Footsteps of the Hawk

"Did it easy," I told her.

"How much money we make?"

"Mama, we didn't make any money. The whole purse was only a thousand dollars and— "

"So! A thousand dollars. How many investors?"

"No, Mama, that's not the way it works, okay? We have to pay the training expenses…like for the use of the gym and all. And we have to keep getting Frankie money so he can pay his rent and eat and all. This isn't any part–time gig with him— he has to be in training all the time. He's gotta go a long way before we can start taking money out."

"But what if he wins championship? That is worth millions, yes?"

"Sure. But that's a long dark road to walk. And it's booby–trapped too— if he keeps winning, the other guys won't want to fight him. You need connections to move up in that business."

"Boxing is crooked?" Mama asked, as though shocked by the very possibility.

"Sure. The big thing is, you gotta know people, understand?"

"Oh yes, understand. I know people too." She smiled.

I shook my head sadly. Mama knew money was the grease that lubed the gears of government, but she was used to Hong Kong style, where a bought politician stayed bought— that kind of honorable corruption doesn't play down here. "It's pretty tricky, Mama," I told her.

"Oh, okay," she said happily. "You fix it, yes?"

"I'll do my best," I promised.

I explained what I needed from Max, but he acted like I wasn't coming through clearly. I tried to change channels on him— he wasn't going for it. He kept it up until I signed we could go up to the gym….All of a sudden, he was reading me perfect.

I wasn't sure Frankie would be back to work so soon after last night's fight, but as soon as I spotted Clarence at the door, I knew he was.

"We got another bout. Two weeks," the Prof said, watching Frankie spar against a big, flabby Latin guy. The gym was quieter than usual, most of the fighters watching the action in the ring. Frankie wasn't as quick as you'd think for his size. He was only a few pounds over the cruiserweight limit, but he slogged along like an out–of–shape heavy. The Latin guy was leaning all over Frankie, smothering him with his bulk, crowding away Frankie's punching power.

"Give him angles!" the Prof screamed. Frankie stepped to his left, dropped his left shoulder, but instead of the left hook the Latin guy figured was coming, Frankie looped his right hand over the top, catching the Latin flush on the chin. The Latin guy grinned to show he wasn't hurt, opening his hands wide to invite Frankie in. Frankie accepted the invitation…and stopped in his tracks when the Latin flashed a quick left to the heart. Frankie's knees trembled, but his body kept moving forward. Both fighters were still punching when someone rang the bell.

The Prof stepped to one side of Frankie, me to the other. "That's enough rounds for one day," the Prof said to the kid. "Three is the key."

"One more round, blanquito?" the Latin yelled across the ring.

"What's that mean?" Frankie asked.

"Means 'pussy,'" the Prof said before I could tell the kid the truth.

Frankie came off his stool, gloved hands fumbling with the chin strap to his protective headgear, pulling it off his head. He spit out the mouthpiece halfway across the ring. "Come on, bitch!" Frankie shouted.

The Latin launched off his stool, spit his own mouthpiece to the floor as the crowd started cheering. He was probably forty pounds heavier than Frankie but his hands were faster. He caught Frankie two quick ones to the face— blood blossomed around Frankie's mouth, his teeth flashing white underneath. Frankie drove the bigger man backward with a relentless barrage of punches, finishing with a vicious shot just below the belt. The Latin went down cupping his groin. Frankie loomed over him, right hand cocked, not retreating to a neutral corner. Half a dozen people jumped into the ring, but Max was first, throwing his body between Frankie and a pair of Latins who wanted to pick up where their pal had left off. Max wrestled Frankie back to his corner, and then out of the ring entirely. The warrior kept his grip on the kid, walking him over to a bench against the far wall.

Clarence dabbed at Frankie's face with a rag that smelled of peroxide.

The kid was breathing easily, but his eyes were still wild. "Nobody calls me a— "

"He didn't," I interrupted. "Blanquito just means 'whiteboy.' It ain't no gesture of respect, true enough, but it's a long way from 'pussy.'"

"So why'd the Prof— ?"

"To see if you went lame when they called your name, fool," the Prof said over my shoulder— I hadn't seen him come back.

"You got to— " the Prof started, then stopped when he felt Max's paw on his shoulder. The warrior stood in front of Frankie, making sure he had the fighter's attention. Then he pointed at me, flattening one hand so he could sign without the kid seeing what he was doing. Max made one of the few universal gestures, the kind that you don't need either sign language or speech to understand— he gave me the finger, hidden behind his other hand. Then he nodded rapidly and stood back. Max and I were facing each other so Frankie was looking right between us.

Max held up his index finger. One. Then he nodded at me again. I shot Max the finger— he responded by cowering, covering his face as if in terror. After a few seconds, he shook his head from side to side. NO.

Max held up two fingers. Two. He nodded at me. I repeated the finger gesture— Max leaped forward, snarling, perfectly miming a man out of control. Then he shook his head again. NO.

Then Max held up three fingers, but this time the warrior turned to face Frankie flush, extending his right arm as far forward as it would go, one finger pointing out from his closed fist. Then he did the same with his left arm, two fingers pointing out in that direction.

Max took a small step backward, bringing his two hands together in a flowing gesture of harmony. When his hands were precisely in the middle of his body, he crossed his wrists, holding three fingers out from each hand.

"You get it?" I asked Frankie.

"I…think so. He's saying it's no good to be afraid when you fight. And no good losing your fucking temper either."

"Right. Max is telling you about being centered. It's somewhere between the two. A peaceful place. You use the adrenaline, see? But your mind is calm…like the eye of a hurricane. You can't get mad in a fight— it knots your muscles, slows you down, stops you from thinking."

"You know how to do that?" the kid asked. "What with him teaching you and all?"

"He only told me, Frankie," I said. "He didn't teach me. The best teacher in the world can't help you if you're not ready to learn."

"You was a fighter?" he asked.

"Schoolboy could hit a little bit, back when we was inside," the Prof conceded reluctantly. "But he just put up a show— he wasn't no pro."

Max thrust his way forward, searching Frankie's face. The kid returned his gaze, calm, not aggressive. Max smiled. Bowed.

The kid bowed back.

I sat next to Frankie, asked: "Last night, just before you touched gloves, what'd the other guy say to you?"

"Said he was gonna fuck me up." Frankie grinned.

"What'd you tell him?"

"Told him he was too late."

I watched the fighter's face. Caught the fineness of his bone structure, the slightly off–center Roman nose, the blue eyes with their little deep dots of banked fire.

Fuck, I thought to myself, maybe the kid could make it happen.

I was at the corner of Canal and Mulberry by four–fifteen in the morning, the Plymouth safely docked, me alone in the front seat, a cellular phone at my side. I always hated the damn things— they work off radio waves and too many geeks stay up nights in their rooms, monitoring the phone traffic the way they used to eavesdrop on CB radios. But the Mole told me he had the whole thing wired so they all worked off the same encryption device. If your unit wasn't keyed to the encoding, all you got was static when you tried to listen in. We had four of the phones, passed them around on an as–needed basis. We didn't worry about the billing either. All you need is the serial number of a legit phone— any phone, it doesn't matter. Then you can reprogram the chip in your own phone to match that serial number…and some chump gets a bill he can't begin to explain. The Mole does it all the time, switching them every few weeks. There's a guy who works in an electronics store in Times Square. What he does, he checks the numbers on the new phones, before they're even sold. Takes him a few minutes, and he gets fifty bucks for each one. Pretty stupid to be an armed robber these days— there's so many easier ways to steal.

Canal and Mulberry is a border crossing— Chinatown to one side, Little Italy to the other. The border is constantly shifting, with the Orientals taking more and more territory every year. It was still a bit early for the Chinatown merchants to open up, but I knew they were busy behind the closed doors.

Time and people passed, at about the same speed. I know about that— in my life, I've killed some of both. I learned something too— killing time is harder.

The cellular phone purred. I picked it up, said "What?" in a neutral voice.

"Here she comes," the Prof said. "Walkin', not talkin'."

The Prof was stationed on the northeast corner of Broadway and Canal. If you looked close, all you'd see would be another soldier in the homeless horde of discharged mental patients that blanket the street in the early–morning hours, grabbing those last few minutes of peace before they had to go to work. Some of them vacuum garbage, looking for return–deposit bottles. Some beg for money Some threaten for it. There's still guys who try and clean your windshield with dirty rags. And there's those who don't know where they are. Or why.

Belinda was a few blocks away. On foot. And alone, far as the Prof could tell. Okay.

I spotted her before she saw me. A medium–sized woman who looked shorter than she was because of her chunky build. Wearing a baggy pink sweatshirt over a pair of dark jeans, white running shoes on her feet, a white canvas purse on a sling over one shoulder. She walked with a beat cop's "I can handle it" strut, hands swinging loose and free at her sides, chestnut hair tied behind her with a white ribbon.

I slipped out of the Plymouth, closed the door quietly, the cellular phone in my jacket pocket. Then I crossed the street to intersect her path. She saw me coming, waved a hand in greeting.

I closed the gap between us, eyes only on Belinda, as if I didn't even consider the possibility she wouldn't be alone.

"Hello, stranger," she said, flashing a smile.

"We can walk it from here," I replied.

A puzzled expression flitted over her face. Then she shrugged, holding out one hand. I took it— a soft, chubby hand, the pad of her palm a deep, meaty slab.

We walked along in silence for a minute, not in a hurry. Couple of lovers coming home after a late–night downtown party, it might look like.

The question was: who was looking? If the cellular phone in my pocket rang, I'd know we had company— maybe Max can't talk, but he can punch numbers on a keypad. And in this part of town, he was even more invisible than the Prof.

"I tried— " she said.

"Later," I told her, tugging just a slight bit on her hand. She came along, not resisting.

The loft was on the third story of the building on Mott Street. I know Mama owned the whole building— that story about renting it as a crash pad for visitors was just her way of maintaining the façade. You ask Mama, she'd tell you she was poor, didn't know what the hell she was going to do in her old age. I used the key she lent me to open the downstairs door, made a sweeping gesture with my left hand to show Belinda she should go up the stairs ahead of me. She put a lot into the effort— hard not to admire those fine flesh–gears meshing. A woman who can't look good climbing a flight of stairs doesn't have a chance on level ground.

At the second–floor landing, I made the same gesture…and watched the same way. The stairwells were lit with low–wattage bulbs in little wire cages— just enough to see by.

On the third floor, we came to an orange steel door with some Chinese characters painted in black in a narrow band down the left side. I used the downstairs key to open the door, ushered her inside.

"Good morning," a lyrical voice greeted us. Oriental, with a faint trace of a French accent. Immaculata was calmly seated in a straight chair of black lacquered wood standing between a matched set of end tables of the same material. She was dressed in her Suzie Wong outfit: red silk sheath with a Mandarin collar, slit all the way up to mid–thigh, dragon–claw fake fingernails in a matching shade, heavy stage makeup. If Belinda was like most Europeans, she'd never recognize Mac's face if she ever saw it again.

"Good morning," I greeted her, bowing slightly.

If Belinda was taken aback, she gave no sign, standing silently to one side.

"Come with me," I told the lady cop, walking across the gleaming hardwood floor to a closed door. I opened that door, and Belinda followed me inside.

"Have a seat," I told her, gesturing toward a black leather easy chair. She sat down. So did I, in a matching chair a few feet away Nobody ever really slept here. Mama had designed the negotiation suite herself— no one could gain status by claiming a certain piece of furniture— every piece had its twin.

"The reason I— " she began.

"Don't say anything yet," I stopped her. "Just listen, okay? Don't waste my time. This isn't about a date. I may not know who you are, but I know what you do. For a living, I mean. And I know this much too: you're a woman. A prideful woman. This was about a date, you would have stopped calling a long time ago."

"It was, at first. Then I— "

"Let me finish, tell you what the rules are down here. I don't do auditions for the police, understand? You want to talk, I got to know you're the only one I'm talking to."

She made a face, tossed her canvas purse over to me, and crossed her arms into a good imitation of a push–up bra. I stood up, walked over to a flat table in the corner. The table was covered with black felt. A telescoping wand held a white quartz bulb. Mama's guests used it to examine jewelry— it would work just as well for this.

I took a pair of thin white cotton gloves from a flat drawer inside the examining table and slipped them onto my hands. Then I emptied the purse onto the table and flicked on the observation lamp.

First, a chrome cylinder of lipstick— Rose Dawn, it said on the bottom. I uncapped it, cranked the soft pink tube all the way out, shook it to see if it rattled. No.

Next, a dark–brown leather folding wallet. Inside, an NYPD gold shield— a detective's badge. The photo ID confirmed it.

A ring of keys— looked like car, apartment, couple of others…storage locker maybe? safe–deposit box?

Some crumpled bills, less than a hundred total. Subway tokens. A pair of sparkling earrings for pierced ears— probably CZ— no way to tell without a jeweler's loupe.

An orange pencil–stick of eyeliner.

A blue steel .38. S&W four–incher. I popped the cylinder, turned it upside down to catch the cartridges as they spilled out, set them aside.

A cellophane packet of tissues, half–empty.

Three condoms in individual foil packs, lubricated.

A brown plastic vial with a child–proof top— no label. I tapped the contents into my palm. No mistaking the telltale green–and–white capsules even without the name and dosage on each one— Prozac.

"How many of these you take every day?" I asked her, holding up the vial so she could see what I was asking about.

'Two," she replied in a flat voice. "One when I get up, one around noon. Okay?"

I nodded. It was the right answer— a forty–milligram dose was the usual maintenance weight, and you shouldn't take that stuff before you go to sleep. Whatever was depressing her, she'd had it for a while. Had it deep.

A picture postcard showing a sandy beach, palm trees, a smiling golden–skinned little girl waving at the camera, naked from the waist up. On the back, in a childish scrawl: "You should have come with us!" Signed: "Love, Gaby. From Baby Beach, Pattaya."

A notebook with a white vinyl cover, complete with attached ballpoint pen. I leafed through it. Nothing but names and phone numbers— I didn't see mine. In the back of the notebook, a calendar. None of the dates were marked.

I put everything back, tossing it in the way I'd found it. "It looks okay to me," I told her. "But what we're gonna do, just to be safe, I'm gonna put this in a box. Outside the room. Come on, I'll show you.

She followed right behind as I went back into the main room, where Immaculata waited. The box is about the size of a thirty–gallon aquarium only it's made of steel. I opened the lid to show her that the walls were a couple of inches thick. The lid itself was padded too. I dropped her purse inside, closed the lid, and threw a toggle switch on the side of the box. A red LED glowed.

"What's that mean?" Belinda asked.

"It means that it's working. Even if you had a recorder inside the box, all it would pick up is interference noise, understand?"

"Yeah!" She grinned. "Pretty slick. You do this kind of thing a lot?"

"Enough," I told her. No point explaining why Mama had a use for such devices in her various businesses.

I walked back into the room I was using, closed the door behind her.

"Okay," I said. "That takes care of the purse. But there's one more thing…That's why Rosita is out there."

"Rosita? The Chinese woman?"

"Her mother was from Brazil. Dad from Macao," I said, embroidering the lie to give it some texture.

"Oh. So what…?"

"You go in the other room. With Rosita. And you take off your clothes. All of them. You leave the clothes there— she'll give you a robe to put on. Then, when you come back in here, I'll know you're the only person I'm talking to. See?"

Belinda stood up, started walking over to me, hauling the pink sweatshirt over her head in one motion. Underneath she had on one of those workout bras, black jersey with X–straps across her back. She unzipped the jeans, tugged them down over her hips. Then she bent forward from the waist, untied each sneaker, pulled them off, stepped out of the jeans. Her panties were the same black jersey material as the bra, only their waistband was white.

"This far enough?" she challenged.

"No," I told her. "You sure you don't want— ?"

She lifted the bra past her breasts, pulled it over her head in one flowing motion, and dropped it on the floor. Then she hooked her thumbs in the waistband of the panties, pulled them all the way down. She stepped out of them with one foot, used the other to hold the puddle of black and flicked it away with a half–kicking motion. Her body was thick, muscular, breasts rounded but not meeting in the middle, stomach slightly washboarded. Her thighs looked as hard as marble. She stood without a trace of self–consciousness, eyes on mine.

"You want the socks too?" she asked, a sarcastic smile on her face.

"Yeah."

She stood easily on one foot, pulled off one white sock. Did the same with the other. Then she held her hands high over her head, turned slowly one full rotation. A port–wine stain showed on her right hip, a dark mole under her left shoulder blade. Her buttocks were wide and deep, with a sharply cut definition just where they met her upper thighs. It was the first thing Clarence had noticed about her…the last good thing.

"Seen enough?" she asked.

"It's not about seeing," I told her: I took the white cotton gloves off, put them aside. Then I sprinkled some baby powder over my right hand and pulled on a latex surgeon's glove. I slapped a tube of K–Y jelly on the tabletop, looked over at her, waiting. Bright circles of red broke out on her cheeks. "You— " she started to say.

"I'm not playing," I said quietly. "Someone's gonna check. You want me or you want Rosita?"

She spun on her heel and padded out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

I was halfway through my third cigarette when the door opened again. Belinda entered, wearing a jade silk kimono. Immaculata was right behind her, nodding to me that it was all clear.

"Sorry about that," I said to Belinda as she sat down, pulling the kimono closed around her breasts with one hand. "I had to be sure."

"You're a very cautious man, Mr. Burke," she said, tossing her head to throw some of her chestnut hair out of her eyes.

"But not a disrespectful one," I replied, warning her. "Now, tell me what you want."

"Could I have one of your cigarettes first?"

I stepped over to where she was seated, handed her the pack. She shook one loose, put it in her mouth. I snapped a wooden match alive, held it down to her. She dragged deeply, holding the kimono closed tightly in front of her. I could feel her eyes, checking where I was looking— not where she'd guessed. Didn't know if she'd recognize where I was looking— if you haven't looked there yourself, you wouldn't recognize it— the middle distance.

I put a small milk–glass ashtray on the arm of her chair, went back to where I'd been sitting.

She puffed on the cigarette like she expected more out of it than she was getting, eyes slitting slightly from the smoke. I watched those eyes— watched for that nobody's–home flatness. I didn't see it.

"There's a man," she said slowly "An innocent man. He's in prison— for a crime he didn't commit. I want to get him out. I want to set him free."

"Hire a lawyer," I told her, uninterested.

"He has a lawyer. A good one. Raymond Fortunato. Maybe you know him…?"

"I've heard of him," I said, not giving anything away Fortunato was a mob lawyer, specializing in disappearing witnesses and juiced juries…not the guy you'd want if you needed a strong appellate brief. He cost too. Cost big.

"It was a one–witness ID. Not the victim…a woman who lived in the same building. She said she saw him going out of the apartment."

"After he did what?"

"He didn't do anything. That's what I'm trying to tell you."

"Spare me the violins, all right? You want to play it cute, that's okay. But tell me what happened to the victim."

"She was murdered."

"Ah."

"Not just murdered," Belinda said, leaning forward, forgetting about keeping the kimono closed. Or maybe not. "She was splattered. All over the walls."

"Shotgunned?"

"A razor. A straight razor."

"The woman on University Place. About a year and a half, two years ago?"

"Yes. You read about it in the papers?"

"Sure," I replied— it was close enough to the truth.

"She'd been raped. First. Then the killer…cut her up."

"And they made a homicide against this guy with nothing more than somebody seeing him coming out of her apartment?" I asked, letting an organ stop of sarcastic disbelief creep into my voice.

"There was more…I guess. His…fingerprints. But he said he knew the woman— he'd been inside the place before. A few weeks before. When he picked her up. In a bar. Right around the corner.

"And…?"

"And there was a…'signature.' At least that's what they called it."

"If they were talking signature, there had to be more than one."

"That's just it! They didn't have more than one. Just that woman. They didn't have any more until…"

"What was the signature?" I interrupted, trying to get her focused.

"A piece of ribbon," she said. "Red ribbon. Nothing special. The kind you could buy in any dime store."

"And the killer left this with the woman? On her body? What?"

"He left it…inside of her."

"And they found some of this ribbon when they tossed this guy's place?"

"Yes! But it's a common type— you can get it anywhere. It doesn't mean anything by itself."

"Sounds shaky to me. What happened, the jury didn't buy his story?"

"He didn't get to tell his story. He didn't have Fortunato then, he had a Legal Aid. He had priors."

"But not for sex cases?" I asked her.

"No."

"What then?"

"Assaults, like. He was…crazy, once. He was 730'ed out years ago. They said he tried to push a woman onto the subway tracks."

Every working cop knows about 730 exams. The court can force any defendant into a psych evaluation, not to see if he's crazy— that wouldn't be any big deal— but to see if he's competent to stand trial. "If he was found unfit, they couldn't use that later," I said.

"I know," she answered. "That was only that one time. But there were a couple of other times too. And then he was found guilty. On other things. Before he went into the hospital. But he's been okay for years. Years! There was a perjury rap too…something about a corporation he was in charge of…I don't know too much about it."

"So what makes you so sure he was bum–beefed on the homicide? He don't sound like any prize package to me."

"Since he's been away…there's been other murders…two others. But he was never charged with them…how could he be?"

"Two more murders?"

"Two more murders. Two women. Both raped. And, listen, both with the same signature. So how could— ?"

"Copycat crimes," I interrupted.

"Burke, the signature, it never made the papers."

"A red ribbon…"

"Inside them," she said, watching me steadily, hands on her knees.

"So why don't you…"

"I can't," she said flatly. "I can't do anything. The other murders, they're in an open file. You ask the detectives who caught it, they'll tell you it's still working. They've got two homicides. Linked, you understand? You know the way the Department does it— three all–the–same crimes, it's a Pattern Case. Three big crimes, then the papers give the guy a name…like the Silver Gun Rapist or the Subway Stalker or some other bullshit thing. And then the fucking brass calls a press conference and appoints a task force, just so the public thinks we're serious all of a sudden."

She was good at it, mixing truth in with the lies, making you swallow the whole pie if you wanted a taste. "When did these others happen?" I asked.

"Why?"

"Just tell me."

"The first one was right after he was arrested. Maybe two, three weeks later. The next one was a few months later. Before he came to trial."

"So why didn't the Legal Aid— "

"They didn't know, I'm telling you! By the time I found this out, he was already sentenced."

"So tell Fortunato. He can subpoena— "

"Burke, I did. I did that. And you know what he found when he looked in the file? Nothing! Not a thing. The whole business? About the red ribbons? It was gone. Wiped out. Far as NYPD's concerned, it was different guys, understand?"

"No. I don't fucking understand. Why go to all this? I know how the Man works…They pop some chump for one burglary, they throw every damn Unsolved they got on the books at him, right? He pleads to the whole mess, they go light on the sentence, everybody's happy. But they can't do that here— the crimes happened after he was inside, right? No way he got bail on a rape–murder."

"That's right. He didn't make bail. And I don't know why they're doing it— I just know that they are. And I know George didn't do it."

"George?"

"George Piersall. That's his name. I know…a lot about him now."

"Because…"

"Because I've been visiting him," she said, tilting her chin up defiantly. "At the prison. In New Jersey. I told him— "

"Hold up a minute. If the crime took place here, how come he's locked down in Jersey?"

"For assault," she said, her head cocked, listening to my breathing, checking if it changed. "Sex assault, all right? It was across the river, just the other side of the Tunnel. At a truck stop. The…victim was a hooker. She said George took her to a motel. That's where it…happened."

"So she saw him, right?"

"No. I mean, she couldn't make a positive ID. It was a shaky case. The woman was buzzed at the time, on downers, before it…happened. And she had a long sheet herself. Extortion, badger game, you know?"

"Yeah, but how— ?"

"He pleaded guilty, all right?" she said, her tone somewhere between hostile and defensive. "He had a lousy lawyer. And they offered him a plea bargain. He only got three years. The lawyer told him he shouldn't gamble on the trial. He'd be out real soon that way— it wasn't worth the risk."

"So…?"

"So… no murder, no red ribbon. But after Jersey nailed him, then New York got brave and charged him with the murder on University Place. He waived extradition. I mean, he knew he didn't do it, so…"

"But he was— "

"Yes. Convicted, like I told you."

"What'd he get?"

"He got it all," she said, chin tilted up again, this time like she was ready for a fight. "The Book. Twenty–five to Life."

"So when he's done in Jersey…?"

"That's right. They slapped a detainer on him. When he wraps up in New Jersey, they're going to bring him over here. Forever."

"So you go over there to visit him? What'd you tell him?"

"I told him the truth— that I was investigating the cases. He was glad to see me. He'd be glad to see anybody now."

"He knows you're a cop, right? Didn't he think you were working him for more evidence?"

"We got that straight in front. I told him, if he wanted me to really look into it, he'd have to do something for me first— take a lie–detector test."

"You got that done? Inside?"

"Sure. His lawyer got a court order. And you know what? He passed. With flying colors, the examiner said. He's the wrong man. And the right man, he's still out there."

"Go to the papers," I suggested. "Hell, go to one of those trash–TV shows. They'd be glad to jump on it. Nothing they like better than a man falsely accused of rape…unless it's an innocent child–molester."

"I tried. They don't care…One of them told me psychopaths pass polygraphs all the time. Without the red–ribbon evidence, it's nothing."

"Look, I…"

"I want you to do it," she said, her eyes aiming somewhere above mine, stitching a line of rivets across my forehead. "Find the killer. That's the only way George's going to get out. I talked to a couple of private eyes. They both said they weren't going to take on NYPD— they were on the job once themselves. And they know what would happen. Those guys live on leaks— they go ahead on something like this, the faucets all get turned off, you understand? You know how hard it is to work without a friend on the force? You need somebody to run a plate for you, check a file, all that stuff. You work PI too, right? Off the books, I know. No license, all that. But I can fix it. Fortunato says anyone can work as a PI if they're working for a lawyer. He says it would be okay for you to be working for him. He'd cover for you and everything."

"It's not my kind of thing," I told her.

"There's money. Real money. George has a trust fund. He's got nothing to spend it on now."

"I'm not interested," I told her in a door–closing voice.

She sat back in her chair. Straightened her spine, took a breath. "Are you interested in what Morales is trying to set you up for?" she asked.

"I don't know any Morales," I shot back, lying with the natural smoothness of a man who learned it— had to learn it— when I was just a little kid.

"Yes you do," she said. "I know you do–and I know he's got plans…plans for you."

"Still doesn't ring a bell," I told her. "And what's in it for you, anyway?"

"An innocent man— "

"I look that pure fucking stupid to you?" I interrupted. "You want me to buy this 'justice' bullshit, you can tell your story walking."

She took a deep breath. My eyes never left her face. "It's…personal, okay?"

"I don't give discounts for personal, " I told her. "You don't want to tell me the truth, you take the risk, understand?"

"Just take a look," she said, leaning forward. "One look, okay? Let me show you what I've got. You'll get paid. Just for that, you'll get paid. And if you do it, win or lose, you'll have a friend on the force, how's that?"

A friend on the force— where had I heard that before?

"I'll ask around," I told her. "No promises. One week. A whole week. And I don't leave the city, understand? Just cover the old tracks down here. Costs you five grand. Say Yes or say No."

"Yes!" she breathed at me, so happy she almost popped right out of the kimono.

After Belinda left, I sat and smoked a sociable cigarette with Immaculata, waiting to hear where the lady cop went once she left the building. I wasn't worried about her marking the loft— I'd never be there again in life.

"What did you make of her?" I asked Mac. It wasn't a pass–the–time question— Immaculata had been a superb therapist for years…and a survival expert since the day she was born.

"There's something… coarse about her," Mac said. "I can't put my finger on it. Not yet, anyway— I'd have to see her a few more times."

"Coarse…?"

"Yes. That's the only word I can think of. When I…examined her, she acted…I don't know…flirtatious? When my finger was inside her, she…responded in some way.

"Maybe she's gay?"

"I don't think so. Even if she was, the circumstances were so clinical, you wouldn't think…It was more as though she was trying to test me in some way."

"She's a cop. You know how they always look for a weak spot— it's their nature."

"That wasn't it. I can't tell you more than what I said. It's too…muddled. But she has that one–note–off thing— you know what I mean?"

"Yeah."

"Something else. It may mean nothing, but…"

"What?"

"In the pocket of her jeans, she had a little flat metal box. Like aspirin used to come in, remember?"

"Sure. And…?"

"And inside the box, there was maybe three inches of clear Scotch tape. With a paper tab on the end. You know what that could be?"

"A fingerprint kit," I told Mac. "You never took the gloves off around her?"

"Never. And I never took my eyes off her either."

"Good."

"Are you going to— ?"

"I don't know yet," I lied, segueing into "How's Flower?" to get her off the subject.

"She is quite wonderful," Mac said formally. "She loves school, especially art— she draws all the time. She can imitate Max's chop perfectly."

"I know. I saw her do it once, when Max brought her over to the restaurant."

"Yes. Mama is already concerned about a proper match for her when she is old enough."

"That's jumping the gun a bit, isn't it?"

"Oh yes." She smiled. "But you know how Mama is— she thinks Flower will need a dowry,can you imagine?"

"Sure. Mama thinks you can't get anywhere unless you pay your way. I guess she's not so wrong, when you think about it."

The phone in my pocket buzzed. I pulled the flap open, said "Go."

"The cop didn't make no stops." The Prof's voice. Belinda had gone straight back to where she'd started from, alone.

"Can I drive you back over to your place?" I asked Mac. "I'll stay awhile," she said. "There's another way out of here— through the basement. And I want to change first. If she has people around, they won't see anything."

"Thank you," I said, bowing slightly.

"You are my brother," she replied.

Halfway through talking to Belinda, I knew who I needed for this one. Morelli was off the set now. After years and years at ground zero, he'd finally hit it big. A hardcore reporter from the old school, his copy was always gold, and he's been covering the Mob for so long they probably ask him for advice. Anyway, he wrote a book and it caught fire. He's been on the Holy Coast for a while now, tending the harvest.

But a pro like Morelli doesn't move on until he's trained some new recruits. J. P. Hauser was his choice. I remember when Morelli first told me about him.

"I ask him, go over and see this guy, supposed to be an informant, staying in some rat–trap over in Times Square," Morelli told me. "This guy, his story is that he's got a bad ticker, so he wants to make his peace with God, give me all the inside dope on a muscle operation Ciapietro's 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. Years ago, it used to be Cutty Sark and Lucky Strikes. Now it's red wine and he doesn't smoke at all. What the hell, at least he doesn't drink mineral water and pay his bills over a modem.

"Okay, so, a few hours later, I get this frantic call from the informant. He's screaming blue murder. Said JP goes up there, tosses the place worse than any parole officer ever did. JP, he takes the serial number from this guy's clock radio, looks at the labels in his coat, checks his shoe size. Then he whips out one of those blood–pressure things…you know, the kind you slip over your finger? Wants to see if this guy's really got a bad heart, you ever hear anything like that? The kid doesn't just take notes, he's got a tape recorder. And another tape recorder in his pocket too, just in case. Makes the guy go over his story a dozen times, out of sequence, backwards, you know, the whole bit. The federales could take lessons from old JP I mean, the man takes it all. He's a fucking vacuum cleaner, you understand? He's gonna pull the dirt out until they pull his plug. I fucking love this kid."

I worked with Hauser myself a couple of times since Morelli split. Any twit with a street thesaurus and an active imagination can write a newspaper column— but Hauser, if he's got a God, it's The Facts. And I learned this much about him too: he's got a set on him so big that, if you added one more and painted them gold, you could hang them over a pawnshop.

Early on a Sunday morning, I figure Hauser's probably at home. He lives on Central Park West, somewhere in the Nineties. But he keeps a dump of an office in the garment district. Doesn't matter where he is— I know how his phone system works.

I drove up Eighth Avenue until I found a parking space a few blocks south of Port Authority. I slid in and punched the number into the cellular.

"You have reached the voice mail of J. P. Hauser," the tape said. "Leave a number and a time to call. I'll get back to you."

I waited for the beep, hit 333 on my phone, waited again. Another beep–tone. This time I hit 49. Waited again while the phone rang.

"Burke?" Hauser's voice came through.

"I got something," I told him. "Meet you…where?"

"How about my office? Give me half an…no, make it forty–five minutes, okay?"

"You got it," I said, and cut the connection.

That's one of the beauties of cellular phones— you call from where you're supposed to meet someone, you're already there— no time for the other guy to set up a welcoming committee. Not that I distrusted Hauser, but if I let my old habits die hard, the same thing could happen to me.

I was at the curb when I spotted Hauser through the windshield. He's medium height, with reddish–brown hair and a trim beard to match, but it was his walk that drew my eyes. He was coming fast, like he always does. You stop to smell the roses in this neighborhood, you'll need a stomach pump.

I climbed out of the Plymouth, fell into step with Hauser. He used his own key to open the outside door— the security guard doesn't work weekends. Not a big loss either. One time I came to see Hauser during the week, signed the register "Deputy Dog. The guard never looked at it. Never looked at my face either.

We went up in the freight elevator, stopped at the fourth floor. Hauser unlocked his office and we both went inside. He walked around turning things on. As the screen on his computer was blinking into life, he pulled a couple of sheets of thermal paper out of his fax machine, glanced at them once, tossed them in a wire basket on his desk. He sat back in an old green leather swivel chair behind his desk, tipped his hat back on his head, said, "What's the story?"

To Hauser, that's the meaning of life.

I moved some files off the couch onto the floor and took a seat. Lit a smoke. Hauser didn't move, didn't reach for a notebook, didn't do anything. Okay, I called the meeting— it was my move.

"You know about a guy called George Piersall?" I asked.

"Sex killer," Hauser replied in his level newsman's voice. "He pleaded guilty to some kind of sex crime over in Jersey, then they charged him with a homicide in the Village. He came back to court here for that one. Rolled the dice, drew the max. So?"

"You follow the trial?"

"No. When it comes to rape, there's always the same three defenses: one, it never happened; two, she consented; three: SODDI. What's the big deal?"

SODDI. Some Other Dude Did It, That's a Legal Aid expression, but I figured Hauser could have pulled it from anywhere. It's Top of the Charts on Riker's Island— number one with a full clip of bullets.

"I'm not arguing about the Jersey one," I told him. "That's a closed coffin. But when it comes to the murder on University Place, I got someone who says Piersall's innocent."

Hauser raised an eyebrow, a classier version of a sneer, but I plunged ahead. "Not 'legally' innocent," I said, making little quote marks with my fingers, "innocent for real. This person says there was a signature to the murder…to three murders. A red ribbon."

"So there's a signature…Why couldn't it be Piersall's signature?"

"For the one on University Place, I guess it could have been. But I said three murders, not one. And this person says the other two happened since Piersall's been locked down. Same MO. Same signature."

"What's the punch line?" Hauser asked, leaning forward.

"The punch line is a two–parter," I told him. "One, the cops never released that piece of info, so it can't be a copycat. Two, the cops working the open cases, they're not looking backward, see? If they drop someone for the new crimes, it isn't gonna do Piersall any good."

"This…'person' of yours…how reliable are they?"

"I don't know. But I can tell you this much: the person is a cop. A detective, on the job right now."

"What's their interest in this?"

"Personal. At least I think so— I wouldn't swear to it."

"If you wouldn't swear to it, it has to be pretty shaky."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," I said, giving him a half–smile to show I wasn't taking offense. "The question is…are you interested?"

"What's in it for me?" he asked. An honest man's question in our part of the world.

"The usual, I guess. Whatever you reporter guys usually want. Exclusive this, exclusive that…you know."

"Will this…'person' talk to me? Even off the record?"

"Sure. I can make that a condition. Only I don't need to tell them what you do, okay? I can just say you're working with me."

"No," Hauser said. "It has to be straight up— the truth from the beginning. If they want to spring this Piersall, they have to know the media could be a help."

"Maybe. But they wouldn't just want a lot of noise made, you understand? It'd have to be the real thing."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning it was a stand–up conviction, far as I can tell. He's got a lawyer now. Raymond Fortunato."

"Oh," Hauser said, taking a breath. "It's like that, huh?"

"I don't know what it's like," I told him truthfully. "No way Fortunato's gonna do this without he gets paid. The person who came to me, they said Piersall has a trust fund. A nice–sized one."

"Well, I guess he can't spend it in prison, huh?"

I looked at Hauser for a minute, drifting back inside with my thoughts. Maybe he'd never really understand, but there's one thing about Hauser— he'd try like all hell. "There's plenty of uses for money behind the Walls," I told him. "There's a maximum amount you can have on the books— it's probably changed since I was inside, but it still won't be much. You can buy cigarettes with it. And you can trade a couple of crates of smokes for any work you want done, understand? You got money in there, you don't have to eat Mainline. If you're weak, or if you don't have a crew, you can buy protection. Enough cash, you can buy bodyguards. There's other things too: you can take care of the hacks— get them to look the other way when you have a visit…"

"So stuff could get smuggled in?"

"That, sure. There's sex too."

"You mean…other prisoners?"

"Yeah, some of them go on the whore inside. But that's not what I meant— if you're connected right, you can get it on right there."

"In the Visiting Room? In front of everyone?"

"Handjobs, maybe…I was talking about the real thing. They use the bathrooms for that. You take your visitor in there, do what you want. Inside, everything runs on juice— you got it, you can use it. Next time you read about a stabbing on Riker's Island, look close— you'll see it was nothing personal. Just turf strutting— mostly on the pay phones. Everyone's supposed to form a line, wait their turn. When your time's up, you're supposed to move on. You got cash on the books, you can pay for more time. And if that don't fly, you can buy some muscle, get you the same result, understand?"

"Yeah," said Hauser. I watched his face as he made mental notes. Hauser was an insatiable info–maniac— if it was out there, he wanted it.

"When you hear about a gun turning up inside, you can bet it was the guards," I told him. "Same for drugs, for serious weight, anyway— there's only so much stuff a visitor can mouth–carry. It's a special economy in there— the prices are real, real high. The guards, they're just people. Some of them go for the gold."

"You think that's what this Piersall may be doing?"

"I don't know." I shrugged. "It's too late for jury–juice now— Fortunato took it on appeal."

Hauser took off his glasses, polished them on a piece of cloth he took out of the pocket of his blue work shirt. His wrists were much thicker than you'd think from looking at his build. I saw a quick flash of a heavy steel chronograph as he polished. Without the glasses, his eyes had a harsh, tight–focused glint as he looked over at me. "Meaning he needs something spectacular…'newly discovered evidence,' like that, right?" Hauser said.

"Right," I agreed.

"So how come this 'signature' stuff wouldn't do the job for him?"

"According to this person, the one I spoke to, Fortunato subpoenaed the whole mess, files and everything. And there's no record of the red ribbons."

"The ribbons were tied around their necks?" Hauser asked. "You're saying some beat cop pulled them off?"

"No," I said, watching the reporter's eyes, now steady behind the glasses. "That couldn't be. See, the red ribbons, they were inside the bodies. Way inside. You wouldn't find them until you did the autopsy."

"Unh," Hauser grunted, half to himself. "So you're saying the ME's office is in on this?"

"I'm not saying anything," I reminded him. "It's this cop who's saying it."

"You know which of the MEs did the autopsies?"

"No. I don't have any of the paper. I guess I could get it. Or copies, anyway."

"You have a read on this? A personal one?"

"No. Me, I'm clueless. Somebody's playing, but I don't even know what the game is."

"Why me?"

"You're Morelli's legacy, right? I figure, you can check some places I can't go— I can go places you can't too. We put it all together, maybe I crack the case and you get a hot story," I told him, playing the PI role to the hilt.

"That's all?" Hauser asked, his face a study in skepticism.

"Everything," I promised him, back to lying.

"There's nobody you're protecting? Chips fall where they may?"

"You got it."

"And what we know, actually know, not guess …what we know is that this guy Piersall did something to some hooker in Jersey, pleaded guilty, and he's doing a short stretch for it, right?"

"Right."

"And he got tried for a sex murder here in the city, and he got convicted of that too?"

"Right."

"And there was a red ribbon inside the woman who got murdered…but not inside the woman who got beat up?"

"Yeah. Nothing inside the New Jersey woman, the only red ribbon inside the New York woman, the one who died."

"And you got a source inside NYPD that says there are two more sex murders…?"

"Right."

"With red ribbons inside both of them…?"

"Right."

"But that the ribbons don't show up on the autopsies?"

"That's it."

"So either the cop's lying, or someone removed the ribbons…?"

I just shrugged, waiting.

Hauser pretended to be thinking it over, but I knew it was no contest— he was a bloodhound, and he had the scent. Finally, he looked over at me. "I'll take a look," he said. "No promises."

"It's a deal," I said.

The first step was to check my back–trail. Belinda hadn't been wired— I could tell that as much by the dialogue as the body search— you could replay our whole conversation for a grand jury and I'd still be as safe as a Kennedy in Massachusetts. But it didn't ring true, none of it. Mojo Mary offers me sex after she got paid. And Belinda doesn't even flash a smile when it might have cut her some slack. I never worry about what side I'm on. It's always the same one— mine. Sometimes that side's in the middle…and what I care about then is staying out of the crossfire.

The obvious answer was a crew of cops, working me for those mad–dog homicides in the Bronx a couple of years ago. But they didn't have a thing on me. And I haven't carried a gun since.

Don't misunderstand. I'm not crazy— I know the guns didn't do the killing— I know it was me. The guns just made it easy. So easy. Shooting, it's a different head than stabbing, especially with a high–tech piece like the Glock I used that time, so silky smooth it was like squirting death out of a hose. Close–up work, that takes a different mind. It's messier, more involved. Riskier too. The drive–by boys, it's like playing a video game to them. Not real. Electronic beeps sound in their sociopathic minds. The targets they shoot, they aren't human— they're little two–dimensional objects. You hit one just right, it falls down.

Technology changes things— the closer it gets to the street, the higher the body counts. Today, when one high–school kid bumps into another in the hall, one of them says, "I'll see you after school." But it's not a fistfight they're talking about. Not knives or bicycle chains either. Today, even the worst wimp can deliver a full–clip message. It's techno–magic— bang, the other guy's dead.

But why would Belinda warn me about Morales if she was working with him? Besides, I couldn't imagine Morales working with any partner but McGowan. Morales is a surly, hair–trigger straight arrow— not the kind of partner anyone in NYPD wants. A fucking thug for justice, that's Morales. I'd always figured he had everything a good manhunter needs except for one thing…patience. But maybe I'd underestimated him.

I couldn't do anything until tomorrow anyway I stopped back by the office, grabbed Pansy and took off for the Bronx.

"You are surely one beautiful girl," Clarence said to Pansy, remembering her from a long–ago day in Central Park. Pansy doesn't understand words, but she reads tone of voice perfect— she rubbed her big head against Clarence's pants leg, purring deep. I left the two of them and went looking for the Prof.

"Sit down on those punches," the Prof was barking at Frankie. "This ain't no fencing match— drive those shots home. Come on!"

Frankie circled a thick–bodied black boxer in the sparring ring, stalking, not punching much. The other guy was so relaxed he looked almost sleepy, slipping Frankie's punches with practiced ease. Somebody rang the bell, and both fighters returned to their corners. The Prof was up on the ring apron in a flash, talking urgently to Frankie.

"You too light for the fight, boy? This ain't no aerobics class. Box the motherfucker, understand? Box him in. Punches in bunches, that's the ticket here. Now, go out there and dump that chump!"

Frankie nodded, never taking his eyes from the other guy, who was also seated, joking with his cornermen. When the bell rang, Frankie lumbered off his stool toward the center of the ring, holding out one gloved hand for the other fighter to touch. "This ain't the last round, stupid!" one of the black guy's cornermen yelled.

"It is for you, sucker!" the Prof shot back.

Frankie bulled his way forward. The black guy backpedaled to the ropes, leaned against them easily, his sleek upper body glistening with sweat as if to emphasize how slippery he was. Frankie fired a left hook, grunting with the effort, then doubled with the same hand. The black guy slid away, but Frankie's overhand right was already launched. The black guy turned his head and the punch caught him on the neck. He stumbled once, and Frankie was on him like spandex, legs spread, knees locked, pounding hard enough to drive railroad spikes. The black guy tried to clutch Frankie but he was too late— the uppercut lanced between their bodies— the black guy's eyes rolled up and he went down face–first. Frankie turned away and came toward his corner, exposing his wrists so the Prof could take off the gloves.

Nobody bothered to count.

Frankie was breathing hard on his stool, but I could see he wasn't exhausted, just pumped up. The Prof kept up a steady patter of reassuring nonsense— Frankie didn't seem as though he was listening. He hit the showers. The Prof came over to where I was standing.

"Boy hits like a jackhammer, don't he?"

"Sure does," I agreed. "It's like a switch goes off in his head."

"Yeah, that's the trick. That's what makes him tick. You trip that switch, he's one mean sonofabitch."

"You know where the button is?"

"No. Sure don't, son. I thought it was a race thing when we first got started. But when Frankie goes on full boil, I don't think he sees color at all."

"What, then?"

"I glommed his act, and that's a fact," the Prof said. "The kid would have been glad to have your father."

"I never knew— "

"Right," the Prof cut in, his tone closing the door. "Look, schoolboy, Frankie's about ninety percent hate and twenty percent mean, but he only goes off inside the ropes. At least, now he does."

"You think he's bent?"

"He ain't no saint, but that don't mean he's gonna start stomping citizens. I think he's okay. Far as I can tell, anyway."

"You got another TV fight for him?"

"Yeah. Over in Jersey. At one of the casinos. Another undercard thing, but the exposure's great."

"You got a minute, talk about something else?" I asked.

"We're off the yard, but I'm still on guard," the little man said. "Run it."

I was almost through the entire rundown when Frankie came outside to where the Prof and I had been sitting on the loading dock— it's not a good move to smoke inside a working gym.

"Am I…?" Frankie let his voice trail away.

"You're cool, kid," the Prof said. "Me and schoolboy here was just discussing old times."

"How far back do you go?" Frankie asked.

"To the beginning," I told him. "When I met the Prof, I was doing time. It wasn't a big thing to me— I'd been doing it all my life, since I was a kid. The Prof showed me the ropes, showed me how I could get out. Stay out, too. Before I met him, it was just the jail–house or the graveyard— that was my whole future."

"He taught you all that?" Frankie asked, his face close to mine, really wanting to know.

"More," I assured him.

"I was inside," he said quietly. "How'd you get past the…race thing? I mean, inside, you can't…"

"I come from a different generation," I said. "When I was inside, you measured a man by what he did on the bricks. What his fall was for, right? And how he did his time. That's what you looked at. I don't mean there wasn't racial stuff. You got that out in the World too— it's always around. But the Prof had…I don't know, status. He was respected. A professional. He was the only one to really look at me. The only one who could see what I was."

"It's different in there now," Frankie said.

"I know," I told him. "It doesn't matter— I'm not going back."

"Me neither," the kid said quietly.

"You was mad at that boy?" the Prof asked Frankie. "Your sparring partner?"

"No," Frankie said, honestly puzzled.

"Then what set you off?"

"I…don't know. It's always something. I see…colors, like. Bright colors. Not with my eyes, inside my head. When that happens, I feel the blood in me. Only it's not like blood, it's like…acid or something."

"It's okay," the Prof reassured him. "Inside those ropes you can do anything you want. Except lose. There's no room for that, honeyboy. You get jobbed on a decision, you get flattened, it won't matter— the blame's the same. You lose and we can still get you fights, but then you're just working for a living, getting beat on. I don't tell lies, we want the prize. The big thing, see? One real score, then we don't need no more.

"What would I do if I didn't— ?"

"Fight? Fuck, what do I care? Take up fishing, go into group therapy. Find a good woman and have a dozen kids. Join the motherfucking Peace Corps. It don't matter what you do, you'll have choices, see? That's what it's about. That's your trip ticket, Frankie. First day you walk out of the joint, freedom looks as fine as a brand–new Cadillac, don't it? But that kitty ain't going nowhere 'less you got the gas money, right? The honey's in the hive, son— ain't no way you get nice without paying the price. You with me?"

"Yeah," Frankie said slowly, nodding his head, a heavy lock of black hair falling over his forehead. He looked closer to sixteen than twenty–six.

"We fight this Cuban guy next," the Prof said. "Montez. Big stupid fuck, got a whole bunch of KOs against patsy setups. Fights like a schoolyard bully— looks for the fear in your face. And he can't hit backing up. But he's got a nice record, maybe eleven straight. We take him out, the next one's for real cash, see? Do him in one, and the deal is done, got it?"

"I got it, Prof," Frankie said.

"Go run your sprints," the little man replied, turning back to me.

"Sprints?" I asked the Prof. "I thought fighters did road work."

"That's all bullshit," he responded. "It ain't no marathon the kid's training for. He runs fifty yards full tilt, then fifty half–speed. Then he jogs for a couple of hundred, then he starts again. What you need in the ring is not to get tired, but this ain't no footrace— the other guy's hitting you, all right? Frankie's got to be able to go in bursts …full–tilt, all–out, pedal–to–the–metal. And he's gotta be able to do that every round. He does that and, sooner or later, the other guy goes to sleep. I been studying this all my life— I know what I'm doing."

"Did you ask Max— ?"

"I ain't asking that Mongolian misfit nothing , understand? I'm training a fighter, not a fucking Zen Buddhist."

"Okay, Prof, don't get worked up. I was just— "

"Flapping your gums," he finished for me. "How many times I saved your sorry ass, schoolboy?"

"Too many to count," I acknowledged.

"And now you come around asking me to do it again, right? And you're gonna give me advice? Fuck a whole bunch of that!"

"Hey, I'm sorry, Prof. I was just trying to help."

"You want to help, stay on the shelf. I'll handle Frankie."

"Okay," I surrendered. Then I went back to telling him about Belinda.

"What the fuck is that?" I heard a voice asking just as I turned the corner to the doorway area of the gym. I took another couple of steps and saw a Latin bantamweight with a kit bag in one hand. He was facing Clarence, who was seated at the front desk, one hand idly scratching behind Pansy's right ear. Pansy eyed the Latin like she had a taste for Mexican food, but she didn't make a sound.

"This is a pit bull, mahn," Clarence told him, straight–faced.

"There ain't no pit bull in the world that big," the Latin guy challenged.

"This is a West Indian pit bull," Clarence told him, embellishing the lie to give it texture. "Direct from the Islands."

"Damn!" the Latin guy responded. "You know where I could get one?"

"No, mahn, that is not possible. Listen to me now It is not enough that you go to the Islands, you must be from the Islands, understand? These are very, very special dogs…"

The Latin eyed Pansy dubiously, indecision all over his face. "You…fight him?" he asked.

"That is not done," Clarence said, his tone dead serious, not bothering to correct the Latin's gender error. "On the Islands, these dogs are not for fighting other dogs. We love our dogs."

"Yeah, but— "

"These dogs only fight people, mahn. Understand?"

"I guess…" the Latin said, walking past me, shaking his head.

I took a seat on the desk, looked at Clarence. "A West Indian pit bull?" I asked.

"I think that is probably true, mahn," Clarence replied, deadpan. "You see how royally she stands. You see the pride in her carriage. That is nobility, mahn. It does not matter where she came from, Pansy is a West Indian in her heart. I know this."

"Yeah, okay," I agreed, being reasonable.

But Clarence wasn't going for it. "I can prove it, Burke. You watch this. Watch close now." He reached into one of those little iceboxes that look like tool chests, came out with something that looked like a fat dumpling. Pansy immediately started salivating, eyes almost spinning with rapture. "May I tell her the word, mahn?" he asked.

I nodded. Clarence said "Speak!," tossing the dumpling in Pansy's general direction. She snapped it out of the air like an alligator— a perfect one–bite chomp.

"That, mahn, was a Tower Island beef patty. Pure Jamaican. I tell you something else, too. Pansy, she loves Red Stripe. You see, her natural diet is West Indian."

"You might be right," I acknowledged, not bursting his bubble. Truth is, Pansy would eat damn near anything— she has a digestive system like a trash compactor and no taste buds. I snapped the lead on her collar, threw Clarence the clench, and got back into the Plymouth.

I was up early the next morning. Called Mama from a pay phone. Two messages. One from Hauser, the other from Belinda. I dialed Hauser. "It's me," I said.

"I got into the morgue at the Daily News," he said. "Got all the clips, right from the beginning. When are you going to have the other stuff ?"

"Maybe today," I told him. "I'll call you back. Where are you gonna be?"

"My office," he said, and hung up.

Belinda grabbed her phone on the first ring, said "Burke, I was hoping— " before I said anything.

"Do you have the— ?" I asked.

"Yes! I went by your place earlier, but…"

"But what?"

"Maybe I went to the wrong address. I mean, it looked like it did before, but— "

"Where did you go?" I asked her, wondering what the hell she was talking about.

"The place on Mott Street. You know, the— "

"I. don't have a place on Mott Street," I told her quietly. "If you want to see me, use the telephone, understand?"

"Okay. I just thought— "

"That's enough," I interrupted. "You don't want me coming to your place, don't come to mine."

We made the meet for eleven, in the park behind the Criminal Court. That's where she wanted it— maybe out in the open so she could have her people watch better than they did last time. It didn't bother me. The park is really part of Chinatown— I could get the job done there too.

I walked up Broadway, past the giant Federal Building, which houses everything from Social Security to the FBI. The building's biggest business is Immigration— the hopefuls start lining up hours before the place opens.

On the wide sidewalk in front of the building, dozens of merchants had set up shop, selling everything from jewelry to perfume to bootleg videocassettes. Different kinds of food, pastries, fresh vegetables. Children's books, street maps, umbrellas. They were packed so close together it was hard to move along the sidewalk. All cash businesses, every single one. And right behind them, the IRS slumbered, unaware and uninterested, too busy terrorizing honest citizens to care about the outlaws.

Belinda was already there when I rolled up, sitting comfortably on a metal cross–brace to some permanent outdoor exercise equipment. The park is a monument to filth, full of pigeons rooting around for the take–out food tossed onto the ground every day. At night, the homeless take over. And rats replace the pigeons.

She waved when she saw me. Or maybe the wave was to tip off her backup— no way to tell.

I walked closer, changing my stride enough so she'd know I'd seen her. She bounced off the exercise bar, landing lightly on her feet. "Where's that big dog of yours?" she asked. "What's her name again…?"

"Betsy," I told her, not missing a beat. The difference between a professional liar like me and a garden–variety bullshit artist is that I always remember the lies I tell.

"That's right." She brightened. "Betsy. I really liked her. She liked me too, didn't she?"

"Sure did," I replied, doubling up on the lie. "You have that stuff with you?"

"In my purse," she said. "I thought we could go someplace. Inside. You live around here?"

"No," I said. "But if you do…"

"I'm not ready for that yet," she said, watching my face too closely.

I didn't push it. "I know a restaurant," I said. "It's a little early, but maybe it's open…"

"I'm game," she replied. "Let's try it."

We walked slowly through the twisting back streets, heading for Mama's. The white–dragon tapestry was hanging in the window, alone. Belinda's expression didn't change, like she'd never been there before. Okay. I opened the front door, ushered Belinda inside. Mama looked up from her cash register, asked "How many, please?"

"Just us," I told her.

"Sit anywhere," Mama said dismissively, going back to her ledger book. Anytime I come in the front door, she knows something's up. There's a button under her cash register. She pushes it and a light starts flashing back in the kitchen. A red light.

I led Belinda to one of the middle tables, staying away from my booth in the back. A waiter came out after a few minutes, silently handed us each a plastic–coated, fly–specked menu, the kind they give tourists. Mama has a lot of businesses, but selling food isn't one of them— the last thing she wants in her joint is repeat customers.

Belinda told the waiter what she wanted. He gave her a mildly hostile look, said something in Cantonese. "They don't speak English here," I told her. She finally pointed to the menu, ordered the #2 combination plate: pepper steak, fried rice, egg roll. The whole package cost $4.95, a bargain on the surface.

I knew what kind of bargains Mama served up, so I just ordered a plate of fried rice.

Belinda wanted a Coke— I asked for water.

The waiter left. I lit a cigarette. "At least he seemed to understand 'coke.'" Belinda smiled.

I nodded, editing out a half–dozen stupid comments I could have made. I felt the tip of Belinda's sneaker tapping at my ankle. It didn't feel like she was playing— or that she was nervous either. I kept my face empty, put my left hand under the table. Belinda met me halfway— handed me a thick envelope of some kind. I took it from her, left it on my lap.

The waiter brought the food, slapping it down on the Formica table with sullen indifference. I checked out Belinda's combination plate. The green peppers looked soggy, the steak was a suspicious two–tone chocolate color, age–ringed like an old tree. And the fried rice they gave her didn't resemble what was on my own plate.

Belinda didn't seem to notice. "I didn't have breakfast," she said by way of explanation as she dug into the food. I ate my rice in silence.

"Ugh!" she said suddenly. "This Coke is flat."

"This water's no bargain either," I told her.

"Why do you come here, anyway?" she asked.

"I live in a hotel," I told her. "No cooking facilities. Better the devil you know…"

She flashed another smile. "It's all there," she said quietly. "Some of the photocopies aren't that good— I didn't have that much time."

"I'm sure it'll be okay," I told her.

We finished the meal at about the same time. The waiter dropped a check on the table, face–up. It came to twelve bucks and change— bogus addition is another way Mama keeps her customers from coming back. I left a five and a ten on the table. Unless Belinda had the digestive system of a goat, she was going to pay her share later on that day. As we passed by the cash register, Mama said "Come again," with all the passion of an embalmer.

The envelope felt heavy in my inside jacket pocket as we strolled back to the park. Belinda let her hand rest on my right forearm, her soft rounded hip occasionally bumping me as we walked. "Are you already working on it?" she asked.

"Yeah."

"You want to tell me— ?"

"No."

"Okay, don't get hostile. We're on the same side, right?"

"Me, I'm doing a job," I told her. "We had a deal— I'm living up to my piece of it."

"Is that a subtle way of asking for the money?"

"It'll do."

"I don't have it," she said. I clenched my fist so the muscles in my forearm tightened, giving her my response. "But I'll get it," she finished quickly. "It has to come from…George. Like I told you, the— "

"Trust fund," I put in, just the trace of sarcasm in my voice.

"It's true," she said, in a pouty girl's voice. "You can check it out for yourself."

"What I want to check out is five thousand dollars. Like we agreed. One week, five C's, right?"

"Right. What I'm trying to tell you, if you'll just give me the chance to say something, is that I don't have it…but Fortunato does. I already spoke to him. You can go by his office anytime, pick it up yourself."

"He's gonna leave a package for me at the receptionist's desk?"

"Stop being so mean," she said. "He wants to talk to you— what's so strange about that?"

"Which means I got to call him, make an appointment, all that, right?"

"Well, I guess…"

"Guess again, sister. If you think I'm gonna work this job for you on spec, you need therapy. I work the same way Fortunato does. You know how it goes: money in front, all cash, no big bills. And no refunds."

"That's okay. I mean— "

"Here's what I mean," I told her quietly. "I already started this thing. And I still haven't seen any money. I'm not gonna spend a week chasing this lawyer. Call him. Tell him I'll see him today. Anytime he wants. But today, understand? I don't get the money today, I'm out of this."

"Okay, okay, okay," she spit out rapid–fire. "I'll call him. You'll get the money today, I promise."

"Not the money," I reminded her. "My money."

"Fine," she said with a sniff, taking her hand off my forearm. "Give me an hour. I'll leave you a message.

"See you around," I told her. I walked away, leaving her standing there. When I got as far as Worth Street, a pair of Chinese kids in matching red silk shirts under fingertip–length black leather jackets nodded an "okay" at me. I nodded back to show them I understood— I hadn't been followed.

I went over to my office, patted Pansy for a minute, opened the back door so she could get to her roof. Then I spread the contents of Belinda's envelope out on my desk. Everything was on that cheap flimsy paper they use in government copiers. Nothing but DD5s, the Complaint Follow–up form they use to keep track of investigations. Three women. Three bodies. All cut to pieces, first stabbed to immobilize them, then sliced for fun. Sex crimes for sure, every one of the women razor–raped. The report was in Cop–Speak: "On the above date, the undersigned Detective Oscar Wandell, Sh#99771 of the Manhattan Homicide Squad, entered the premises known as 1188 University Place Apt 9B at approx. 09:45 hours…" Whoever prepared it had just X–ed out any typos he saw— cops don't use Wite–Out.

All the homicides were south of Midtown, west of Fifth. All inside the victims' apartments. Somebody they knew? Bar pickups? No way to tell. All the victims were white. The youngest was twenty–nine, the oldest thirty–six. The killer was working a narrow band— maybe they were all targets of opportunity?

I took a yellow legal pad from the desk, started working on a chart. The dates synched with what Belinda had said: One of the murders— the woman on University Place— went down before Piersall had been popped over in Jersey. The other two came while he was being held without bail. No indication that the cops had linked the crimes in any way.

I went back to the different reports. Some were more detailed than others. One detective had really done a job— even included a diagram of the apartment's floor plan, an outline to show where the body had been found, an inventory of the victim's medicine cabinet. I checked the signature box at the bottom— I couldn't make a name out of the scrawl. But next to it was a box for the detective's name to be typed.

Morales.

Fuck!

Being in a box is bad enough— it turns to all kinds of holy hell when you don't know where the walls are. Or what they're made of. I folded up the reports, stuck them in my pocket and split.

I hit the switch for the garage door, nosed the Plymouth out onto the street behind my building. Once I got the car rolling uptown, I hit the cellular, reaching out for Hauser.

"It's me," I said. "Now a good time?"

"Very good," he said. "Come on up."

I couldn't find an open meter, so I settled for an outdoor parking lot. The attendant looked at the Plymouth with distaste, but he gave me a claim ticket without a word.

I knocked on Hauser's office door— he doesn't have a bell or a buzzer. He opened it quick, a phone with a long cord in his hand. Hauser motioned me over to the couch, made a "just give me a minute" gesture and went back to his conversation.

"Of course it's sourced," he said into the receiver. "No way I'd write it otherwise."

He listened impatiently to whoever was on the other end of the line. Then he said, "Look, here's the deal. I'll let you see the stuff, but there's no way you can talk to my source. You want to do it that way…okay. If you don't, I'll just— "

Hauser listened again, this time nodding his head in satisfaction. "I'll be there," he said, hanging up the phone.

"Great–looking boys, aren't they?" he said to me, pointing to a framed color photograph on the end table next to the couch.

"Yeah," I agreed. "Yours?"

"All mine," he said, a broad smile on his face. "The big one's J.A., the other one's J.R. You want to hear something absolutely fucking incredible," he went on without taking a breath, cluing me to one of those stupidass cutesy–poo stories all parents tell…like it's a big deal if their kid smeared jam on the wall or something. But I wanted something from him, so…

"Run it," I said.

"Okay. Last night, I'm reading JA a bedtime story. 'Goldilocks and the Three Bears.' Now, he's heard this one before, see, but it's one of his favorites. You remember how it goes, right?"

"Sure," I said, to prevent him from telling it to me.

"Okay, when you get to the part about the Papa Bear saying, 'Someone's been sitting in my chair,' J.A. pops up and asks me, 'How would he know?' I was gonna brush him off, finish the damn story so he'd get to sleep, but then he pipes up again. 'It's a hard chair, Dad. See? in the picture? So you couldn't tell by looking, right? So how would the bear know?' And it just knocked me out. You see it?"

"Yeah. The kid figured it out, right? How's a little girl gonna make a dent in a chair that holds a goddamned bear. That's amazing," I said, not lying now.

I guess a minute or two passed. Hauser was staring at my face. "What is it?" he asked.

"Nothing," I told him, shaking my head to clear it, feeling wetness on my face. Thinking about Hauser's kid being a genius so early, how Hauser adored that kid, how he must have hugged him and kissed him and been proud of him. Thinking about another kid, a little kid who questioned what he was told. Thinking about the vicious slap in the face, the ugly curses. Thinking…Ah, fuck this! I didn't need Hauser poking around in my life. So I pointed at his kids' pictures, asked him, "What's all those initials stand for?"

"Same as mine— nothing."

"You wanted to name them after you, how come you didn't just call one of them Junior?"

"Jews don't do that," he told me in a serious tone. "You only name a child after someone who's dead."

"Okay, I kind of knew that, I think. But I thought only Southerners named their kids with initials."

"There's Jews in Atlanta." Hauser smiled. "Now, how about showing me what you got?"

I handed over the reports. Hauser put them on his desk, pulled a few sheets of paper from his wire basket, laid them side–by–side with what I gave him. I smoked a couple of cigarettes while Hauser browsed around in the paperwork.

"Nothing here," he said finally, looking up from the desk.

"Nothing?"

"Nothing that would support the idea that it's the same killer."

"The signature— ?"

"There is no goddamn 'signature,'" Hauser said. "It's not there. Take a look for yourself."

He shoved the sheaf of papers across the desk to me. I sat down to read, then stopped as soon as I saw AUTOPSY centered at the top of the first page. "How'd you— ?" I asked.

His answer was a shrug, just a hint of self–satisfaction at the corner of his mouth.

The language of the reports was as cold as the corpses. They all ended the same way.

MANNER OF DEATH: HOMICIDE.

"Check where I marked," Hauser said.

Portions of the reports were covered with a yellow highlighter. But I didn't need it to pick out the red ribbon Belinda told me about— the woman on University Place had one stuffed inside her, just a little piece trailing out. But the two later ones— after Piersall was locked up— there was no ribbon mentioned. What the hell…?

"So this one woman, the one in New York, that's the only place they found the red ribbon?" I asked. "What about the one in Jersey— the one who survived?"

"They didn't need any red ribbon there, Burke. I did a NEXIS spin too. This cop pal of yours, he didn't happen to mention DNA, did he?"

"No," I said, already getting it, wondering if I could possibly be as stupid as Belinda must be thinking I was.

"The investigation they did— the one in Jersey, not here— they introduced DNA–fingerprinting evidence on top of the ID. The woman had enough of Piersall's flesh under her fingernails to make it open–and–shut. No question about it— they got the right guy"

"You're…sure?"

"A dead match," Hauser told me.

"So why wouldn't the ME report on the red ribbon in the other killings?"

"You got me, Hauser said. "It's the same coroner's office, true enough, but they used a different doctor for each one. I don't see anything suspicious in that— whoever's around, that's who gets to do it. And I read it close,too— no red ribbon, no trace of red fibers, no nothing."

"So there's no way this guy is innocent?"

"Not of the Jersey crime," he confirmed. "That DNA stuff is dynamite. I've been reading up on it. Even checked with an expert. There's some people in the forensics field who claim it can get screwed up pretty easy— wrong samples, not enough differentiation fields to work with, poor tagging procedures…all that. But the bottom line is that it's still being used— you got people being convicted with it every day— people getting out of jail with it too. They use it for paternity tests too–when the regular blood test isn't conclusive enough for the court."

"So you're off the job?" I asked him.

"Not a chance," he replied. "Something's going on here. Maybe not what you— or that cop friend of yours— think. But something. Let me know what happens, okay?"

"Yeah."

I called in to Mama's. "Same girl," she said, as soon as she recognized my voice. "No wig this time."

"It's starting to get messy," I told her. "Any other calls?"

"Lawyer call. Say his name: For–too–not–toe. He say, he have your material. Six o'clock tonight."

"Thanks, Mama. Nothing from the Prof?"

"No. Maybe busy with fighter?"

"Maybe. I'll call you later."

I ran through it in my head, showering and shaving on automatic pilot. Copycat crime, it's a fact of life. But most of the time, they copy the style more than the deed. There's no such thing as a first–time crime— humans have been on the planet too long for that. But once the media names a crime— like when the newspaper jerks started calling gang rape "wilding"— it becomes the hot ticket and every punk wants to play.

Take carjacking— nothing new about it except the name. But once the name catches on, the crime catches fire. It's all grapevine stuff: no way there's a nationwide group of mutants united in a giant conspiracy to hijack cars. It's a moron–move all the way— you risk life in the pen for a used car. But as soon as the media names it, the twenty–four–karat dumb–fuck imbeciles have to go and do it. Starts in D.C., spreads to New York. Then over to L.A., back to Chicago, down to Miami. You ask one of those idiots why they do it, they couldn't tell you. A whole battalion of sheep, following the herd, armed and stupid.

The latest craze is so totally retarded I almost couldn't believe it when I first heard about it— now they're robbing toll booths on the bridges. The G.W., the Triborough, the Whitestone…you name it. They just drive up to the booth, stick a gun out the window, and demand the cash. Incredible. Start with armed robbery, throw in a string of other crimes, and you're risking a dozen years Upstate before you can even dream about the Parole Board. All for what? A few handfuls of change and a bunch of tokens you'd have to sell at a discount. That's why prison never changes anybody— you can convince a man to be honest, but there's no way to make him smart.

Of course, the people who collect the tolls, they're demanding the right to carry firearms. There's a pretty picture— some self–righteous loon who watched too many cop shows blazing away in the middle of rush hour.

The real answer would be to eliminate the toll collectors entirely. They could train chimps to do it, but the chimps would probably get bored and swing off the job.

You see it everywhere. Somebody says they found a syringe in their can of Pepsi, next thing you know, tampered cans are showing up all over the country. Sure. Good thing they don't make you pass an IQ test before they accept you into prison— most of the joints would be empty.

A pattern crime, one with a signature, that's custom–made for copycats. That's a fact of life in this cancer ward of a city. But who could be copying something he never heard of…?

I finished shaving, still no closer to an answer. Time to go to work. I know how to look like a lawyer. All you need is a dark pinstripe suit, a dress shirt with a monogram on the cuff, any necktie that looks expensive. The younger breed goes more for the Italian look, more silk, more slouchy— the older guys stay closer to tradition. They wear their hair different too. The older guys go for blow–dried razor–cuts— the younger ones wear their hair longer, go heavy on the gel. They both display flashy wristwatches and leather attaché cases— slim ones, so they don't get confused with the 18–B guys, who have to haul files around with them. And the look is indispensable: superior, snotty, arrogant, with a distinctive weasel–tint to the eyes.

I didn't bother with any of that to go see Fortunato. He knows what I do. And I know what he is. I put on a pair of carpenter's pants over steel–toed work shoes. Then a black sweatshirt under an old leather jacket. Lots of pockets, lots of room…I didn't need an attaché case.

Fortunato makes most of his scores downtown, from the pits on the first floor of Centre Street to the tower in Foley Square, but he wasn't a Baxter Street type of guy— his office was on Forty–second, between Madison and Lex.

His name was in large gilt letters, standing guard over the double doors to the office. I stepped inside, into an empty reception area. The sliding glass window to the receptionist's desk was standing open. I reached my hand in and rapped on the top of the desk. A guy in his twenties came around a corner. He was wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His tie was pulled loose from around his neck. He looked pressured.

"Can I help you?" he asked, an undercurrent of annoyance in his voice.

"I'm here to see Fortunato," I told him. "Name's Burke."

He turned his back on me, walked away. He was back in a minute, said "Come in," and hit a buzzer to release the inner door.

"Last one on the left," he told me.

Fortunato's office was bigger than the whole reception area, a corner spot with two exposures through large windows. He was sitting behind his desk, a kidney–shaped monster— its left lobe held three separate telephone mini–consoles— the right had a smoked–plastic stack of trays loaded with various documents. The broad expanse in the middle was empty, gleaming like it had just been polished. I walked in, took the middle of three identical leather chairs facing the desk.

"You're Burke?" he said by way of greeting.

"Yes."

Fortunato leaned forward, elbows on the desk. He didn't ask for identification, didn't offer to shake hands. He reached into one of the plastic stacked trays, extracted a white envelope, held it in his hand for a few seconds. Then he slid it across the slick surface toward me. I caught it, pocketed it without looking inside.

"You have any questions?" he asked.

"The way I understand it, this guy was dropped behind some DNA fingerprinting, right?"

"That was one of the factors," he said cautiously. "There were others."

"So what's his play on appeal? How do you get around that?"

"An appeal isn't usually about the evidence," he said smoothly. "It's about the law, not the facts. Let's say the police find the murder weapon in the trunk of a guy's car. But let's say it was a bad search— no warrant, no probable cause. They can't use it in court, understand?"

"Yeah, I do. But they wouldn't need a warrant to take a blood sample."

"It's all in how you look at the evidence," he said. "The DNA…Wait a minute, are you saying they got DNA samples from the New York case?"

"Well…yeah, I guess so. I mean, I knew they had it in Jersey, and I thought— "

"There was no DNA taken from the body on University Place," he said flatly.

"None at all? How could that be?"

"Look, maybe you don't have all the facts here," he said, ticking off the points on his fingers. "One, the DNA they got in Jersey was a tissue sample, understand? From fingernail scrapings— the woman scratched, she fought hard. There were fragments of skin under her nails. Two, the woman in New York, the one on University Place? Her fingernails were smooth, like she just had a manicure. Nothing under them at all. Three, there was no sperm in the body."

"You telling me they found different DNA in the other bodies?"

"There were three bodies," Fortunato said, ticking them off on his fingers, one–two–three. His manicure was perfect. "Three murders," he said. "And all of them in New York. And the assault, the one in Jersey— I already explained that one, right? The woman on University Place— there was no sperm— they never made a match. The other two— the other two murders, I mean— there was no sperm either."

"You sure that's right? No sperm at all? Sometimes, a guy isn't a secretor…"

"I know that," he said, looking up sharply. "No sperm, period—that's what they found. And they didn't find any in the other two, the ones that happened after he was in custody."

"So let's say he didn't do the last two— hell, that would make sense. He was inside, right? But there's no question about the first pair."

"One of them," Fortunato corrected. "The one that lived. That'll stand up, no question. But the woman on University Place, he may have been in her apartment, he may have fucked her a couple of times— hell, he admits all of that— but there's no real hard evidence that he killed her."

"Sounds like a dead loser to me," I said. "What's the point? Without proof that the ME pulled the red ribbon out of the other bodies— and you gotta admit, that sounds ridiculous— you got nothing."

Fortunato shrugged, watching my face. "Sometimes," he said, "you take a case as a favor. Even if it doesn't look good. You never know what can happen…"

"Okay," I said. It was like I'd thought— if Fortunato had a scheme, it didn't have anything to do with the law books.

He reached behind him to where a shelf was built in below the window line, brought out a small wood humidor. He reached inside, took out a long dark cigar. "You mind?" he asked.

I shook my head. Shook it again when he turned the humidor in my direction, offering me one, He clipped the end of the cigar with a little silver guillotine, flicked a wafer–thin lighter into flame. He made a ceremony out of it, rolling the cigar in his lips, making sure it was fully lit. He finally got it going to his satisfaction, leaned back in his chair.

"You're an interesting man," he said. "I've heard a lot about you."

"People talk," I told him. "I don't."

"I understand. You have a very strong reputation…in some circles."

"And your point is…?"

"My point is that this job, it doesn't have anything to do with family business. You following me?"

"Sure,"

"Julio used to speak well of you," he said. I could feel his eyes through the cigar smoke.

"Used to?"

"He's dead," Fortunato said. "You didn't know?"

"How would I know? Was it in the papers?"

"Just a little squib," he said. "Old man sitting on a bench just off the water by La Guardia. Watching the planes come in, it looked like. Only his neck was broken."

I gave out a short grunt of surprise, with a question mark at the end.

"The cops have it down as Unsolved," Fortunato answered. "They never made an arrest."

"You want me to look into it?" I asked, flat–faced.

"No, that's okay," he replied. "We know who did it."

"Then you're telling me because…?"

"I just thought you'd be interested. I know you were tight with the old man once."

"Inside I was. I didn't see much of him once I was out."

He nodded as if that made sense. "Your record…it's long, but it's old. You ever think of going for a Certificate of Release from Civil Disabilities?"

"What's that?"

"It's like a pardon. Not really a pardon…I mean, you still have your record, but you can do things you couldn't do before."

"Like what?"

"Well, you could vote. Open certain kinds of businesses…he said, the sly hint of suggestion in his voice.

Telling me he knew about me owning a piece of Frankie? "How much does it cost?" I asked him, no sign of real interest on my face.

"Well, that depends. Different lawyers charge different rates. You know that. Me, I could get it done. Guaranteed."

"How much?" I asked again.

"I could do it as a favor. No charge."

"That's too high a price," I told him.

He took another hit off the cigar, blew a perfect smoke ring toward the ceiling. "The offer's still open," he said. "You change your mind, let me know. Anytime."

"I'll do that," I told him.

On the way back to my office, I tried to put it together. Fortunato as much as told me he knew I was involved in Julio's murder. Was he threatening me, or offering me a way out?

I wasn't afraid of Fortunato. Inside his pretty office, he was strong and confident, but he was only a messenger— he couldn't deliver the payload. A mob lawyer might get involved with homicide for money, might even set it up, but he wouldn't do the work himself. Guys like that, they stay between the lines, trying to widen them by pushing from the inside.

But Julio…it was a long time ago. A family quarrel the newspapers called a Mob War. One side hired Wesley, and Wesley got it done, delivering the bodies like he always did. But then Julio's crew stiffed Wesley on the fee, and Wesley starting taking them out, one at a time. Julio, the old alligator, had been screaming for Wesley's blood— even promising me the earth if I could lure the ice–man into a trap. But it was Julio who got trapped…by a flame–haired witch named Strega who licked her lips as she watched him die.

What was Fortunato telling me? Wesley was a shooter— the best there ever was. But Julio had died of a broken neck. Just like one of those freaks in the Bronx house of beasts.

I got back to my car and headed downtown. I left the West Side Highway at Chambers Street, heading for the Brooklyn Bridge. I took the on–ramp before the span. It was the tail end of rush hour, but the bridge was clogged. I looked ahead, saw one of those orange signs: LEFT LANE ENDS 500 YARDS. I was in that lane, and I wasn't getting much play from the middle lane, so merging right wasn't all that easy. I didn't get worked up about it— I wasn't in a hurry.

In some cities, the citizens have actually mastered the art of staggered lane merging— one from the right, one from the left, until it's all done. It'll never happen here— if you're in the lane that needs to merge you don't hope for courtesy, you watch for weakness.

A tired old black Buick finally came up on my right, laboring and sputtering along, an elderly Hasid at the wheel. Everybody was cutting him off, jumping ahead of him— he was acting so unaggressive he became fair game. Just before the left lane ended, I tapped my brakes to let him pull ahead of me, then slipped in behind. He chugged on ahead, reaching his left arm out the window to wave a thank–you to me. It felt good. I like that kind of stuff. If motherfuckers would just let me be, I swear I would be a polite, respectful man.

Then I heard the angry blare of a horn, glanced in the mirror. A white Nissan sedan had been behind me, but it got pinched off when I let that other guy in.

So what? I worked the middle lane for a piece, saw my opening, and rolled once more to the right, setting up for the exit to the BQE. The white Nissan pulled up on my left, running parallel. The driver and the two in the back seat were black males— there was a black woman in the front passenger seat. She rolled down her window. I hit the switch to drop mine too.

She leaned out her window, screamed "You fucking Jew bastard!" at me just as the Nissan pulled away, obviously concluding she'd been the victim of still another Zionist plot.

I thought about how much fun it would be to lock her in a room with old Cline–as–in–Patsy.

After I completed all the necessary loops, I climbed onto the BQE, heading for Queens. As I passed the Flushing Avenue exit I spotted a congenital defective driving a Cadillac in the left lane. Driving slow. Posting up so everyone had to pass in the middle lane and then cut back in. Nobody did it calmly— some of them shot the finger, others waved fists. One cut back in so close the Cadillac had to stand on its brakes.

I dialed my mind to calm, waited for my shot, then swept around the fat Cadillac. I got back into the left lane and settled in, punched the button for the all–news station, half–listened as I drove. The news came out in little blips:

Down South, another anti–abortion maniac gunned down a doctor going into a clinic. An equally freakish misfit killed two nurses and a secretary somewhere in New England. Good thing there's no waiting period for buying a handgun— makes it so much easier to act on impulse.

A nine–year–old girl writes an essay for school. "Daddy Raped Me" it was called. She gets an A on her paper— nothing else. Months later, the scumbag gets himself arrested for some other stuff— turns out he has AIDS. Some group promises a protest.

Another baby killed in another crossfire. The only difference between certain neighborhoods in this city and Bosnia is that we're better armed here.

The New York weather report: cold and vicious.

I switched to FM, punched the oldies station. They were playing music from the '70s, as impossible as that sounds.

I slammed in the one sure cure: a Judy Henske tape. That broad's got enough rich, dark juice for a grape arbor, every word dripping with promise. I had a scheme to meet her in person, years ago. It worked out the same as most of my schemes.

Traffic crawled once we got over the Kosciusko Bridge— the halfass government was doing something stupid to the highway again. I grabbed the LIE eastbound, still in no hurry. Just before the Elmhurst Tanks, I spotted a downed Lincoln Continental in the right lane. I wasn't the first to see it— one of the vulture vans that cruise the city expressways looking for crippled cars was already on the scene. A pro team was at work— one guy had a hydraulic jack under the back wheels while his partner had popped the hood. Give them a half–hour, they'd turn a wounded car into a corpse.

I exited at Woodhaven Boulevard and worked my way toward Forest Park. I found a quiet spot. Pulled over to a roadside pay phone and punched a number in.

"What?" came the rust–bucket greeting.

"You been looking for me?" I asked.

"ID me something," the voice demanded.

"Baby Pete," I said.

"More."

"I found him. Where you said he couldn't be."

Baby Pete. Big Peter's grandson. Kidnapped, held for ransom. Big Peter never went near the Law. Paid in full. Never got the boy back. After that, he reached out for me. I found the little kid. In the basement of Big Peter's next–in–line. Found his ashes and a few bone fragments— the furnace hadn't finished its work. The next–inline was impatient, but he needed a war chest before he made his move. Big Peter hadn't called the Law about that one either.

"Ask the question again?"

"You looking for me?"

"If I wanted to find you, I would," he said softly. "I know how to do that."

"Yeah. That's what I figured. I just wanted to make sure you didn't have some problem— "

"With you?" he interrupted.

"Yeah. Some strange stuff is happening. And I heard a name today…."

"Say it."

"Julio."

"Oh." The line was quiet for a few seconds. Then he said, "Come see me."

"Where?"

"At the house."

"When?"

"Now. I'll wait."

"Twenty minutes," I told him, and hung up.

The house was a simple wood–frame two–story in Ozone Park. Only the chain–link fence looked serious. The gypsy cab dropped me off in front. I walked around to the side of the house and rang the bell.

Big Peter opened the door himself. He stood about five feet four, weighed maybe a hundred and twenty pounds. There's a number of stories about how he came into his name— none of them are pretty.

"Sit," he said, pointing at a kitchen table with four padded chairs.

He took the chair opposite me, looked me over, nodded his head. Said, "So?"

"I got a case," I told him. "There's this guy doing time. A sex killer. There's this cop hired me to look into it, claims he's innocent. I went to see the guy's lawyer, the one he got for the appeal. Raymond Fortunato. This Fortunato, he asks me, would I maybe like a favor done? I tell him No. So he pays me the money that was promised…for this case. To look into it, all right? Then he says Julio always spoke well of me. I say, I haven't seen him in a long time. Then Fortunato says, Julio's dead. I ask him: When? How?…like that. He tells me, says they know who did it. The way he looked at me, I couldn't tell if he was selling wolf tickets or what. So I thought I'd ask you."

"You ain't afraid of Raymond fucking Fortunato," Big Peter said. A flat statement, not a question.

"I'm afraid of you," I told him, just as flat.

"I would never hurt you," he said. "I would never let anyone hurt you. I would never forget what you did. For me, Too late for my grandson," he said quietly, one knuckle to his eye like he was expecting a tear. "I shoulda listened to you first. I wanted to trust…and I got my grandson dead."

"He was gone from the moment they took him," I said. "He was a smart kid, would've ID'ed them in a minute."

"Yeah…" The old man stayed quiet for a minute. Forgiving himself, tricking me…no way to tell. Finally, he looked up. "You're not afraid of me either," he said. "That was true, you wouldn't come here. Unless you was wearing a wire."

I stood up, started to unbutton my shirt.

"Sit the fuck down, okay? I was just jerking your chain. You want something from me, there's something I can do for you, just ask."

I looked down at my cigarette, at the long ash, realized I hadn't dragged on it at all. I snubbed it out in the glass ashtray, deciding. I could hear my heart— I slowed it down, took a deep breath, and plunged in. "There's a cop, brought a case to me. It's a woman, a lady cop. I met her a while ago, when I was doing something else. She never told me she was a cop— I found out by accident. She's been calling me ever since. I never returned the calls. Then she turned up the pressure. Came to…a place where I hang out sometimes. Something else…She got a hooker to offer me a job. A homicide job. I turned it down, but…it's starting to look like a box."

"So walk away," he said. "What's the problem?"

"There's another cop," I went on like I hadn't heard him. "He's been on my case forever. We had some dealings— he didn't like the way they turned out. Now he thinks I'm connected to a bunch of murders— I don't know why. He's been around, watching. Turns out he was one of the investigators on one of the rape–murders this guy— the guy the lady cop says is innocent— is doing time for. It's all too coincidental for me to buy it. Fortunato, he's all mobbed up, right? Julio's gone, sure…but the family's still in business. I thought you might…"

"What? Call off the dogs?"

"If that's what it is."

"That's not what it is. Fortunato's a worm. The family may know something about how Julio got done, but not a one of them cares. You know better than that. Why would they care? For honor?" he sneered.

"I don't know," I told him. "But why would a mob mouthpiece like Fortunato take this kind of case?"

"Don't make a big thing out of it," he said. "It's all about this"— rubbing his thumb against the first two fingers of his right hand, a money gesture. "There's really only two families now. One deals with drugs, the other does the unions, gambling, puts money on the street— all the old stuff. Fortunato, he's nothing— a dealer, not a lawyer. If they didn't fix the juries for him, he's nothing. And he knows it, see? This is all about greed, that's all. But if you want, I could have somebody talk to him…"

"I don't know…"

"Don't get cute, he said. "I'm not going to talk you into it. You want it done, it's done. If not, no. Capisce?"

"Yeah."

"And…?"

"Do it," I told him, "And thank you."

The next morning, I shaved extra carefully before I put on my lawyer outfit. What I needed was a look at the court file they'd have on Piersall. Not the criminal file— Fortunato would already have all of that for the appeal— what I wanted was over at the Surrogate's Court. A look at that trust fund.

They kept me waiting almost forty–five minutes before I got into the office. Not the judge's chambers, the office they gave his law secretary. "Law secretary" isn't what it sounds like— they're all lawyers themselves, and they don't do any typing or filing. What they do depends on the judge, whatever the judge wants. And they get their jobs the same way the judges do— the right person taps them on the shoulder and they're made. Kind of like the Mafia would be if the feds made them swallow Affirmative Action.

This one was a skinny guy with a prominent Adam's apple, hair cut real short. He was wearing a white button–down shirt and black suspenders, sleeves rolled up like he'd been hard at work for hours.

Sure.

"My name is Rodriguez, sir," I introduced myself. He looked up impatiently, not offering to shake hands. "This concerns a client," I continued. "George Piersall. What we need is some information regarding Mr. Piersall's trust fund…I understand it came about as a result of a bequest. I wonder if it would be possible to look through the file…?"

"You are a lawyer, Mr…ah…Rodriguez?" he asked, just this side of snide. If I'd told him my name was Anderson, he wouldn't have asked.

"No sir," I replied. "I apologize. I should have made that clear. I am a paralegal— I work for Raymond Fortunato."

The weasel's face shifted. Not a lot, but I'd been looking for it. He was a mid–list ass–kisser— he did it on the way up, and he expected those below him in the political food chain to treat him the same way. But he wouldn't risk offending someone of Fortunato's weight.

"Will you excuse me a moment?" he asked. "I need to make a phone call."

"Certainly, sir," I said, backing out of the room. I took a seat on the polished wood bench in the corridor, one hand stroking my status–appropriate attaché case.

In less than five minutes, the weasel poked his head out of his den, motioned for me to come back.

"Here's the file," he said, handing me three thick folders, holding about half a ream of paper each. "There's a lot to go through, I know, so, if you want, you could use this empty room we have down the hall."

"I would appreciate that," I told him.

He led me to the room. It was bare except for a long wooden table and six matching chairs. I sat down at the table, thanked the weasel again, put on a pair of reading glasses and started to work.

"When you're done, just let me know," the weasel said.

"Thank you, sir," I replied.

As soon as he left the room, I put the reading glasses off to one side. I don't need them— the prescription is for someone with a radical astigmatism. I'd leave them behind…accidentally. It's the same thing I do with the matchbooks— if the weasel ever had to prove I was there, he'd whip out the reading glasses triumphantly…and they wouldn't fit.

Most of the papers were the kind of boilerplate legalese you expect from people who get paid by the hour or by the pound. I finally got to the meat: the guy who left all the money was Morton L. Capshaw, last listed address was on Park Avenue. There's a key to finding the cross streets for any avenue address in New York— what you do is take the number, cancel the last digit, divide by two, then add or subtract another number, depending on the avenue. For Park, it's a +34. Park Avenue runs all the way from Gramercy to Harlem. I did the math— Capshaw lived in the Seventies…big–bucks territory.

I kept reading. He died at Sloan Kettering, the cancer hospital. Age seventy–three when he cashed out. The trust fund was huge— more than seven million. The way it was set up, Piersall got the income only, not the principal. There was a long list after that, all next in line. I counted seven names. Once I sorted it out, it was easy to see what Capshaw had done. Piersall got the income from the trust for as long as he lived. When he died, the next name on the list took over. When they all died, the principal went to something called the Adelnaws Foundation. I read through the rest of it, but couldn't find anything more. The Adelnaws Foundation was a 501(c)(3) corporation— not–for–profit. Its stated purpose was "social research"— you know, what the reverend told the cops he was doing in a whorehouse.

The trustee was a white–shoe law firm with a whole hive of WASPs on its letterhead. They were to pay the interest "monthly, quarterly, or annually, at the election of the beneficiary," and the instructions were to invest in "prudent instruments, the goal being preservation of capital." Commodities, options, and precious metals were specifically excluded from permissible investments.

I went back to the beneficiary tree again. Something about it…Yeah— none of them were named Capshaw. So that meant…Sure enough— I found what I was looking for in the last folder— a will contest. Capshaw's ex–wife, a sister, and a cousin all brought suit, challenging the will on grounds of "undue influence" and "lack of testamentary capacity." Meaning, somebody got to the old man when he was dying, or he was out of his head when he made out the will.

But it was no go. Most of those things get settled out of court, but this one went to the wall. The relatives got zilch— they were completely shut out, even on appeal. The trustee law firm did a little better— they billed for $477,504.25, and the Surrogate allowed them every penny, pulling it right out of the principal.

I looked at the list of beneficiaries again— just the names, dates of birth, Social Security numbers— straight ID stuff. All the beneficiaries were approximately the same age— there wasn't ten years difference between the oldest and the youngest. The list was the only thing in the whole file that varied from the kind of air–pumped filler you find in any document lawyers get their hands on. I copied it onto my yellow legal pad, checked it again to be sure I had it right.

On my way out, I stopped by the weasel's office to thank him for his courtesy. He wasn't at his desk.

I carried the money I'd gotten from Fortunato over to Mama's. As I was crossing Lafayette Street, a tall slender Chinese girl shot by on Rollerblades, her long black hair flying behind her. She was a pro at it— had a backpack strapped on, a whistle on a chain around her neck, and black kneepads against a possible spill. A pair of business–dressed guys saw her too. One told the other the girl had another use for the kneepads. His pal laughed in appreciation. I figured the guy who made the crack was an expert— probably on his way to do the same thing to his boss.

Anytime I forget how bad I hate this place, somebody's always good enough to remind me.

When I handed Mama the money, she didn't react with her usual happiness as she extracted her cut. When Mama doesn't smile around money, it's a storm warning. I gave her a look, waiting for it to hit. But she just sipped her soup in silence. Patience is one of my few virtues, but I knew better than to try outwaiting Mama.

"What?" I asked.

"You like this woman?" she answered my question with one of her own.

"What woman?"

"Girl with wig. Police lady."

"No," I told Mama. "I don't like her."

"Why you work, then?"

"For money," I responded, playing the one card that Mama always recognized as trump.

"This money?" Mama asked, holding up the bills I'd just handed her, a disgusted tone in her voice.

"Yeah."

"Not much," Mama said. "You have money. From…last time, yes? I know." She did know. Hell, she was holding most of it. "Balance," she continued, looking at me straight on. She held out her hands parallel to the tabletop, palms up, raising first one, then the other, imitating a scale.

"Yeah," I told her. "I'm impressed. You gamble all the time yourself," I said, thinking of her endless fan–tan games and her love of lotteries.