, I said.

What did this place use to make? I asked her, following her directions to drive around to the back.

Some kind of containers, I think. Metal. As I understand, the conversion to plastic would have been too expensive. And the work wasnt there anymore, anyway.

This is pretty neat, I said, looking at a vertical steel-barred fence with an inset gate.

Use this, she said, handing me a credit-card-sized piece of plastic.

I inserted the card in the slot, and the gate swung open. We were facing a four-story building that looked like poured concrete, painted the color of cigarette smoke. Laura reached in her purse, pulled out a remote garage-door opener. She pressed the button; a triple-wide steel door rolled up soundlessly as the gate closed behind us.

Inside, there were individual spaces for parking, enough for thirty or so cars.

Use number seven, she said. Its mine.

I backed the Plymouth in carefully the car in stall number six was her silver Audi.

Thats slick, I said. You own the space on the other side of it, too?

Actually, I do. But I dont just own the parking spaces; they come with the units upstairs. So I have six slots; you get two with each apartment.

You own three apartments? I asked, cutting the ignition with the car in gear so the engine wouldnt diesel on me big-block Mopars will do that sometimes.

Me and the bank, she said, flashing a quick grin.

We got out, me extra-carefully, so that the Plymouths door wouldnt ding her Audi.

You dont have to worry, she said, standing by the front fender. Theres a lot of space between the slots. This used to be the loading bay for the factory. Even with two slots per unit, we have a ton of space left over. See that? she said, pointing to a chain-linked enclosure to my right.

Yeah.

Thats for storage. Every unit-holder gets a certain amount of space in there, too. You supply your own lock.

Damn! Something like that in Manhattan would set you back a

If you think this is a bargain, wait till you see upstairs, she said.

Theres an elevator, she said. But I always walk. Sometimes, its the only exercise I get all day. Do you mind?

Without waiting for an answer, she unlocked the stairway door and started up ahead of me. Halfway up the first flight, I realized Michelle had read Laura Reinhardt better secondhand than I had in person; if she was suffering from secretarial spread, I couldnt see a hint of it.

Her unit was on the top floor. Two locks, deadbolt and doorknob. She stepped inside, flicked on a light, said, Well?

The apartment opened directly into a broad expanse of hardwood floor, bleached so deeply it was almost white. The side wall was exposed brick, beautifully repointed. At the end of the room was a corner-to-corner set of pale-pink drapes. She hit a switch and the drapes parted, revealing a floor-to-ceiling glass wall.

Jesus! I said.

I wasnt acting. The wall opposite the exposed brick was a complex arrangement of brass piping, holding what looked like teak shelves. Hardcover books with somber jackets alternated with framed photographs and an assortment of small objects I couldnt make out from where I was standing. Modernistic furniture was scattered about as if at random, but it looked so . . . tailored that I figured it for a professionals touch.

Come on, she said, Ill give you the quick tour.

I followed her into a kitchen that I knew the average yuppie would commit several felonies for. A stainless-steel refrigerator-freezer lorded it over a granite-block island and a black porcelain double sink. The cabinets looked like they had been fashioned from the same teak as the bookshelves. The stove didnt appear to have any burners on it. A chrome table sat off to one side, with eight matching chairs. An eat-in kitchen, big enough to hold Thanksgiving dinner.

Before I could ask about that, she was on the move again.

My office, she said, pointing to a spacious room with a window facing the same direction as the one in the living room. It looked like high-tech heaven, mostly in carbon-fiber black. A flat-screen computer monitor; a multi-line phone with both wired and cordless handsets; one of those fax-photocopier-scanner things. Under a desk with a black marble top, a large paper-shredder my money was on cross-cut.

Theres more, she said, pulling me by the hand.

We passed a blue-tiled bathroom, a bedroomIts really a guest room, she said and then came to a room dominated by a big-screen TV and a single white leather recliner. If I were a man, Id probably claim this was a den, she chuckled.

The master bedroom was a good three hundred square feet, with plenty of room for the queen-sized bed with a Mondrian-pattern headboard, and a garage-sized closet. The attached bath had a two-person Jacuzzi, and it didnt cramp the area. One wall was a triptych of mirrors.

How big do you think the whole thing is? she asked, walking back toward the living room.

Twenty-five hundred? I guessed.

Closer to thirty-five, she said. See what I mean about a bargain?

I guess that depends on what you paid. But I cant imagine anything like this going for less than

Right around four hundred, she said.

About the going rate for a decent two-bedroom on the Upper West Side.

You wish, she said. For that kind of money, youre buying a rehab project.

Well, this one sure didnt come the way it is now.

Oh, thats true, she said, perching confidently on one of the modern chairs. But I didnt have to do structural stuff. It wasnt really all that expensive. And its a good investment.

That I can believe, I said, sitting down myself.

Im going to go change, she said, getting to her feet. Take a look around, youll see what I mean.

I listened to her heels click on the hardwood floors. Couldnt pick up the sound of a door closing anywhere, but that didnt tell me anything the walls were thick, and the bedroom was a couple of sound-muffling turns away.

Shes gone from arms-length to make yourself at home pretty damn quick, I thought. But there were too many possibilities, dice tumbling in my head.

I stood up, made a slow circuit of the living room. In one corner, I found a white pillar so smoothly mounted it looked as if it had grown from the floor. On its base, a black-glazed pot sat in a tray of gray pebbles, still gleaming from its last watering.

Inside the pot was a bonsai tree. Magnificently sculptured, thick-trunked, with a complex branch formation . . . but no fruit, and only the occasional leaf. Dangling from the branches were dozens of tiny glass bottles: some clear, the others in shades of green, blue, red, and brown. Each bottle had markings of some kind pieces of labels, smears of paint, logos, brand names.

Id seen bottle trees before. In a lush back courtyard of a palatial mansion in New Orleans, and a dirt patch that passed for the front yard of a shotgun shack in Mississippi. But a miniature one? In the middle of a New York living room?

I fanned my hand rapidly in front of the branches, listening hard. The tinkle of the glass was so faint I couldnt be sure I actually heard it.

Like my tree?

She was standing behind me, not quite close enough to touch. Wearing a tangerine kimono that came to mid-thigh. Her feet were bare, and her dark hair glistened, as if she had just showered.

Its . . . exquisite, I said.

Ill bet Ive been working on it longer than you have on that car of yours, she said.

Working on it? You mean, keeping it?

No. I made it. I bought the bonsai, but you have to prune them to get the exact shape you want. Its constant work. The bottles . . . I took a course in glass blowing, and I figured out how to do the rest.

How did you get them all marked?

Its just a form of miniature, she said. Painting, I mean.

Another course you took?

Actually, its something I was always good at it. In school, sometimes Id draw whole pictures no bigger than my fingernail. With a Rapidograph. For some projects, the most important thing is to use the right tool.

Did you want to be an artist? Wait, scratch that. You are an artist. I meant, did you want to make it a career?

Oh, never, she said. It was always just for me. From the beginning. Once I make something, with my own hands, I can never let go of it. Ive always been that way. Thats the hardest part of what I do. I make deals, I put together packages, I devise strategies . . . but I cant keep them. I have to let go of them. Otherwise, theyre worthless.

I never thought of it like that, I said. I guess because Im no artist. I know some people write books just to be writing them. Because they need to, I guess. For me, that would be the waste. If nobody ever gets to read it . . .

Ah, she said. Your book.

I was just

You like me, dont you? Pardon my bluntness, its just the way I am. The way I have to be, in my business.

Yeah. I do like you.

So this is . . . confusing for you, yes? You want information from me. For your book. And, like you said, its not professional to, I dont know what, get involved with a . . . Oh, thats right, you said I wouldnt be a source. Whatever you said I was, it wouldnt be . . .

I took a step toward her, put my hands on her shoulders. Im not sure how the kimono came off.

She was slim from the waist up, with small round breasts set far apart, but her hips were heavy enough to be from a different woman. Her thighs touched at their midpoint, and her calves were rounded, without a trace of definition, tapering radically to small ankles and feet.

You dont smell like cigarettes, she said, her face in my neck. I wish I knew how you did that. No matter how many showers I take, or what perfume I use, I always

I parted her thighs. She was more moist than wet, tight when I entered.

The bed was too soft. I stuffed a pillow under her bottom, reached down, and lifted her legs to my shoulders.

I hope you dont think she said, then cut herself off as she let go, shuddering deep enough to make me come along with her.

I do that sometimes, she said, later. She was lying on her stomach, propped up on her elbows, smoking. Talk too much. When Im nervous. It only happens in . . . social situations, I guess youd call them. When Im at work, I guard my words like they were my life savings.

Everybody has pressure-release valves, I said. Theyre in different places for different people.

Wheres yours? she said.

I put my thumb at the top of her buttocks, ran it gently all the way down the cleft until I was back in her sweet spot. Right there, I said.

Thats a good place.

Its not a place, I said. Its a person.

I thought they all looked alike in the dark, she said, teasingly.

Looking isnt what does it for me, I said, moving my thumb inside her.

She rolled away from me, then tentatively put one leg over. Do you mind?

For an answer, I shifted my weight, so she was straddling me.

She made a little noise in her throat.

Sit up, I told her.

She did it. Oh! she said, bouncing a little.

Youre not going to take a shower, are you? she said, much later.

I can use the bathroom in the other

No, I didnt mean that. I just . . . I just like how you smell. Like you smell now. You can take one before you go, okay?

Sure, I said.

Cooking is not one of my hobbies, she said, later, standing in her ultra-kitchen. And I never took a course.

You still want to go out? Theres a diner on Queens Boulevard that never closes. Its not the Four Seasons, but its got a fifty-page menu got to have something youd like.

You wouldnt mind?

I already feel like a guy who expected a Happy Meal and got filet mignon, I said.

Uh-huh, she said, smiling. And you already figured out were not going to get any talking done here, right?

Ill drive, she said, electronically unlocking her car as we walked toward the stalls.

Is there anything under here? I asked, pointing at the concrete floor.

Oh, theres a basement of some kind. For the . . . power plant, I think they called it. The boiler, things like that. The utility people go down there to read the meters theyre separate for each unit and the phones lines are all down there, too.

I figured they had to be somewhere, I said. And running power lines up the side of a building like this wouldnt be too stylish.

Not at all, she agreed, climbing behind the wheel. She turned the key and flicked the lever into reverse without waiting for the engine to settle down there was a distinct clunk as the transmission engaged.

She drove out of the garage, piloting the car with more familiarity than skill.

Queens Boulevard, you said, right? I think I know the one you mean. On the south side?

Yep.

Were not urban pioneers, you know, she said.

I dont know what you

Where I live. Its not like its a depressed neighborhood. Its solid, middle-class. A good, stable population. Low crime rate. Our building may be upscale for the area now, but that wont be forever. Its not like those people rehabbing brownstones across a Hundred and Tenth Street, in Manhattan.

And youre not displacing anyone, converting a factory, I said.

Thats right. The people around us, they were thrilled when they heard what was going on. Instead of an abandoned building where kids can get into trouble, or that the homeless could turn into a squat, they get something that actually improves their property values. Adds to the tax base, too.

Why are you telling me this? I thought, but just nodded as if I gave a damn.

She drove the Audi like an amateur, going too fast between lights so that she ended up stopping for all of them. Or maybe she mostly used the car for those upstate trips she had talked about, wasnt used to city driving.

There it is, I said, just up ahead.

She made the left, swung into the parking lot. It was relatively empty well past dinner, and too early for the night owls.

We walked inside, followed a young woman in a pale green dress toward the back.

Would you prefer a booth or a table?

A booth, please, I said. As private as possible.

You can take that one there, she said, pointing. But this place can fill up just like that, snapping her fingers.

I know it can, I said, slipping her a ten. And if we end up surrounded, I know it wont be your fault.

Laura ordered a Greek salad and a glass of red wine. I made do with a plate of chopped liver, potato salad, and coleslaw, French fries on the side. Not Delancey Street quality, but decent enough. And I was hungry.

What good would it do him? she said, out of the blue.

Your brother?

Yes. I did a little . . . well, research would be too strong a word. Just a little looking around in the . . . genre, I guess youd call it. The books I found, theyre either about how an innocent man was finally freed, or theyre an attempt to get him freed. Dont you think thats accurate?

Pretty much, I conceded.

Well, except for the people still in prison I mean, anyone could see what good a book would do them the other ones, the people who were the . . . stars, I guess youd call them, didnt they get money, too?

I guess in some cases they did. Like when you see their names as co-writers, you can probably bet on it. Some, maybe not they might have just wanted to get their stories told.

But they never have control, do they?

I dont know what you mean.

Well, I read about one man, Jeffrey MacDonald, I think his name was. He was accused of murdering his wife and children. Didnt he . . . cooperate with a journalist? And it backfired on him?

MacDonald played his own hand, I said. And, anyway, theres no similarity. Your brothers already free. And hes not charged with any crimes. The book youre talking about, it was the investigation of a crime. My book is an investigation of the system.

But you said yourself, John is the centerpiece.

I said Id like him to be.

All right, youd like him to be. But it comes down to the same question.

Whats in it for him?

Yes, she said. I dont mean to sound so cold-blooded. This doesnt have doesnt have to have anything to do with you and me. But I have to view all deals the same way. The interests of the parties.

If it doesnt have anything to do with you and me, maybe we should just split it up, I said.

What do you mean? she said, spots of color in her cheeks.

Youre not your brothers . . . agent, I guess is the word Im looking for. Lets put them all face-up, okay?

One, I would rather have simply approached your brother, made my pitch, and either started working with him, incorporating him into my project, or moved on. Quick and easy, yes or no.

But, in his current situation, hes not only less accessible I dont have a clue where he even is, never mind how to reach him hes more attractive. Because of the whole prosecutor-on-trial angle.

Two, I . . . like you. I guess thats obvious. I dont want one thing to screw up the other. I dont want to put you in a position of making choices you shouldnt have to make.

You mean . . . ? I dont know what you mean.

I want to meet your brother, I said. Talk to him. And leave you out of it. And, regardless of how that works out, I want to keep seeing you.

Oh.

I didnt say anything, just went back to my food. At least the Dr. Browns cream soda was the same as you could buy on Second Avenue.

You wouldnt still want my . . . recollections? she asked. The family history, things like that?

Sure I would, I said. The truth is, your brothers story the factual part of his story pretty much tells itself. Theres court documents indictments, trial transcripts, appeals all over the place. I was looking for more. Deep background. What I told you was one hundred percent true. The impact on the family is a microcosm of the impact on all society.

It wasnt until we . . . it wasnt until I realized I had feelings for you that I decided I didnt want to risk one thing for the other.

We went to bed, she said, scanning my face. I dont know a lot about men, but I know enough to know that doesnt take a lot of feelings on their part.

I didnt expect it to happen, I said. Any of it. Sure, youre a gorgeous girl, and Im not pretending I wouldnt want to get next to you even if I had never spent ten minutes talking to you. You dont know a lot about men; I dont know a lot about women. But I know some things. I know youre not the kind of girl who makes love to a man unless youve got feelings of your own.

You know that . . . how?

I couldnt tell you if you gave me a shot of truth serum, I said. But that doesnt mean Im not right. Its just something I . . . sense, maybe. I dont know.

She toyed with her salad, not looking up.

Tell me Im wrong, and thatll do it, I said.

What do you mean?

Tell me you dont have feelings for me, and well drop the whole thing.

Youre confusing me.

Look at me, Laura. You dont have to be a map reader to know Ive been around for a while. Im not too old to play, but Im too old not to play for keeps. If you just like sex, and figured I might be fun, I hope I didnt disappoint you. But it would sure disappoint me.

And if I said that . . . that I was just horny?

No hard feelings, I said. Youre a big girl, you get to make your own decisions.

Youd still want to do the book? With my brother, I mean?

Sure.

Just . . . what, then?

Just nothing. I thought, if I told you I could just meet your brother, leave you out of it, maybe you and I, we could try being together, see how it worked.

She pushed her plate away from her, said, You cant meet my brother. I dont even know where he is. I hear from him, once in a while. But theyre keeping him safe. Until the trial, anyway.

I understand.

I wish you could smoke here, she said.

I can fix that, I said, catching the attention of our waitress with a check-signing gesture.

She made a sound of pleasure, exhaling a stream of smoke into the warm, soft night, leaning against the side of her Audi in the parking lot.

I like to know where everything is before I do anything, she said. Going to bed with youtaking you to bed thats not me, youre right. But I did it before I thought about it. And now youre making me think about it.

I dont know money talk, I said. But isnt there some terminology you guys use for long-term investments?

Lots of them. Why?

Thats what Im looking for.

With your book?

Stop dancing around, Laura. You dont need to do that. Im not pressuring you. Thats why I said what I did, to take the pressure off.

I . . . checked you out, she said, quietly, looking down.

And?

And . . . are you married?

Divorced, I said.

Do you have children?

How deep did she look? I knew Hauser kept his private life rigidly segregated from his work, but, still . . .

I gambled. No, I told her. I had a vasectomy, in fact.

You dont like kids?

I dont dislike them. Just never wanted any.

Me neither, she said. I wouldnt have invited you to my house if I didnt know you were a legitimate person. Some of those books, the ones I read after we first talked, they were just . . . terrifying. Like . . . I dont know, pornography.

I shifted my body slightly, so my chest was against her shoulder.

I dont mean that I think theres anything wrong with . . . sex, she said, hastily. That isnt what I meant by pornography. Those books are they all about sex murderers or rapists?

I guess they could seem like that, especially if you were looking at the paperback originals. The real pros, though, theyre journalists, and crime happens to be the topic of a particular book. Look at Jack Olsen. He was the dean of so-called true-crime writing, and he wrote about sex killers, sure. But he also wrote about Gypsy con games. And about an innocent man spending most of his life in prison.

Oh. Is that where you?

I think so, I said, as if I was considering the idea for the first time. I met Jack Olsen once, I told her. He was a great truth-seeker. Any reporter would want to follow in his footsteps.

She turned to face me. So what happens now?

You make some decisions, I said. In order of importance: Do you want to give me a chance with you? Do you want to talk to me about the impact the wrongful imprisonment of a loved one has on a family? Do you want to ask your brother if hed be interested in doing an interview?

But I

You dont have to decide any of it tonight, Laura, I said, holding her eyes in the reflected glow of the diners windows.

It was almost one in the morning when we pulled into her garage. She killed the engine. Turned to look at me. I want you to come back up with me, she said.

Because you decided . . . ?

On all of it, yes.

She leaned over, kissed me under my bad eye.

Okay? she said.

You have a lot of scars, she whispered, later.

Ive had a lot of surgery, I said. Different things.

Where did the doctor who did this one get his license, in a school for the blind? she said, licking the chopped-off top of my right ear.

Sometimes, its not neatness that counts.

What, then?

Speed.

Oh. Were you wounded?

Yeah.

In Vietnam?

No. Africa.

Africa? You were a . . . like a mercenary?

No, I said. I was there covering a story.

What story? she asked.

So I told her a story. About the genocidal slaughter in Rwanda, the rape of the Congo, the blood diamonds of Sierra Leone, and how they got that name.

Everything I told her was true, except for the part about me being there. I filled in the blanks right down to how it feels to get malaria from my Biafra days. But I didnt say a word about those experiences. J. P. Hauser wouldnt have been old enough to have them.

Youve really led a life, she said.

Not me, personally, I told her. Reporters arent supposed to lead lives, theyre supposed to lead people to lives . . . other peoples lives. I didnt have to be in Africa. The story wasnt me, it was those people who did have to be there, see?

Yes. But, still, it must be exciting. Theres a woman I watch on CNN all the time. It seems, every time something major happens, anywhere in the world, shes there. You cant tell me thats not . . . I dont know, glamorous.

I dont have the face for TV, I said.

No, you dont, she agreed. But at least you could be in the profession you wanted.

Are you saying you couldnt?

You know why theres such a shortage of nurses and teachers now? she said.

No, I admitted. I guess I havent thought about it.

Its because, years ago, those were about the only real opportunities for an educated woman. Maybe there were others, like being a social worker, but all in the helping professions. When things started to change, started to open up, a lot of women took other roads.

And youre one of the them, right?

Yes. I didnt get an M.B.A. to teach home economics. It wasnt just the money although that was a factor its the . . . freedom, I guess.

I thought money was tightly regulated. I mean, with the SEC and all. . . .

Youre talking about interest rates, and things like that, she said. It doesnt matter if the government regulates money, so long as it doesnt regulate making money. But thats not what Im talking about. What Im saying is, if you get good enough at putting together deals, you get to call the shots. Be your own boss. I dont mean self-employed; I mean a real boss. With people under you.

Theres women who manage major mutual funds now, head up corporations, all kinds of opportunities. But what I want isnt anything like that.

What do you want?

I want to put things together, she said. Not working for anyone, working for me. I want to sit back and analyze situations. Then Id approach all the different parties with a proposal to solve their problems by using what they already have but dont understand.

Like what? What could they have and not understand, for example?

Capabilities in concert, she said, licking the words like they were rich cream. Sometimes, assets and liabilities of one company fit those of another one like a jigsaw puzzle. And if you look at them from an objective distance, you can see how, if they did things together, they could both benefit.

You mean, like a merger?

Like that, but not exactly that, she said. Mergers are usually about controlling markets. Or a company looking to expand. I want to specialize in rescue operations. Like leveraged buyouts and third-party ventures from unrealized asset pools and

You know youve already lost me, dont you? I said.

I guess, she giggled. Dont mind me. I get so . . . enthusiastic sometimes. I dont show that side of me at work. They expect women to be more emotional than men. Women in my profession, they have to come across as . . . well, not cold, exactly. Objective, I guess. Thats the right word.

Thats why you dress the way you do? For work, I mean.

Whats wrong with the way I dress?

Wrong? Nothing. Its very, uh, tasteful. I just meant, you couldnt walk in there in a micro-skirt and fishnet stockings and spike heels, right?

I dont guess, she said, chuckling. Why? Do you like those kind of outfits?

On some girls.

What kind of girls?

Girls who can bring it off.

And you think I could?

Guaranteed.

Youre an angel, she said. But I know my flaws. Its part of . . . objectivity. Looking at things as they really are. My legs arent thin enough to show off.

Youre nuts, I told her. Theyre . . . flashy.

Stop it!

I especially like these, I said, running the back of my fingernails down her thighs.

Im fat there, she said, reaching over to light another cigarette.

Thats a class thing.

What?

Its not . . . objective, I said, using her language. Middle-class men have a different image of what a good-looking woman is than working-class men have. And girls pick up on that, real early. Maybe even from their parents.

You really think that social class determines whats physically attractive? she asked, sounding truly interested.

Not a doubt in my mind, I told her. Ive been all over, and it never seems to fail. Marketing plays a role, too. Women who were all the rage decades ago would be dismissed as overweight today.

Like who?

Marilyn Monroe, Bettie Page, Barbara Eden . . .

Youre quite the connoisseur, are you?

Just an observant reporter.

Uh-huh. And what social class do you come from?

My family didnt have much money when I was small, I told her, weaving the lie. My dad had to work like an animal. But later he became pretty successful. Good enough to get us a nice home, send me to college. So I guess I ended up middle-class, I said, then switched to the truth, but my roots, my earliest experiences and conditioning, thats what set my standards.

And you like what you see?

Id like it even better if . . . I said, turning her over onto her stomach.

I told you I was no cook, she said the next morning, offering me a choice of half a dozen different cold cereals, none of which Id ever heard of. Theres plenty of juice, though.

We could go out, I offered.

If youre not starving, could we do that later?

Sure.

What do you want to know? she said suddenly.

About . . . ?

For your book.

Oh. All right, just sit there, Ill get my notebook.

My cell phone made its sound.

Excuse me, I said. This could be important.

I pulled the phone loose, opened it up, said, Hauser.

Weve got her. Peppers voice.

Really? Can you be more specific?

Not alone, huh, chief?

Not even close.

The missing woman.

The friend of the?

No. The one who went to Iowa.

Okay. When you say got . . . ?

Address, current employment, license number . . . Nobodys approached her. Yet. But we figured wed go along with you on this one.

Why is that?

Micks from around there, she said. He might be able to help you with the directions.

Okay, I said, not believing a word.

When can we book it for?

I cant do anything until Monday, I told her.

Call me tomorrow, Pepper told me. And hung up.

Lucky that didnt ring last night, Laura said, as I returned to the table in the kitchen with my notebook.

Oh, I turned it off, I lied. I didnt want anything to . . . disturb us. I turned it back on while you were in the shower, earlier.

That was sweet of you.

I ducked my head, busied myself with lining up a trio of felt-tipped pens.

Was John a typical big brother? I asked when I looked up.

What do you mean, typical?

Well, did he resent you tagging along when he went places, stuff like that?

I never went anyplace with him.

Yes, I guess that makes sense. Too much difference in your ages. Well, what about?

How far apart do you think we were? she said, tilting up her chin.

Well, I know your brothers age, from the court records. He was born in 1964, so hed be almost forty now. Youre, what, thirty? Ten years, between kids, thats a million miles.

Im only four years younger than him, she said. Im going to be thirty-six.

I made a noise in my throat.

What? she said, quickly.

I . . . just thought you were a lot younger. I only made it thirty, when I guessed, because I thought you might be insulted if I thought you were too young to have the kind of job you do. Oh, hell, I dont know. Im not exactly an expert at dealing with women.

You seemed to know your way around last night, she said, smiling.

Youre confusing skill with motivation, I said.

She blushed prettily. Opened her mouth, then snapped it shut, as if biting off whatever she was going to say.

All right, I said, lets try it another way. Was John very protective of you?

Like how?

I dont know. Like giving your boyfriends the third degree when they came to the house.

No, she said. He was never protective.

You werent close?

Not at all.

Each had your own lives, huh?

Yes. We even went to different schools.

Parochial school? I guessed.

I did. He didnt, she said.

Her answers were getting shorter, more clipped. I shifted gears, asked, How did your family react when he was first arrested?

My mother had been dead for years, she said. So she never knew about any of it. And my father had already retired, moved to the Sun Belt. I dont know if my brother told him what was going on at the time. Maybe he didnt my fathers got a bad heart.

So that left you.

Not really, she said. I was just starting to make headway in my job, trying to put enough money together to risk a few little moves of my own. Working eighteen-hour days, sometimes. I was frazzled, a real wreck. And, to be truthful, I never took it seriously.

Him being charged with rape? I asked, allowing just a trace of disbelief into my voice.

I thought it was some kind of mistake, she said. I was so sure Id get a call from him saying they realized they had the wrong man.

Did you go to the trial?

I was supposed to, she said. I even arranged for some time off. But I got the dates wrong. By the time I showed up, the jury was already out.

You were in the courtroom when they came in with the verdict?

Yes. It was . . . it was about what youd expect. A shock.

Did they let you speak to him before they took him away?

I was too stunned to even move, she said. It was like, I closed my eyes, and when I opened them, he was gone.

Did you visit him in prison?

No. John wrote and asked me not to. He said the visiting conditions were disgusting. The guards were very abusive to women. He didnt want me there. Besides, he expected to be released any day.

He never lost faith?

Never once. But, with John, it isnt faith, exactly. Its more like . . . certainty.

You really dont know much about the case itself, then? I asked, walking the tightrope.

Well, I know John didnt do what he was accused of. What more is there? she asked, blue eyes on mine.

The . . . impact thing, remember? Are you saying that your brothers faith his certainty that hed be vindicated made the whole thing less hard on you? And maybe on your father?

Im sure thats true, she said. Although I never thought about it until right now. Is that common?

In a way, it is, I lied. For other families Ive interviewed, it was always the belief that someday the truth would come out that kept them going. I guess the difference is, sometimes the families had an awful lot more faith than the person who had been convicted.

But they would be the only ones who really knew, isnt that true?

I guess that is true, I acknowledged. In some of the cases, the evidence was so shaky, or there was such outright corruption, or there was a journalist already on the job, beating the drums so hard, that the public got to share the sense of innocence before the courts ratified it. But in your brothers case, that wasnt so. Until he was actually set free, I couldnt find one line of coverage of the case after the trial was over.

And when he got shot . . .

Exactly. Truth is, Laura, if that hadnt happened, I never would have heard of your brothers case at all.

Im not surprised, she said. It wasnt that big a deal.

Im sure it was to you.

I know how this must sound, but when I told you my brother and I were never close, thats an understatement. When I heard about it, my first thought was how . . . humiliated I was at the idea of anyone connecting me to him. We dont have the same name. . . . You think thats disgusting, dont you?

I think its human, I told her. After all, for all you knew . . .

Who knows what anyones capable of? she said.

Exactly.

This doesnt do a lot for your book, does it, J.? Her expression shifted, too quick to read. Can I call you that? J.? J.P. sounds like you should be a banker or something.

Sure, I said.

Does anyone do it? Call you that?

Never in my life, I said.

I never liked my name, she said, wistfully. When I was a little girl, I always wanted to change it.

To what?

Oh, all kinds of different things. Laura always sounded so old-fashioned to me. I wanted a fabulous name.

Like Hildegarde?

Stop it! she laughed. You know what I mean. I went to school with girls named Kerri, and Pandora, and Astrid, and . . . names like those.

So why didnt you?

What do you mean?

I did some research into this, for a story I was working on. All you have to do, to change your name, is file a petition in court.

Just like that?

Just like that. You have to file a notice in the papers in case youre trying to duck a bunch of debts and get some new credit but its no big deal.

I could never do that now, she said. In my business, a name is very important. Not what the name is, what it represents. Like a brand. Laura Reinhardt isnt what to call me, its what I do. Understand?

Sure.

So I guess Im stuck with Laura the Librarian.

Thats not how I see you. Although I bet youd look real cute in glasses.

I have glasses, she said. I never really use them I wear contacts but I have them. I always thought I looked dorky in them.

Let me see.

I . . . All right, wait here.

I thought I heard the bottle tree tinkle as she swept out of the kitchen, but I couldnt swear to it.

She was back in a minute, wearing a pair of plain round glasses with rust-colored frames.

All you need is your hair in a bun, I said.

I knew it.

Its your own fault, I said. You picked out the glasses, right?

Sure.

But you didnt pick them out the same way you picked out your dresses. Or your jewelry. Or your apartment, even.

I see what you mean. . . .

Theyve got thousands of different frames. You could get some that would show off your eyes. Like putting something especially beautiful under glass.

Oh God, thats so . . . She started sniffling.

Thanks, Little Sis, I said to myself, holding Laura Reinhardt against me.

I should go home, I said, later.

Am I making you?

I just feel grungy in these same clothes, I told her. I need to change.

Want me to come with you?

Fucking moron, you didnt see that one coming? I thought. Id like to have you stay with me, I said. But not until I . . . do some stuff to my place.

You mean, like, rehab?

No. I mean, like, clean.

She giggled. Then said, You probably think Im the worlds best housekeeper, looking around this place.

It does look immaculate.

It should. Im hardly ever here. I have a girl come in twice a week, and Ill bet all she does is watch TV.

You dont let her touch your bottle tree, do you?

Never! I blow the dust off it with my own breath.

Im not surprised.

When I put something together myself even a deal, which is not really a thing you can touch I get very protective of it. I dont want anyone handling it but me.

I understand.

Youre the same way about your car, I bet.

I guess I am, now that you make me think about it, I confessed, lying. The truth was, the Plymouth had been built as a multi-user appliance power steering and an automatic transmission made it possible for anyone to drive the beast, if they didnt get too crazy with the gas pedal. How about this? I go and get some fresh clothes, and come back in time for dinner?

Do you want to go to?

Let me surprise you, I said.

A block away from Lauras, I thumbed my cellular into life.

Gardens.

Its me, Mama. Can you get everyone over there?

Now, yes?

Yes.

Basement?

No.

Okay.

Max was the only one there when I walked in. He was in my booth, trying to play a game of solitaire. Mama was seated across from him, tapping the table sharply every time she detected what she considered a major error in progress.

Have soup at big table, Mama said, confirming everyone was on their way. I never would have asked her. In my family, some things you know inside yourself. Other things like basement meaning weapons you learn.

The Prof strolled in the door just as the soup came up from the back. He snatched a cup from the tray and put it on the table in front of him as he sat down.

Im in, he said, as if the cup were a poker chip.

Wheres Clarence? I asked.

Hes with Terry, over at your place, cooking on those computers.

But thats just around the

You want the Mole on the set, letting him drive aint the bet, bro. They have to go and haul him over.

Fair enough, I said, just as Michelle swept into the joint.

This had better be important, she said.

She didnt bother to wait for anyone to pull out a chair for her Clarence is the only one who ever does. And I didnt bother to assure her the meet was important she was just being herself.

So? Whats up, pup? the Prof asked.

Lets wait until everyones here, I said. I dont want to tell it twice.

Righteous, he said, lighting a smoke.

You did get to be with that girl? Michelle demanded.

Yeah, I said.

And you are going to talk about that?

Yes, Michelle.

Not in front of my son, youre not, she said, in a tone of utter finality.

Honey, hes old enough to

Dont you say a word! she warned me.

Terrys been teaching Clarence some boss stuff, the Prof slipped in. Boys talking about going to school, for real.

Im sure, Michelle said, not mollified. And Im glad, Prof, she added, quickly. But if you think Im going to have Terry sit here and listen to the gory details of

There wont be any details, honey, I promised.

How can I know if my . . . expertise is needed without specifics? she said, exasperated.

I can tell you that part right now, I said. Before they get here. Fair enough?

Sold, she said.

It was a Seimens, I told the Mole, almost an hour later. One of those jobs that work as a regular phone and as a cordless, too. The main one is in the kitchen. Shes got three of those pod-things in different rooms. You just lift the cordless unit out of them and talk. Its a two-line job. Probably uses the second one for the fax. Or maybe the Internet.

The Mole shook his head. That is a difficult one to plant a device in, he said. You dont have the . . . knowledge. It would be better at the junction. In the basement.

You see security cams? the Prof asked.

Not in the garage. I dont know where theyd go to; I didnt see a monitor in her apartment.

Just a voice system, like they got in regular apartment buildings?

I guess so, I said. I havent gone in the front door.

But youre going back this evening, yes? Michelle said. So then well know if

No, I told her, holding up the plastic card Laura had given to me. She gave me hers, for the garage. Said she wouldnt be using her car all day, so . . .

The Mole took the card from my hand, studied it for a few seconds. He nodded, asked: It doesnt have to look the same?

As long as it works, I told him.

You can test it later, the Mole said, pocketing the card.

I dont see a play except the phone, I said. We dont have the personnel to shadow her

Not in that neighborhood, for sure, the Prof said, sourly.

 but the house phones not enough, I told them. What if he contacts her on her cell? Or even at work? Hell, what if he drops her a goddamned postcard?

What makes you so sure theyre going to meet at all? Michelle asked.

They met once, I said. Or planned to meet, anyway. If the story we got is true, the sister shows up, hes already down from the shots. Whatever he wanted to tell her, he couldnt or wouldnt do it on the phone. And he didnt just want to meet her in a public place. He went to a lot of trouble to set the whole thing up.

You think he wanted to give her something, mahn? Clarence asked.

If he had it with him, whoever shot him got it, I said. But Wycheks still running scared. Big scared. Hes gotstill got something good enough to convince the cops to keep him on ice. But, whatever it is, it has to be something . . . physical. Not just info he could carry around in his head. Otherwise, he would have already cut the deal he wanted. And thered be no need to keep the charges running against Wolfe.

Maybe hes still trying to work that one out, the Prof said. How he can turn loose of what hes got, and still keep himself protected?

Even if that was so, why keep the charges alive?

They dont want to tip off whoever shot him? That hes ratting them out?

No, I said. Doesnt work for me. Wycheks dirt. If all he could do for the cops is dime out the guy who shot him, whats that worth? Not the DAs Office cooperating in a bogus charge against Wolfe. Too much potential downside for them, especially with all the press attention.

Hes got something, I went on, filling in the blanks with guesses. And either he needs the sister to get it for him, or he needs her signature on a safe-deposit box, or . . . something like that. Whatever he has, hes had it for a long time. Since before he went into the joint.

Because . . . ? Michelle said.

Because he was protected in there. Off a contract. Somebody paid real money for that. And for the fancy appellate lawyer, too.

So whyd he wait? the Prof demanded.

He . . . Damn, Prof! It isnt just that he waited so long to hire Greuchel. He never even made bail on the charge Wolfe dropped him on. And he wouldnt have needed PC at Rikers if the Brotherhood was protecting him there. So, whatever he found out, it must have happened while he was at Rikers.

Yeah? the Prof snorted. You think someone in there sent him a kite, made him see the light?

Nobody said anything. Whatever they were thinking, I dont know. Me, I was wondering if Wychek had ever asked his sister for bail money.

Suddenly, Max tapped a knuckle against the tabletop, drawing all our eyes. The Mongol looked up at the ceiling, dropped his gaze to eye level, let his eyes wander around aimlessly. He glanced at the floor. Picked some imaginary object up, gave it a quick, examining look, shrugged, and put it in his pocket.

Max got to his feet. Walked over to one of those promotional calendars, mostly a large poster, with a little pad of months you can tear off one at a time on the bottom. The one on Mamas wall featured a Chinese woman, elegantly dressed, having a cocktail. The writing on the poster was all in Chinese, and the calendar pad was for 1961.

Max turned the pages of the calendar, indicating the passage of time. Then he snapped his fingers, made an Ive got it! face, and reached into his pocket. He brought out the imaginary object in one hand, and used the fingers of the other to turn it, as if examining it from all sides.

He nodded a Yes!, then went over to Mamas cash register and patted it, like it was a good dog.

I stood up, bowed deeply. You nailed it, brother, I said, making a gesture to match the words. He got it before he went down, but he didnt figure out it was worth anything until later.

Adds up, the Prof said.

Very logical, the Mole agreed.

And I think I know where he got it now, I said. So Im going to Iowa.

I walked out to the back alley with Clarence and Terry, the Mole stumbling in our wake. I pulled Clarence aside, asked him a quick question, got the answer I expected.

Back inside, I sat down in my booth. I felt . . . depleted. Like Id fought ten rounds, to a decision that wasnt going to go my way.

Mama came over and sat across from me. All for police girl? Mama said, accusingly.

Theres money in this, I said, stubbornly.

I closed my eyes, felt Michelle slide in next to me, ready to defend her big brother. Mama had known about Wolfe for years. Police girl said it all. Our family is outlaws; we dont believe in mixed marriages.

If Burke says theres money, theres money, Michelle said, loyally.

Maybe. But not for money, Mama replied.

So? Michelle challenged her.

So no . . . focus, Mama said, pointing at Max to emphasize what she meant. For all his skills, the ki radiating from Max the Silent was all about focus. Without it, hed just be another tough guy.

Im feeling my way, I admitted. But Wycheks got something. Even Max says so.

Something for police, maybe.

Wolfes not on their side anymore, Michelle said. She went into her own business a long time ago.

Still police girl here, Mama said, patting her chest. Case fucking closed.

It was just past seven that same night when I test-slipped the Moles clone card into the slot for Lauras garage, my other hand on the genuine one Laura had given me, just in case.

The gate went up.

I walked up the back stairs, carrying the stainless-steel cylinder by its handle.

I rapped lightly on the door to her apartment. The door opened immediately. I hadnt heard the sound of a deadbolt retracting, and the chain wasnt in place.

Hi! she said, giving me a quick kiss as I crossed the threshold.

She was wearing another kimono white, with gold and black dragon embroidery.

I didnt know where we were going, so I didnt want to get dressed until . . . she said, blushing a little.

Youre perfect, I said, holding up the gleaming cylinder.

Oh my God, this is the best Chinese food I ever had in my life, she said, about forty-five minutes later.

I had opened the complex series of interlocking pots, each with its own dish inside. A few quick blasts with the microwave, and we had a five-course dinner that money, literally, couldnt buy.

I told you it would be a surprise, I said.

Where did you get it? Im going to order from them for the rest of my life.

Oh, its not from a restaurant, I said. I know this old Chinese woman who makes special meals to order. She used to serve them in her house

Oh, I heard about those kind of setups. You dont get a menu or anything, and you have to book, like, months in advance, right?

Exactly. Only shes not up to having people in her home anymore. Shes like a hundred years old, I said, involuntarily tensing my neck muscles against a psychic slap from Mama. I called her, gave her a few hours notice that was what took so long and she said shed do it.

Wow. She really put herself out. It must have cost a

Money wouldnt make her do anything, not at her age. I told her it was very special, very important to me.

I . . . I wish I knew how to do things like that.

I guess I dont, either. I never did it before. I was just thinking . . . about you, about going out to eat, how things . . . happened. Then I remembered this old lady, and . . .

Did you use to eat there a lot?

A lot? I ate there once. About, let me see, six, seven years ago? I was doing a profile on a big Chinese businessman. A puff piece, really, but I cant support myself doing nothing but investigative stuff. He was the one who took me there.

Did you mention it in your article?

I wasnt going to. It isnt that kind of place, you could see that. But it wouldnt have mattered. The piece got spiked, and I had to settle for the kill fee.

Whats a kill fee?

Say a magazine commissions a piece for five thousand. Then, after they see it, they decide not to go with it. If theres a decent contract, they have to pay the writer some percentage of the fee, agreed on in front.

Why would they do that? Commission an article and then not use it?

Theres a hundred reasons. I shrugged. They decide they need the space for something else that month. Or the subject isnt hot anymore. Or maybe they just dont like the job you did on it.

But if they did that, you could just turn around and sell it to someone else?

If you can, sure. It doesnt happen often. Every magazine is a different market, even when theyre competing with each other. Whats good for one isnt always good for another.

You dont have to do that, I said, later.

You werent planning to return all the cookware without washing it? she said, incredulous.

No. I just meant, I could take it home, throw it in the dishwasher myself.

I dont know about that, she said, dubiously. I mean, not everything can go in the dishwasher. Its easy enough to wash them by hand; Ill be done in a few minutes.

Okay. Thanks.

Do you want to go out somewhere. Or just . . . ?

How about we go for a drive?

To . . . where? Oh. I guess thats the point, right?

Sure is.

Is this still Queens?

Yep. Thats Flushing Bay were looking at. You cant see it from here, but La Guardias over to the left. The Bronx is on the other side of the water.

I was born, what, maybe forty-five minutes from here? And I never even knew it existed.

Its a nice little community, I said. You got everything from working stiffs to big-time gangsters, with house prices to match.

With those other cars around, its like a drive-in movie, almost.

People come here for the same reason they go to drive-ins, true enough.

Did you know that in Singapore young couples go to drive-ins because the culture frowns on public displays of affection?

I didnt have a clue. You know a lot about Singapore?

Im hardly an expert. But everyone in the money game knows something about Singapore.

Have you ever been there?

No. You?

Yeah, I was there, once.

Whats it like?

Very clean, very efficient. And very scary.

Scary?

I cant explain it, exactly. Felt like everybody was so . . . anxious. Like something could descend on them any minute.

Were you there for a story?

No. I was on my way to Australia. But something happened with the connecting flight, and I ended up having to lay over.

I wonder why people would be so anxious there. Its supposed to have a very low crime rate.

Maybe it was a misimpression, I said. I was only there for a short while. I wouldnt ever write what I told you.

Why not?

Im old-school, I told her, trying to be Hauser in my mind. I dont like this personal journalism stuff. Never did. What I told you, that was my own feelings, not facts. Private, not public.

Thats what this place feels like, she said, snapping her cigarette out the open window and sliding in close to me.

Twenty minutes later, she moved back toward her side of the front seat. Rolled down her window, lit a cigarette.

I never did that before, she said.

In a car?

Not just . . . in a car. Never.

Oh. I . . .

You dont know what to say, do you, J.? she said, a slight edge around the softness of her voice. If you say you never would have known, it sounds like youre calling me a liar. And if you say it was obvious Id never done it before, youre saying Im not very . . . good at it, right?

None of thats right, Laura. Not one word of any of it. Some people, they do things perfect the first time they try. Others, they could do it a thousand times and still . . . not do it very well.

I only meant

But whats really not right about what you said was the other part. It would never cross my mind that you were lying.

I thought reporters were supposed to be cynics, she said, expelling smoke in a harsh jet.

Cynicism is for adolescent poseurs. A person whos been around the block a few times learns better.

Whats better?

Better is knowing some people are liars. I dont mean they just told a lie, I mean theyre liars; thats what they do. Better is knowing that even essentially truthful people lie sometimes, for different reasons. Better is knowing how to tell the difference.

You know when people are lying?

Not always, I said, reaching over and taking her hand. But I know when theyre not.

We were both quiet for a while. Then she said, I never asked you. Do you have any brothers or sisters?

I have a sister.

Older or younger?

Shes my baby sister.

Is that why you asked me, before, if John was protective? Because you were?

No. I was just trying to get a picture of the whole family dynamic.

But you were, werent you?

Protective? Sure.

You think thats normal, dont you?

Im a reporter, not a judge.

J., Im just asking you an honest question. Cant I get an honest answer?

Ask me your question, I said, watching her eyes.

If someone tried to hurt your sister, what would you do?

I saw pieces of Michelles childhood, playing on the inside of my eyelids like a movie on a screen. The kind of movie freaks sell for a lot of money. Felt the familiar suffusion of hate for all of them from her bio-parents, who used her like a toy, to the agencies that treated a transgendered child like a circus freak, to the predatory johns who took little pieces of her in exchange for survival money, to . . . Oh, honeygirl, I wish I had been there, I said to myself. Again.

I waited a beat, still on her eyes.

Kill them, I said.

Do you have something to pick up? Laura asked me, as I wheeled the Plymouth into the gigantic parking lot for the Pathmark supermarket in Whitestone. At just after two in the morning, the lot was almost empty.

Nope, I said, pulling over to the side. I put the lever into park, opened the door, and got out. I walked around to her side of the car, opened her door.

Youre leaving the engine run

Just come on, I said, taking her hand and pulling her around the back of the car. Get in, I told her.

You want me to?

I was already on my way back around to the passenger side. We both closed our doors at the same time.

This isnt like your Audi, I said, as she wiggled around, trying to find the best driving position. The gas pedal isnt hyper-sensitive, but if you step on it hard well launch like a rocket. The brakes are a little stiff when you first touch them; they take a little pressure. But if you floor them, were going to stop. I mean, right now, like someone dropped an anchor into the road behind us.

Youre making me nervous.

Oh, great, I said. The first time I ever let anyone drive my baby and you tell me youre nervous.

J., she giggled. Stop it.

Your Audis a front-driver. This ones not. If you get on the gas too hard in a corner, the rear ends going to want to come around.

You make it sound like a ticking bomb.

Its nothing of the kind, I said. Only reason Im saying all this is that its a great contrast to what youre used to driving. Take it slow, get used to it, and itll practically drive itself. Youll see.

I . . .

Come on, Laura. Ill bet youll be perfect at it, the first time.

She gave me a look I couldnt read. Then she put her left foot on the brake and pulled the lever down into drive.

I nodded approval. Laura took her foot off the brake, and the Plymouth started to creep forward. She delicately feathered the gas and we picked up speed.

Theres nobody around, I told her. Give it a little gas.

This isnt so bad, she said. I could just . . . Oh! she gasped, as the Plymouth shifted stance and shot forward.

I had expected her to deck the brakes, but she just backed off the gas, got it under control instantly.

It is fast, she said.

I made her try the brakes a few times, to get used to the pedal.

I can feel the power, she said. Like a huge dog, on a leash.

Lets give it some running room, I said, pointing toward the highway.

What a wonderful car this is, J. It was so nice of you to let me drive it.

My pleasure.

I was . . . wondering.

What?

Well, how come you . . . The outside of the car is so . . .

Grungy?

At least. But it runs so beautifully. Is it the money?

If you mean, did I put my money into the engine and the transmission and the suspension and then kind of run out of cash, the answer is yes. But its been this way for a long while now, and I think I may actually like it better.

Better? Why?

Its kind of . . . special-sweet to have something very fine, something that most people wouldnt even recognize. Theyd have to drive my car to know what it was.

And youre not going to let them? she said, smiling in the night.

Why should I? I answered. Im building her for me. Not for my ego.

What does that mean, for you, not your ego?

It means shes perfect for me. Just for me. I dont care if anyone else thinks Im driving a rust-bucket; I know Ive got a jewel.

Is that the way you are?

About everything, I assured her. Everything in my life. Right down the line.

OHare was in its usual state of high cholesterol, but the three of us had plenty of time to catch our connector to Cedar Rapids. On the way out, Pepper had ended up seated next to an elderly lady; Mick and I were side by side. By the end of the trip, the old woman wanted to take Pepper home with her. Mick and I hadnt exchanged a single word.

All they had left at the car-rental agency was an Infiniti SUV. Mick kept calling it a stupid cow every time he had to take a curve.

He found the address easily: a smallish wood-frame house on a side street. Pepper turned around in the front seat so she could face me.

You want us to go in with you, chief?

I think it might help if you did, I said. But if Micks going to pull his

Im in the fucking room, he said.

Mick! Pepper said, punching him on the arm hard enough to floor most middleweights. Come on!

The paper says shes from around here, Mick said. She came home. If anyone here scares her, its not going to be me.

Lets go, I said.

Miss Eberstadt? My name is Michael Range. This is my assistant, Margaret Madison. And her husband, Bill. We apologize for coming by without notice, but I thought it would be better if you got to look us over before we asked you anything. People can give a real false impression over the phone.

I . . . What do you?

Thats when Mick took over. We all work for a lawyer, maam, he said. Mr. H. G. Davidson, from New York City. I dont mean Im from there; I guess you can tell, he went on, a warm, friendly smile on his transformed face. Im a paralegal, Mr. Range is an investigator, and Margaret here is an administrative assistant. Anyway, theres a case back there that concerns you, a little bit, and we were sent out here. Well, I guess the truth is, the boss sent Mr. Range out, and we came along for the ride. I wanted to take Margaret home to see my folks, anyway.

What does this have to do with?

Could we come inside for a little bit, maam? Mick asked, in a voice I never would have recognized. Unless this town has changed a lot since I was last home, I wouldnt want to be talking about stuff like this out on the front step.

I . . . All right, the target said.

Pepper and I watched in respectful silence as Mick danced with Eileen Eberstadt for almost an hour. We listened to her explain that her initial report had all been a big mistake, like going to New York in the first place, and how she had nothing against anyone.

Mick countered gently, explaining that Wolfe, the only one who had ever prosecuted Wychek, was now being charged with shooting him, and any help she might be able to provide would be greatly . . .

But the woman held firm, until I stood up and walked over to where she was sitting.

Everything costs, I said, softly. And everybody pays. The only question is when, and how much. Theres a lot of people behind Ms. Wolfe. Serious people. Very committed. Youve got your reasons for lying dont waste my time, I said, when she opened her mouth to speakand nobody cares about them. Were not cops, and were not the bad guys, either. Were not on anyones side except Ms. Wolfes. But we have a job to do, and now youre it.

Im not going to

Just tell me what he took, I said, even more softly. Just tell me that one thing, and were gone.

I tossed forever into her long silence.

A skirt, she said, looking down. A little red pleated skirt. It was the bottom half of my cheerleaders outfit. From high school.

I got a call, Davidson said.

I didnt say anything, just watched the smoke from his cigar turn blue in the band of sun that came in the top of his office window.

Toby Ringer, you remember him?

Thats a long way back, I said.

Sure. From when he was an ADA in the same office thats prosecuting Wolfe now. Tobys gone up in the world since then. Moved over to the feds. He was the boss of Narco there for a while, then he kind of dropped out of the public eye. But hes the same man.

Meaning . . . ?

Meaning, you know how it works in our business. A mans no better than his word. And Tobys has always been gold.

Okay, I said, neutral.

So, anyway, Toby gives me a call, says we havent had lunch in a long time. How about Peter Lugers, his treat?

Did he pat you down when you showed up?

Asked me to give my word that I wasnt wired.

This was about Wolfe, right?

Im getting to it, Davidson said.

I went quiet again.

Toby said it would be in my clients interest not to push for discovery right now. He said, if we could be a little patient, he was absolutely confident thats the exact phrase he used that the case would just go away.

I told him we werent interested in a case going away. That happens, the case can always come back. He said he meant go away for good. Disa-fucking-peer.

I told him he knows the game as well as I do. I cant just sit on motions, or I end up waiving my right to them. He went over the time lines with me, said another few weeks and it would all be over.

So hes just trying to save you time and aggravation?

I asked him the same thing. He fenced for a while. Finally, after he could see he wasnt getting over, he told me Wycheks going in the Grand Jury soon.

How is that supposed to?

Hes not going in as a victim, hes going in as a witness, Davidson said. His appearance has nothing to do with Wolfe, or her case.

So?

So, by way of preamble, first theyre going to immunize him. Full boat use and transactional. Then hes going to tell the Grand Jury that he made it all up about it being Wolfe who shot him. When the DAs Office gets notified of that, they then introduce a transcript of his statement during a presentation of her case. And No True Bill it.

Sure.

It sounds fishy to me, too, Davidson said, tilting his chair back. If were a target, were entitled to Grand Jury notice, and we havent gotten any. But it could work the way Toby says. A federal grand jury investigating who knows? brings Wychek in. He makes a statement under oath. Suppose he does say that he lied about Wolfe? The feds have to turn that statement over to the DA in Manhattan. And then theyd have to drop the case. If the statement ever came to light, theyd be cooked. Not just legally, politically.

Whats in it for us, to wait?

Thats where Toby stopped being blunt. But I got the distinct impression that Wychek is telling the DAs Office one story and the feds another. And that theyre not sharing.

Hes in federal custody?

Hes not in anyones custody, Davidson said.

You mean hes still in the hospital?

Nope. Thats why Im inclined to go along with Toby. He said the DAs Office is giving Wychek an allowance, maintaining him as a protected witness. But Wychek knows, long-term, its got to be the feds, if he wants the total package new ID, maybe even a new face, some serious maintenance money, you know.

So Wychek goes in the Grand Jury the federal one and then he gets gone?

What Toby says.

Toby say where Wycheks staying?

I never asked him, Davidson said.

You had a successful trip? Laura asked.

In my business actually, Ill bet its a lot like your business you dont always know right away. You make an investment, then you wait to see if it pans out.

That sounds a lot more like gambling than investment.

Isnt that what investment is, gambling?

At some end of the continuum, it is.

What do you mean?

A person who buys shares of stock or of a mutual fund, or any similar instrumentis gambling. Their idea of research is maybe fifteen minutes on the Internet . . . and thats for those who even go that far. For most investors, its more like religion than it is science. They trust; they have faith; they believe. They believe in a broker, or a mutual-fund manager, or in something they heard on a TV program. Everybody in the business knows this is true, but nobody knows why.

If people didnt want to believe, they wouldnt, I said. I dont care if its a televangelist or a stockbroker; its easier for people to say I trust you than to find out the truth for themselves.

You make it sound like theyre all suckers.

And volunteers for the job, I agreed.

Im not in any of that.

What do you mean?

I dont sell stocks or bonds. I dont even analyze them. What I do is, I put deals together. Theres big sharks and little sharks, sure. But all the players are sharks, do you see what I mean? There arent any fish.

Then where do the little sharks get their food?

You havent asked about him at all, she half whispered, her mouth against my ear. Have you changed your mind?

We were lying on her bed in the dark. Me on my back, she on her stomach. It was the first time wed had sex that she hadnt lit a cigarette afterwards.

Changed my mind?

About your book.

No, I said, my tone suggesting that would be absurd. Ive made the commitment. I took the advance. And spent most of it, too. Your brothers case didnt give me the idea for the book it was something I came across during my research.

But you said hed be perfect.

He might very well be. But I cant believe hes the only one. There were two things that drew me to him

What?

 and neither was the underlying fact pattern, I went on, ignoring her interruption. One, I have to be honest, was nothing but convenience. He was at least, I thought he was right here, and available for in-depth interviews. Everything about his case is right here, too: the court records, the local newspapers, the judge who sat on his case, maybe even some of the jurors. The second thing, of course, was him getting shot.

Couldnt you?

But, the more I think about it, Im not so sure.

Not so sure about what?

Whether the hook is really such a good one after all. At first, I thought it was perfect. If youre writing a book about overzealous prosecutors, whats better than one who tries to kill a man they convicted, after the courts set him free?

But, in looking at these cases, you dont see that . . . personal element at all. You see the criminal-justice system jumping the rails. You see cops concerned with their crime-clearance rate, just like you see prosecutors obsessed with their conviction rates. Working together. But that kind of mind-set is just as likely to tip the scales the other way.

I dont understand, she said, moving away from me and sitting up.

A prosecutor who wants a perfect conviction rate can give some plea bargains that are real bargains. Ive seen cases where a defendant confesses to a couple dozen different crimes, and only gets sentenced for one of them.

But that person would still be guilty, wouldnt he?

Maybe, maybe not.

Why would they ever?

Did you ever read about the Boston Strangler case?

I heard of it. But it was a long time ago, wasnt it?

The Sixties. A serial killer was at large. The public was panicked. The media and this is the key to the whole dynamic was demanding action. Everyone was on the spot. They already had this guy Albert DeSalvo was his name on a whole ton of sex crimes. Different MO not a homicide in the bunch but more than enough to give him a life sentence.

So now theyve got DeSalvo in a prison where they evaluate defendants to see if theyre competent to stand trial. Out of the blue, he makes a deal to confess to all the strangling cases.

Plead guilty?

It was a little trickier than that. He clears up the cases, gives the police information about the crimes, stuff like that. But the deal is, since theres no other evidence he was the Strangler no fingerprints, no blood, no body fluids, no witnesses, nothing the confession cant be used. So DeSalvo gets the same life sentence he would have gotten anyway, and everyones happy.

I still dont see whats so horrible. I mean, what he did, of course. But he still went to prison for life.

What if he wasnt the Strangler?

What? Then why would he?

I dont know, I said. I wasnt there. But a lot of people, today, think he was lying about those crimes. Especially relatives of the victims. Theres a whole new investigation going on now.

It doesnt make any sense, she said, her tone just below angry.

He was going down for the count anyway. And he wasnt going to do an extra day for the Stranglers crimes. Maybe he got some money . . . from a book deal or whatever. Maybe he just wanted to be famous the cops get confessions like that all the time.

Did the crimes stop after he was arrested? she asked. I caught the faintest whiff of triumph in her voice the cold-blooded researcher, confronting the believer with the hard facts.

They did, I said. But if he got the information about the crimes from someone else, that person could have been locked up, too. With DeSalvo. Maybe in the nuthouse.

What does he say?

DeSalvo?

Yes. Well, what does he say about it, now that all that time has passed?

Hes not saying anything, I told her. A few years after he went to prison, he was stabbed to death.

Oh my God. Who did it?

Nobody knows, I said. Or, at least, nobody was ever charged with it.

Laura bent over to light a pair of candles on an end table. Can you see me? she asked over her shoulder.

Perfectly. But Id rather have a closer look.

You will. But, first, could you close your eyes? Just for a minute?

Sure, I said, dropping my eyelids, but leaving a slit open at the bottom. I learned how to do that when I was a kid the trick is to keep your eyelids from fluttering.

Laura dropped to her knees, pulled out the lowest drawer in a dark wood bureau. She rooted around for a few seconds. When she stood up, she held something clasped in her hands.

She came over to the bed, climbed on next to me, and knelt, keeping her back very straight.

What do you do when youre afraid of something? she said, very softly.

What do people do, or what do I do, personally?

You.

It depends on what it is that Im afraid of.

Tell me.

If its something I can avoid, I do that. If its something I cant, I try to overcome it.

How?

How? I dont know. It depends on what it is.

Give me an example?

Oh, I could do that, I thought. I could give you enough examples to haunt your dreams for the rest of your life.

But Im a Child of the Secret. We dont talk to outsiders. Except when we lie. Because They taught us well. We know were never safe.

And just because youre one of Us doesnt mean you cant also be one of Them.

Public speaking, I said. I was scared to death to get up in front of

Thats not fear, she cut me off, sharply. Thats a . . . phobia. Didnt you ever?

A bully, I said. Hows that?

Thats very good, she said. Kneeling, with her hands clasped.

When I was a kid, I said, feeling the dot of truth inside my story expand the margins of the lie, I was scared all the time. Of this one guy. He took stuff from me. Just because he was bigger. Just because he could do it. And he hurt me, too.

Did you tell your parents?

It wasnt the kind of thing I could tell my parents about, I said. More truth, wrapped in a mourners cloak.

What did you do?

I tried to stay away from this other guy, I said. But he made it impossible. Yeah, I thought, impossible, when youre a little kid, and the other guy is the teenage son of the degenerate freaks who have custody of your orphaned body.

What happened, finally?

I hit him with a baseball bat, I lied.

Oh! Did you hurt him badly?

Bad enough so he never bothered me again, I said. The baseball bat was true enough. I didnt tell Laura how I had followed it with a can of gasoline, and a match. By the time I was done, every human living in that house of demons was, too.

Good! I hate bullies, dont you?

Ever since I was old enough to know what they are, I said, switching to pure, undiluted truth.

See what Ive got?

I opened my eyes. She was holding up a pair of handcuffs.

Being . . . restrained has always terrified me. I . . . I keep these as kind of a test. Usually, Im afraid to even look at them.

You were handcuffed once?

Oh, no, she said, way too much certainty in her voice. Nothing like that. Ive always been this way. When I was a little girl, and they played cowboys and Indians, I would never let anyone tie me up.

Some things, its good to be afraid of. Just common sense.

Maybe thats why I went into my line of work. Theres a lot of risk one day, youre getting a huge bonus; the next, youre out of a job but there arent any . . . restraints.

Maybe you just like the risks. Ive known people like that.

Maybe I do, she said. Do you know how these work?

See how much faith I have in you? she purred. With my hands behind my back like this, you could do . . . anything.

If you trust me, you know I wont.

I know you would never do anything to hurt me, she said. I wondered if she realized how much she sounded like one of the no-research investors she had been sneering at.

I wouldnt, Laura, I said, guiding her shoulders down.

I could still ask him, she said. It was much later; the candles were burned out.

Okay.

You dont sound very enthusiastic, J.

I guess Im . . . not, actually. I thought he was the one who would have been enthusiastic. Most people want to tell their stories, especially if they believe its going to make them look good.

But you havent lost interest completely?

No, of course not. But I cant put the whole project on hold waiting for

Oh, I understand, she said, squirming in close to me.

Its not that big a risk, Wolfe said. If Tobys . . . prediction doesnt come true, its not like the DA has a better case against me. Besides, I trust him.

Toby?

Yes. Who else?

Not me, I understand.

What does that mean?

It means you think my arteries are hardening the ones to my brain. Your pal, Molly? No way he made copies of all the files he had in his storage unit. And no way you didnt. You never trusted anyone in administration when you worked there. Probably got copies of every single piece of paper that ever went through your hands, somewhere.

Its Molly who doesnt trust you, she said, not denying anything. He said he was willing to take the chance of you shopping him, but he wasnt going to give you the chance to do it to me.

Very protective of you, is he?

You have a problem with that?

No, I said. None of my business.

This whole thing is none of your business now, Wolfe said, quietly. Its done. Maybe not wrapped up with a red ribbon and tied with a bow, but its done. I appreciate what you did, but . . . but I want you to stop now. Just stop.

I got to my feet. Im sorry, I said. I thought I was helping.

Come on, Burke. Be yourself.

You got it, I promised.

The next day, I kept my promise. I sat down with my family, and we made our plans.

If you think a perfect crime is some kind of rare event, you probably think all sociopaths are handsome, intelligent, and charming, too. Truth is, thousands of perfect crimes take place every day. Nobody ever gets arrested for them, much less convicted.

And if you think it takes a criminal genius to commit the perfect crime in America, you dont know anything about incest.

Theres other players, remember, I warned my family. Whoever shot him has to know by now that they didnt get the job done.

Hes a piece of dry wood, Schoolboy, the Prof said. Lying on the ground, waiting for the forest fire to catch up to him. Why dont we let the flame take the blame?

Nobody needs him dead now, I said. Nobody on our side, anyway. Wolfe doesnt think shell even go to trial. Neither does Davidson. If whoever wanted him finds him before we do, theres no loss, sure. But we cant make that happen. Even if we could stake him out, how would we get the shooter to show up? Besides, its not about him anymore. Its about the money.

You think theres cash in his stash?

I dont know, Prof. But theres cash somewhere. Heavy cash. This whole thing reeks of it.

You mean, because he had protection when he was Inside? Michelle said. His little sisters got money . . . and she was the one coming to see him the time he got shot.

The sister has some money, I conceded. And it doesnt take a fortune to buy protection Inside. But Silver said the order came from the top, and theres no way shed even know how to make a contact like that.

He has not called, the Mole said.

What? You mean you?

The card opened the garage, he said, shrugging. The basement has all the lines. We already had her numbers. Its a simple relay unit we record the calls at our end.

I didnt know you were even going to . . .

I was in a Con Ed van, the Mole said. In and out in under fifteen minutes.

You leave any paint behind? the Prof asked.

The Mole ignored him.

He could use a lot of other ways to get in touch, I said. Or maybe he hasnt reached out for her at all. Ive spent a lot of time with her. Consecutive hours. She didnt get any calls. So either her phones were turned off and that doesnt seem likely or hes not coming through that way.

Maybe he only has her work number, or her e-mail address, Michelle said. If I was his sister, Satan forbid, I wouldnt want him to know where I lived.

Could be. I dont know. And she never said.

So how would we be able to have a strategy, mahn? Clarence asked. Either he calls her at home and he has not done that or she convinces him to give you that interview. 

Were holding garbage, I agreed. But we already anted heavy, so its worth staying to see the last card.

The tenants in the Lower East Side building were so old, I got called boychick more than once. Four of them stopped their canasta game long enough to tell me that the two girls who had lived in the second-floor apartment had been very nice, but kind of standoffish.

You would think, coming from such a big family, that Hannah would have been a little more friendly, an elderly lady with heavily rouged cheeks and an elaborate hairdo told me.

She had a big family?

Well, either her or Jane that was the roommatemust have. I never saw so many boys. Brothers or cousins. I could tell by the way they were acting, all together.

And they came after the . . . after it happened, too?

Oh yes, another lady said. But not right away, a few days later. Maybe they were from out of town.

Who can tell anymore? a third lady said.

Did Hannah and Jane leave with them? I asked.

Who pays attention, a time like that? the rouged-cheeked lady said.

And who should be surprised, her moving out, after such a thing? a different lady said.

You saw Hannah move out? I asked.

Hannah? Hannah never moved out, young man. She was murdered. Didnt you know that? It was in the papers. Horrible! Thats when Jane moved out.

Like the Devil was chasing her, the rouged-cheeked lady said. In the middle of the night. Manny, the super, he said she hardly took any of her clothes, she was in such a hurry. Who could blame her? To have such a thing happen to your own roommate. It would be . . . I dont have the words for it.

As I exited the apartment building, I had to step back to avoid a pair of skinheads strutting down the sidewalk. As they passed, I saw they had bar-code tattoos on the back of their necks. Couldnt tell if they were identical.

I drove over to the building in Williamsburg where Hannah had been found hanging. The rehab was long since completed, and I calculated my chances of getting inside about as good as a counterman at Taco Bell buying a condo off his tip money.

Walking away, I felt a tremor in my wake. Just a slight pattern-shift in my visuals, maybe. Afterimages that didnt match up with my expectations.

That was enough to send me Queens-bound on the subway instead of driving back to Manhattan. I changed trains three times, careful not to box myself, working my way back to Canal Street. When I got to the network of back alleys that leads to Mamas, I found a place to wait.

And thats what I did, for over an hour.

Nothing.

Spiders have it easy. When they need a web, they make their own threads. I had to work with the ones they gave me.

Something about those bar-code tattoos . . .

I knew a stripper who had a tiny bar code tattooed on one cheek of her bottom. Its a trick, she said, smiling at the double meaning. Supposed to mean my ass is merchandise, see? But if anyone gets close enough to read it, theyre mine.

I opened one of my notebooks, found what I had drawn from my memory after Id left Silver.

V71.01

What had he told Silver? A message, written in the code of Nietzsche.

Id seen the Whatever doesnt kill you makes you stronger tattoos in prison. Sometimes with swastikas where the quote marks would go. Not exactly a secret code.

So?

In the room I use for sleeping, I took a polished piece of steel with a hole drilled at the top out of one of the standing lockers. In the middle of the steel, I used a Sharpie to draw a red dot. Then I hung it on a nail on the wall. When I settled into position, the red dot was exactly at eye level.

I focused on the red dot until I went into it.

When I came back, the room was dark. A sliver of moonlight glinted on the steel. I couldnt see the dot.

Hes guilty, I said.

That view aint new, son.

Im not talking about the evidence, Prof.

Then how you know, bro?

He said it.

Confessed?

No, sis, I said to Michelle. Ive never spoken to him. But in prison, Silver saw this on his forearm. . . . I drew it on a paper napkin, showed it to everyone.

Max shook his head.

Mama shrugged the same message.

What is it, then, mahn? Clarence asked, for all of them.

I took out the two pages I had Xeroxed. This is from the DSM-IV. The manual the shrinks use to put labels on people. Listen.

They all turned toward me.

V71.01 is a code number. All the disorders have one. Like schizophrenics or pyromaniacs or whatever. That V prefix is kind of a catchall. They say its for other conditions that may be a focus of clinical attention. I remembered it, finally, because it goes in front of malingering.

What is that, mahn?

Bottom line, its when you fake being sick to get out of something, Clarence.

Like when you plead insanity?

Like when you fake insanity.

How do you know all this stuff, mahn?

Schoolboy was the shrinks clerk, Inside, the Prof said, proudly. One of the cushiest jobs in the entire joint. Once Burke got that deal working, we made bank in the tank, son. Bank in the tank.

From meds? Michelle asked.

No, honey, the Prof told her. From reports. Thats where you tap the vein. You know what its worth to a man going before the Parole Board to have a few little changes made to his jacket? Or a guy trying to get into a work-release program? Or?

I get it, Michelle said, grinning.

Let me read it to you, I said, clearing my throat.  V71.01. Adult Antisocial Behavior. This category can be used when the focus of clinical attention is adult antisocial behavior that is not due to a mental disorder, for example, Conduct Disorder, Antisocial Personality Disorder, or an Impulse-Control Disorder. Examples include the behavior of some professional thieves, racketeers, or dealers in illegal substances. 

What does that?

Means us, the Prof cut Michelles question off. Our kind of people.

That filthy little maggot isnt

No, I said. Hes not us. Hes not even like us. That code isnt some diagnosis a psychiatrist put on him thats what hes saying about himself. What hes telling the world. He didnt do the . . . things he did because he was nuts; he did them because he wanted to.

That Nietzsche thing he told Silver? He did those rapes, hurt those women, took those trophies because he could. In his mind, hes not some sicko; hes a superman. And the tattoo is his little private joke.

I handed the photocopied sheets of paper to Max.

Where he find that book? Mama asked, pointing at the pages I was holding.

What I think is, he had a lot of therapy, probably when he was very young, I said. Im guessing here; the sister didnt say anything about it. But a freak like him doesnt spring into full bloom overnight.

First, he experiments. Ill bet he hurt a lot of small animals, set some fires. . . . And when he finds out what certain things do for him, how they make his blood get hot with power . . . he escalates. Until he gets caught.

His family had money. Not enough money to quash a major felony, but enough to get him sent for treatment instead of the juvie joints when he was a kid.

So tattoo is big insult? Mama said.

Yeah, exactly, I agreed. A joke nobodys supposed to get but him. I dont know when he got the idea for it, but its his way of sneering at the whole idea of him being a sick man. Hes the opposite. In his mind, hes a god.

Max picked up a pair of chopsticks, held them together in his two fists. He twisted his hands, and the chopsticks splintered like matchsticks.

You do have a backup plan?

What do you mean?

Well, you wanted to interview him. But if you cant . . .

I already told you. I was working on the book way before this whole business with him came to light. His case wasnt even part of the proposal.

Yes, but . . .

But what, Laura? What difference does it make now?

I guess Im just . . . insecure.

About what?

About . . . us. In my world, people are always plotting. You have no idea of all the crimes people in business commit every day. Like it was nothing. Or theres a set of special rules for them. Remember when Bush made that whole speech about corporate ethics last year? What a fraud. You think stuff like Enron or WorldCom is an aberration? Its only the tip. Business is a religion. Probably the only one practiced all over the world.

What does that have to do with?

If you want to succeed, you have to plan very long-term, she went on, talking over me. Tools and research. Research and tools, she said softly, stroking the rock of her faith for comfort. You have to be very patient. Theres no forgiveness in my world. You only get one chance.

Laura . . .

You and I met because you wanted something. That part is real, I know. What happened, with us, I mean, I dont know how real that is. And now that youre not going to get to meet my

Im still here, I said.

Yes.

Theres never any more than that.

Yes there is, she said, fiercely. Theres . . . promises.

I never made any

Thats exactly it, she said, taking the handcuffs out from under her pillow.

Oh no, she said softly, as she climaxed. Oh no. Oh no. Oh no!

In the silence after she let go, I thought I heard the bottle tree whisper. But I couldnt be sure.

Sorry, chief. She doesnt want you. Pepper caught herself, quickly added, Working the case, I mean. There is no case, far as were concerned. You understand, right?

Sure, but

Its done, she said, gently. Let it go.

I dont know who the hell you are, or what youre talking about, pal. But I can tell you this: dont ever fucking call me again. Understand?

Molly, at the other end of a phone call. The dead end.

Well, sure, its still theoretically open, Davidson said. But Ive got my deal in place with Toby, and my client and I are both certain the result will be as agreed.

What about the other rapes he did?

You know the statute of limitations on a felony as well as I do, he said. Better, Im sure, given your . . . profession. He could call a press conference, confess to everything, and walk away giggling.

Hes already done that, I said.

What do you want from me, Burke? Some bullshit about bad karma? We both know how it is. Real life isnt on Oprah. What goes around sometimes doesnt come around. Chalk it up.

We already had this conversation.

I found some new

No, Wolfe said, drawing the line all the way down to the exit wound. You found something new that proves what we already know, so what? We already know Wychek did those rapes. We already know I didnt shoot him. With what Toby Ringer told Davidson and I trust him, even if you dont were never going to have to prove either one.

She tapped a cigarette out of her pack. Didnt offer me one. Snapped her lighter into life before I could move.

And if Tobys gone in the tank, double so what? she said, not looking at me. If they force us anywhere near a trial, well prove both. Steamroll those punks in the DAs Office like fresh asphalt in August.

I just sat there, silent.

Im not going to prison, Burke. Its over. Everythings over.

She blew a harsh jet of smoke into the night air. I appreciate all you did, she said, looking away. But theres no more for you now.

Didnt that prove anything to you? Laura said. She was lying on her stomach, both hands around the big tube of KY she had taken from under the pillow. Before the handcuffs.

Is that why you did it?

Maybe.

To prove what, exactly?

That I would do things for you. Things I wouldnt do for anyone else.

I think you know, I said.

Know what?

You know Id never hurt you. What you said, a while ago, about trust? If you didnt trust me, you wouldnt use those

I trust you now, she said, softly. That first time, I couldnt know. Not for sure. It was a risk. A chance. I was frightened. But it was time, and I knew it.

Time?

I always know when its time to do something, to make the move, she said. Thats my gift. Thats what I do. So thats me.

Im going to be gone for a couple of weeks or so, I said, much later that night. Setting the stage for my fadeout.

Really? To where?

Out to the coast. Theres a couple of interviews I need to do for the book. And my so-called agent claims hes got a couple of meetings set up, with a production company that specializes in TV pilots.

You dont sound very excited about it.

Im not. Ive had those kind of meetings before. But since I have to be out there anyway . . .

Youre here now, she said, tongue flicking against my chest.

When are you leaving, exactly? she asked, looking up from a bowl of grains and nuts she was breakfasting on. The sun slanted against the far wall of the kitchen, but it didnt reach where we were sitting.

I dont have a flight yet. Next couple of days or so. I have to pack, make arrangements for coverage at the paper. . . . A trip like this, you never know how its going to play out. If I come up with something dynamite, I may just

Did you ever hear of StandaBlok Machine Tools? she said, stopping me in mid-sentence.

No. Is it one of your

It was a small operation, not so very far from here. You know the area around Liberty Avenue? Anyway, its out of business now. The building they used would be just perfect for a conversion like this one. The only thing is the neighborhood.

Sooner or later, theres no neighborhood in New York that wont be worth money, I said, reciting the conventional wisdom.

Thats what I think, too. But for now its just an abandoned building. After vandals broke all the windows, it got boarded up and padlocked. Tight. Nobody goes there now.

All right, I said, just to fill the empty space between us.

The day after tomorrow, I have to go there. Alone. At midnight.

What for?

To meet my brother, she said. Do you want to come?

What she told me was, Wychek called her at work Monday afternoon. He asked her for a safe place where they could meet. Said he wanted her to choose it, after what happened last time.

That building she told me about? Shes got the key. The way she was talking, I figure she already owns it. Or a piece of it, anyway. Some development deal.

All Wycheks got to do is make sure hes not followed. If he told her the truth that nobody knows where he is now shouldnt be any problem for him.

And she wants to just bring you along? Michelle asked. Like a little surprise?

No. What she wants is just for me to stand by, close. Once she meets him, shes going to pitch the idea of him doing the interview with me. For the book. If he says okay, shell call and wave me in.

No chance you make that dance, son.

Thats true, Prof. But she cant know that.

Why does she do it, then, mahn?

Shes gotten more and more . . . I dont know the word for it. She keeps trying to prove something to me. Like if I thought she was for real Id . . . be with her, I guess.

So you think all this cloak-and-dagger is so she can say, I tried, honey? Michelle.

You tell me.

Well, she is a woman. And having a freak in your family doesnt make you one, my little sister said. We all know that song. By heart.

Guy down here, boss.

Seen him before?

Yeah. The lumberjack.

Let him pass, Gateman.

Im in.

In what, Mick? I asked.

What youre doing, he said, his glance covering all of us, seated around the poker table.

Its over, I told him. Like Wolfe said.

I dont think so.

You looking to join for the coin? the Prof asked suspiciously.

Theres only one thing I care about in all this, Mick said, eyes just for me. Same as you.

Nobody said anything, waiting.

And I dont trust the fucking feds, Mick said. Same as you.

Thursday, 3:22 a.m. The building was two stories of solid brick, standing squat and square, as if daring anyone to ask it to move.

By the time we finished offloading, the Prof had seduced the lock.

We left him just inside the door, cradling his scattergun. I led the way up the stairs, a five-cell flash in one hand, a short-barreled .357 Magnum in the other. Clarence was just behind me, to my right. As soon as we cleared the area, Max and Mick brought up the gear.

Except for a thin film of interior dust, the place was immaculately clean, as if a former tenant had swept up before moving on.

We set up camp on the top floor. Clarence started to unpack methodically. Max and Mick went around making sure we had more than one way out. I took care of setting up observation posts, carefully using a box cutter to make eye-slits in the blackout curtains we hung behind the boarded windows.

No people, no food, and its nice and warm out, the Prof muttered, looking around. So the miserable little motherfuckers got business elsewhere. The Prof hated rats.

By daybreak, we were ready to start sleeping in shifts.

I say he gets here first, the Prof whispered to me.

Michelle put the padlock back in place behind us, I said. And only the sister has the key.

What times the meet?

Midnight.

I got a century to a dime the cocksucker gets here by eleven-thirty, minimum.

I was still considering the offer when Max slapped a ten-dollar bill on top of one of the duffel bags.

Pssst!

You got him?

Got somebody, mahn. This scope makes everything green, but its a man, walking.

Alone?

Yes, Clarence said. Closing now.

The Prof snatched Maxs ten and his hundred off the top of the duffel bag in one lightning move. Then he and the Mongol took off downstairs. Mick was already there, waiting.

Thirteen minutes later.

Youre not feds, Wychek said, despite my dark-blue suit, white shirt, and wine-colored tie. If being stripped, handcuffed to a pipe, and surrounded by the men who had choked him into unconsciousness and carried him up the stairs frightened him, it didnt show on his face.

Good guess, I said.

And youre not with . . .

With who, John? I said, pleasantly, not a trace of urgency in my voice.

Oh no, he said, lips twisting in a stalkers smile.

When did you last take your medication, John?

Just before I What difference does that make?

You know why I asked, I said, very softly.

I dont

Ssshhh, I said, soothingly. Were already here. You know what that means.

If anything happens to me

Nothings going to happen to you, John. But we wouldnt be here if we didnt know who else was coming.

She doesnt have it, he said, smoothly. She doesnt even know where it is.

One of those is a lie, John. Maybe, maybe it was true that first time, on Forty-ninth. But its not true now. Not tonight. So, the way we see it, all we have to do is wait. Soon as she shows up, we wont need you anymore.

The feds know where I am. If anything

You said that already, John. Thats why we took your clothes. To make sure you didnt have any way to stay in touch.

Wychek watched me blank-faced, same as he had watched dozens of social workers and therapists and cops and prison guards for a lot of years. His other face only came out under a ski mask.

He hadnt been carrying a cell phone. No tape recorder, no body mike.

But he had his straight razor. And a roll of duct tape.

I walked around in a little circle, as if I was making up my mind. Finally, said, You want to know what this is about, John? What its really about?

Yeah. Because if you think

Its about money, I said, moving closer to him. And youre going to

Clarence stepped into the room, chopped off my speech with a hand gesture. I followed him out of the room, over to where he had an observation slot.

A silver Audi TT convertible pulled up to the front of the building. Its headlights went out. Just as Laura Reinhardt opened her door, I caught a flicker of movement at the edge of the lot.

I gestured to Max and the Prof, pointing two fingers down, forked. They took off.

Big SUV, Clarence said, watching through the scope. Coming on.

Ill cover you from up here, I said, and went back to where we had Wychek trussed up.

This is so you dont hear or see whats going on, I said, a doctor explaining a medical procedure to a nervous patient. Just breathe through your nose, I told him, very softly.

Do not panic, I cautioned him, just before I fitted a set of sound-canceling earphones in place. Were all going to be busy for a few minutes. You have yourself a seizure now, its your last.

I slapped a couple of turns of duct tape around his mouth, then dropped the black hood over his head, with another quick turn of the tape to hold the earphones in place.

I heard the downstairs door open.

A flashlight blazed downstairs for a half-second. Then it went out.

The SUV was a moving brick, black against the gray night. It came to a shadowed stop about fifty yards from the building. The front doors opened, and a man climbed out of each side. No light went on inside the truck.

Can you see anyone still inside? I asked Clarence.

It looks empty, mahn. But someone could be on the floor.

All right. She should be out of the way by now. Go on downstairs. Remember, if there has to be any

I know, he said, threading the tube silencer into his nine-millimeter.

I lost sight of the two men just as they entered the building. I moved over to the top of the stairs. Looked down. Shadows inside shadows.

The front door opened. Closed.

A blast! of sudden light.

Freeze, motherfuckers! the Prof barked.

I heard a harsh grunt. Then the puffft! of a silenced handgun.

The broad strolls in. Max takes her from behind, same as he did the freak. She goes right out, never saw a thing. We wait for the two guys following her. As soon as they come in, I light them up, give them the word. One raises his hands, the other goes for his steel. Clarence cut loose, and

Wheres the sister now?

Sleeping, the Prof said. I gave her the hypo the Mole put together. One shot, he said shell be out for a few hours. Wake up with a bad headache. Be all fuzzy, too, like coming out of a bad dream. Thats why he needed you to tell him how much she weighs, get the dose perfect.

Weve got two men, I said. One in the room next door, one upstairs. No way to know if the guys in the SUV had backup

Not in their truck, they didnt, Mick said, telling us he had gone out to make sure.

 but they both had cells. Dont know if theyre supposed to call in, how much time weve got. . . .

Got to pick one and run, son.

Yeah, Prof. I know.

Which one?

Wychek knows where. But the guys who came in after Laura, they know why, I think.

We came for the green, the Prof said, settling it.

The man was in his late forties, tall and rangy, with leathery skin. In the soft light from the candle, his eyes were colorless.

Im not with them, he said, in that calm, deliberate voice people use when theyre trying to keep an unstable person calm. Im a professional. Freelance, just like you, am I right? No reason for anyone to get wild, now. Just tell me what I have to do to walk out of here, and its done.

We want the money, I told him.

Sure. Give me the book, and you can name your price.

Just like that?

Just like that. It would have been just like that if that fucking Yusef didnt have to play with his toys.

Thats what took Wychek out the first time?

Yeah. Could I have a cigarette?

The Prof fired one up, held it to the mans lips. He inhaled gratefully. Thanks. Im the same as you, okay? A professional. I get hired, do a job, get paid. Only they dont trust outsiders, so they sent that degenerate psycho along with me.

Yusef?

Right.

He came with you tonight? Hes the one?

Yeah. Like I said, hes one of them. You had the drop on us, cold. Stupid asshole must have figured he was going straight to Mecca, the tall man said, deliberately distancing himself from the dead body at the foot of the stairs. After what he pulled the first time, I couldnt believe theyd ever send him again.

The first time? You mean with the girl in that apartment on the Lower East Side?

Right. Fucking sicko. They told me he hooked her up to a car battery. He kept jolting her, but she kept telling the same story.

And later they found out it was the truth.

Not from her. Or from the other one, either. Fucking scumbag morons dont know from interrogation. All they know is torture. It wasnt until Wychek contacted them that they knew for sure.

He took the book from her apartment? After he raped her?

Right. When she found it was gone, she panicked. I dont blame her, seeing what happened.

She couldnt tell them anything but the truth.

Right. But they didnt know it was the truth until Wychek started holding them up for money. That was when he was in the joint. By then, it was way too late for her. Fucking half-wits outsmarted themselves. They figured, even if they got busted themselves, nobodyd ever think to look for the book in some white girls apartment.

She was the girlfriend of one of the?

If you mean, was she fucking one of them, yeah, I guess. But that wasnt why they let her hold the book. She was one of them. One of those rich little revolutionaries, you know what I mean? Like shopping isnt enough of a thrill for them anymore, so they need to go liberate the downtrodden masses.

The contempt in his voice invited me to join him, but I didnt say anything, waiting for him to fill the silence. Maybe me holding Wycheks straight razor helped.

At first, the little weasel didnt want that much, the mercenary said. I handled everything for them. I was the bridge man to get him that protection contract.

From the Brotherhood.

Right. You know what happened next. Fucking Wychek steps it up. He wants a lawyer. Okay. Still within budget. And by then they knew he hadnt turned the book over to anyone. So they figured, Wychek gets out, they can deal with him.

He gets out, all right. Only what he wants is a lot of money. Now, these sand nig He pulled himself up short, segued intoassholes, they got the money, without missing a beat. They got all kinds of money. But instead of just paying him, they decide to get cute.

Yusefs got this little pistol. A twenty-five. Custom job. Between the suppressor and the reduced-powder hand-loads, it looked bad enough, but it wouldnt kill a fucking cockroach. Yusef promises them, no electricity this time. Hell use fear. Figures, he puts a couple of rounds into Wychek, it wont kill him, but itll scare the shit out of him, make him give up the book.

And thats what Yusef does. He pops Wychek a couple of times. Then he puts the piece right between Wycheks eyes, tells him Last chance, and . . .

Wychek goes out.

Yeah. Fucking Arab assholes. Yusef swore Wychek didnt have the book on him. Stupid amateur. He was too busy searching the body to check and see if Wychek was even still breathing.

The tall man took another hit off the cigarette the Prof was holding for him. After that, theyre in a panic, he said. In case Wycheks got backup you know, someone he left it with. But the book never surfaces, so they start to breathe easy.

All of a sudden, theres that story in the papers. That Wychek didnt die. And they got this woman charged with shooting him. But Wycheks supposed to be in a coma, and theyre not worried about him talking. Then, a couple of weeks later bang! they get another call. Wychek himself. Hes out of the coma. And he still wants to sell them the book. But now, behind what happened, he wants the money in front.

I didnt say anything, watching the play of candlelight on the razors edge underline the reality of his situation.

They figure, pay him, okay? the tall man said. But they also figure he makes copies, right?

I would.

Sure. Look, you got the book now. And youre not some sick-fuck amateur, like him. I could get them to go a flat million, for real. All cash. Or gold, if you want it that way. Any drop you say.

Then Im in the same place he is, I said. On the spot. And I dont even know whod be looking for me.

If youd ever looked in the book, youd know, man. Those camel-jockeys put it all in there. Names, addresses, phone numbers, codes . . . the whole thing. Most of them are still in place. Once they realized Wychek wasnt going to do anything but hold them up for money, they got cocky. Theyre sitting ducks, man. One call, you could take them all down, he said. They have to pay.

The tall man was reciting his credentials. A mercenary to his core, keeping it real. One man-for-hire to another. Whatever was in the book he was talking about, his own name wouldnt be. In the sociopaths moral compass, true north is always in his mirror.

We understand each other, right? the tall man said. Im the same as you.

I looked over to the Prof. He shook his head.

Were a lot smarter than the Arabs were, I told Wychek. If we wanted, we could keep you alive a long time. Long enough for you to tell us whatever we need.

I deliberately stepped back a couple of paces, to lower the threat-level.

But I got a better deal for you, I said. Fifty-fifty. Thats fair. Come on. You should have hired people like us in the first place. You know what happens if you go anywhere near those psychos yourself. This way, we collect the money for you, split it down the middle. What do you say?

How do I know I can trust you? he asked, eyebrows raised above his reptile eyes.

You can trust us to hurt you bad, if you make us go that way. Go the right way and you walk, with half of the score. Call it a commission.

He didnt say anything.

We dont have much time, Mick said to me, tapping his wristwatch.

Right, I said, catching his rhythm. Were up against the clock now, I told Wychek. So the way it works is this: no answer from you is a no answer, understand?

I started counting inside my head. I was up to seven when he let out a long, thin breath. My sisters bringing it, he said. It was in a safe-deposit box. Only has her name on it. Her married name; not mine. I told her to go and clean out the box.

Shes bringing me my . . . other stuff in a suitcase. But the little book, youd never find it, he said, twisting his lips into something like a smile.

Just tell us

I ordered her to carry it in her cunt, Wychek said. In a Ziploc. She knows how to do it. As soon as she gets here, just bring her to me and Ill

I drove Laura Reinhardts Audi back to her place. My cloned card opened the gate. I put her over my shoulder in a firemans carry and took the stairs. Moving slowly, the .357 in one hand.

When she woke up, she would find herself in her own bed. Alone.

I looked down at her. Feeling . . . I wasnt sure what.

I never meant to hurt you, Laura, I whispered, gently adjusting the blanket, touching her body for the last time.

The book had been where Wychek had promised. Boasted. You were just another casualty, I said. Thats the way it is down here. The way it has to be. Im sorry.

I kissed her beneath one drug-closed eye. And went out the way Id come in.

The newspapers said three bodies had been discovered inside a Ford Explorer in the swampland near JFK Airport. All three were charred beyond recognition. The Moles package would have been enough on its own; but when the fire hit the gas tank, the whole vehicle had just about vaporized. The police said it was an obvious gangland hit, a message of some kind. The Queens DA promised that those responsible would get the maximum sentence.

Wolfe probably never even saw the papers. She had been somewhere off the Maine coast for the past few days. On a little sailboat, with Pepper and Bruiser.

Pepper had made all the arrangements. Used Wolfes credit card to rent the sailboat. And the car that they drove up in. And the motel where they stayed.

Peppers a real friendly girl. Wolfes mostly standoffish. But lots of people saw them. Pepper had some of them take their pictures, the three of them together, for souvenirs of their vacation.

Whenever the coroners office got around to doing the autopsy, all they would have to work with was bones. But if they looked close enough, they would find three .25-caliber slugs rattling around in whatever was left of Wycheks skull.

You know what was in what you gave us? the man asked. I knew him only as Pryce, and I hadnt seen him in years. Not since the last-minute abortion of a plot to blow up Federal Plaza by a leaderless cell out of the White Night underground.

We had planted my brother Hercules in that cell. For him, it was that or go back Inside, forever.

They had ringed the downtown building that housed everything they hated from the IRS to the FBI with trucks stuffed full of enough explosives to level the ground down to zero. The drivers thought the plan was for them to set the timers and run, but the boss hiding in the van outside the blast zone held the real detonator. He was still holding it when a close-up blast from a girl he thought was a hooker shattered his neurons.

The pure-white sheep were still in their trucks when Pryces crew went into action. A surgical strike. Only one was left at the end. And when he was clued into what the real plan had been, he sang a canary aria that thinned the rest of their herd, big-time.

Hercules walked away. I dont know where he is now. But I know where hes not.

The last time I saw Pryce, he was holding out his hand for me to shake. Im gone, he said quietly. None of the numbers you have for me will be any good after today. And I wont have this face much longer, either.

I took his hand, wondering if the webbed fingers would disappear, too. Watched the muscle jump under his eye. Id know that one again.

Im gone, too, I had promised him.

If my new face threw him, it didnt show on his new face. The fingers of his hands were still webbed. The muscle still jumped under his eye. I wondered what he still saw in me.

I couldnt make any sense out of it, I lied. Just enough to know youd be interested.

It was all pre-Nine/Eleven stuff, he said. There were a hell of a lot more people involved than anyone ever imagined. Weve been making arrests like there was no tomorrow. True-believers and freelancers, theyre all going down.

Its hard to think of

What, Americans working for them? You know the kind of money theyre throwing around? The little princes learned from what happened to the Shah. They eat peacock tongues off gold plates while the rest of their country dies of malnutrition. All the secret police in the world wont keep them safe from their own people. They know they cant stay on their thrones unless they provide a shunt for all the pressure building up, a bleed-valve for all the anger and hate.

Pryce shifted posture, as if his spine hurt, but his pale eyes stayed chemical-cold. You think those people wiring up their own children and sending them into crowded markets in Israel are revolutionaries? Wake up. Theyre fucking flesh-peddlers, selling their kids for the bounty. Its the most lucrative form of child labor ever invented. You know what the bounty is up to now? Fifty grand. Fifty thousand dollars, for people who dont know what an indoor toilet is. For people whose other kids are going to grow up to be cannon fodder, anyway. The car-bombers, the one-way pilots, the . . . For all of them, whos putting up the money? Not the terrorists themselves, my friend. The little princes who finance them.

I didnt say anything. What could I?

Its been more than two years since the World Trade Center, Pryce said, softly. I guess the scumbags thought they were safe in their little sleeper-cells. They knew, if wed had that book, we would have rounded them up a long time ago. So, therefore, we didnt have it, see?

Yeah, I said, nodding. And the case against Wolfe

Its gone, he assured me. And its never coming back. One of the bodies in that truck they found out in Queens? It was Wychek.

Really?

Really, he said, no expression on his new face. That book, it was what he was holding over . . . the agency. Thats why they gave him

I dont care.

But if you got the book from . . . ?

I didnt get the book from him, I said. And thats the truth.

Why did you just hand it over? Pryce asked me, his eyes everyplace but on mine. You had to have some idea of what it could be worth. Youre a merc yourself. How come you didnt try to make some kind of a deal? When you reached out for me, I thought that was what you were angling for.

Its not true, what they say, I told him. You know, that everyones got a price. I know people like that. I was raised with them. Ill never be a citizen. But Ill never be them, either.

Mayday! Hauser, on the phone.

I met him an hour later, in the park across the street from the Appellate Division courthouse.

I was in Atlanta, on assignment, he said. Just got back. Turns out, a while back, a woman came to my house in Westchester. It was about four in the afternoon, right after school. My wife was at her Wednesday tennis lesson. One of the kids answered the door. Long story short, when she left, she knew damn well that youre not me.

She saw a photo of you?

More than that, he said, ruefully. Ive got great kids. Theyre proud of their father. So, when a woman shows up and says Daddys getting an award . . .

When was this?

I dont know exactly when, but it was a while back, only I just now found out about it, Hauser said, impatiently. Kids, they forget things. . . .

Images of Laura Reinhardt flooded my mind. They turned slowly, like a roulette wheel near the end of its spin. I watched as she built her business model as meticulously as she had her bottle tree.

With her own hands. Unrestrained.

Some kids do, I told Hauser.

Then I hung up. On all of it.

A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Andrew Vachss has been a federal investigator in sexually transmitted diseases, a social services caseworker, a labor organizer, and has directed a maximum-security prison for youthful offenders. Now a lawyer in private practice, he represents children and youths exclusively. He is the author of numerous novels, including the Burke series; two collections of short stories; and a wide variety of other material, including song lyrics, poetry, graphic novels, and a childrens book for adults. His books have been translated into twenty languages, and his work has appeared in Parade, Antaeus, Playboy, Esquire, the New York Times, and numerous other forums. A native New Yorker, he now divides his time between the city of his birth and the Pacific Northwest.

The dedicated Web site for Andrew Vachss and his work is www.vachss.com.

ALSO BY ANDREW VACHSS

Flood

Strega

Blue Belle

Hard Candy

Blossom

Sacrifice

Shella

Down in the Zero

Born Bad

Footsteps of the Hawk

False Allegations

Safe House

Choice of Evil

Everybody Pays

Dead and Gone

Pain Management

Only Child

The Getaway Man

THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK

PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF

Copyright

Š 2004 by Andrew Vachss

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto. Distributed by Random House, Inc., New York.

www.aaknopf.com

Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Vachss, Andrew H.

Down here / Andrew Vachss.

p. cm.

e-ISBN 1-4000-4299-2

1. Burke (Fictitious character) Fiction. 2. Private investigators

New York (State) New York Fiction. 3. Rapists Crimes against

Fiction. 4. Public prosecutors Fiction. 5. New York (N.Y.) Fiction.

6. Women lawyers Fiction. I. Title.

PS3572.A33D68 2004

813'.54 dc22 2003058860

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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