Kiss

7.

The meeting took place in Lieutenant Byrnes's corner office on Thursday morning, the tenth day of January.

Meyer and Carella sat side by side in hard-backed wooden chairs near the windows, winter-backlighted, ready to make their presentation, both of them looking spruce and chipper. It was snowing behind them. Byrnes hated it when it snowed. It made response times longer and often gave criminals an edge they didn't need.

Cotton Hawes looked pinkish from a skiing vacation in Colorado, his red hair seeming to reflect onto his cheeks. He was badly in need of a haircut; Byrnes wondered if he should mention it. Hawes sat on one corner of Byrnes's desk, partially blocking his view of Arthur Brown, who stood hulking near the door as if blocking entrance to any unwanted arrival.

If Byrnes had to walk unarmed down any dark alley at two in the morning, he would choose Brown as his partner. Andy Parker sat in a chair next to him. Unshaven, as usual. - Plant him on a park bench, you'd think he was one of the city's homeless. Plant him in Miami, you'd think he was with Vice.

Bert Kling leaned against the wall beside him, no doubt trying to figure out how to get his girlfriend back. Eyes a hundred miles away, Byrnes felt like kicking him in the ass. He knew the full story. Knew Kling was the reason Eileen had lost her backups on a job tracking a serial killer. Knew she'd had to shoot the man to death. One in the chest, another in the shoulder, and then emptying the gun into his back for good measure. Tough lady, Eileen Burke.

Good cop. Working with the Hostage Negotiating Team now. Byrnes wanted to kick Kling in the ass, tell him to get on with life again.

Bob O'Brien sat in a chair to Kling's right, arms folded across his chest, long legs stretched toward the desk. Bad Luck Bob.

Respond to a call with him, and there'd be shooting nine times out of ten. Go figure. You got yourself partnered with O'Brien, some dumb bastard was going to pull a gun and start shooting at you. He'd killed six men in the line of duty. Byrnes thought he ought to ask O'Brien to sit down with Eileen Burke one day, pour out his Irish heart to her, mick to mick, tell her what it was like to really kill people. You want killing people? Try six for size. Tell her how he cried inside every time it happened. Tell her just what he'd told the lieutenant one rainy day, right here in this office. I cry inside, Pete. Every time. I cry inside.

"Ready to start?" Byrnes said. The clock on the wall read ten minutes past eight. The Graveyard Shift had been relieved twenty-five minutes ago. It had been snowing since midnight. "I want to make this fast, Steve has to get downtown to the courthouse. This is the case him and Meyer've been working since the end of December. It turned into a homicide this past Monday.”

"What was it before then?" Hawes asked.

"Attempted murder," Carella said.

"Of the homicide victim?”

"No. He was the guy trying to kill her. Or so she says.”

"I'm lost," Hawes said.

"Go back to Aspen," Parker told him.

"Vail.”

“Wherever.”

"I wish I could.”

"Tell him he can go back, Loot.”

Byrnes glared at both of them.

"Why don't you take it from the top, Steve?”

he said, and leaned back in his swivel chair and laced his fingers across his chest. Carella filled them in. Every now and then, Meyer broke in to correct a time or a date, but for the most part it was a solo recitation, Carella telling them everything that had happened on the case since the twenty-ninth of December, when Emma Bowles walked into the squadroom to report two attempts on her life, taking them through the murder of Roger Turner Tilly and the First Man Up dispute with Fat Ollie Weeks ...

"Yeah, that's Ollie for you," Parker said, chuckling.

... and the discovery of the gun in the basement, and the conversations with both Martin Bowles and the client he was presumably lunching with on the day of the murder, and the news that he'd hired a private eye who was using a phony name.

"That's it so far," Carella said.

"Questions?" Byrnes said.

"Have you got anything on the gun yet?”

Hawes asked.

"Ballistics is supposed to be getting back to us today.”

"It's a thirty-two for sure," Meyer said.

"A Hi-Standard Sentinel," Carella said.

"That the one with the snub barrel?”

"Yes.”

"What was this guy's name again?”

"Roger Turner Tilly.”

"Sounds black," Parker said.

"No, he's white.”

"Only people in this city who have white names anymore are black," Parker said. He seemed not to realize that Brown was standing near the door, looking as tall and as wide as a mountain. Brown said nothing. He felt like throwing Parker out the window, but he didn't say a word.

"So what's your thinking?" O'Brien asked.

"That the husband is involved?”

"Yes. We found his card in Tilly's wallet. ...”

"Well, there's your positive link," Parker said. - "And we've got him talking to Tilly on the morning he was killed.”

"At the scene, you mean?”

"No. On the phone.”

"What about?" Brown asked.

"Tilly claimed he owed him money.”

"Uh-oh.”

"Yeah. According to Bowles, Tilly drove him upstate last year sometime ...”

"Now we're into ancient history, right?”

Parker said.

"... and still owed him the rest of the money for the trip. This was before he got sent up for assault last spring.”

"I hate stories with ancient history in them," Parker said.

"The victim was in the slammer?" Hawes asked.

"Pay attention," Parker said.

"I didn't know if it was the husband in the slammer or the victim.”

"The victim, the victim," Parker said.

"I just wanted to get it straight.”

Parker nodded sourly and turned to Carella.

"It's the husband," he said. "Go arrest him.”

"He's got an alibi," Meyer said.

"Right," Brown said, nodding. "The flower-shop lady.”

"Did you go to that restaurant?" Byrnes asked.

"No, not yet.”

"Better do it right away. See if anyone saw them there together.”

"Meyer'll be going down there this morning,”

Carella said.

"Not enough days in the week, Loot," Parker explained.

"Who's this other guy?" Byrnes asked.

"Denker? We don't know yet. No make on him in the computer. He's supposed to be a private eye.”

"Why would anyone in his right mind want to say he's a private eye if he ain't one?”

Parker said.

The detectives all laughed.

Even Byrnes laughed.

"All right, all right," he said at last.

But the men were still laughing.

"All right, let's calm down," he said.

"But the husband hired him, is that - right?" Brown asked.

"Yeah.”

"To protect her.”

"Yeah.”

"What bullshit," Parker said.

"She'd better watch her ass," O'Brien said.

"That's what we figure," Carella said.

"Gee, no kidding?" Parker said. "You guys must be masterminds to dope that out. Wake up, Farm Boy," he said to Kling. "I'm about to explain police work to you.”

Kling hadn't said a word thus far.

Now he said, "Fuck you, Parker.”

"Thank you," Parker said, and stood up and bowed to him. "But be that as it may, this is the way this thing is shaping up. Bowles ... is that his name?”

"Bowles, yes," Meyer said.

"Bowles hires this one jerk to kill his wife, and the guy fucks up. Twice, no less. So Bowles tells him to get lost, and he hires himself another jerk, this time from Chicago. Only the first jerk isn't going away so fast, he wants the rest of his money.”

"His delivery payment," Brown said.

"Pay or play.”

"Thank you, Dr. Watson," Parker said, and grimaced and shook his head in sour acknowledgment of the simpletons surrounding him. "So he calls Bowles and tells him to pay up or else, and Bowles pays him off with a bullet in the head.”

"You're forgetting that Bowles has an alibi," O'Brien said.

"Alibi, bullshit. Lean on the flower-shop lady, the alibi goes down the toilet.”

"Maybe," Carella said.

"Maybe, my ass. She's fucking Bowles, what do you think this is? So he tells her I have to run uptown to take care of something, sweetheart. If the cops ask you where I was on Monday, such-and-such a time, you tell them we were having lunch together. She says, Certainly, darling, let me suck your cock.”

"Maybe," Meyer said.

"No maybes. Why do you think Bowles wants the wife dead? 'Cause he's already got the flower-shop lady on the side. Meanwhile, we now got this second jerk joined to the wife at the hip, ready to smoke her the minute he finds the right time and place. There's your case, gentlemen. Arrest Bowles for the fuckin murder, and the flower-shop lady as an accessory-after. Then run that phony private eye out of town on a fuckin railroad tie.”

The room went silent.

"Sounds good to me," Byrnes said.

Carella hated to admit it, but it did.

DetectivestThird Grade Randall Wade looked as mean as tight underwear. Tall and black, with narrow shoulders and a lean, muscular body, he stepped up onto the witness stand, raised his right hand, and placed his left hand on the Bible the clerk of the court extended. He seemed uncomfortable in a suit and tie. His hand on the Bible showed the oversized knuckles of a street fighter. His face was badly pockmarked, and an old knife scar over his left eye made him appear particularly threatening. Louise Carella gave him the once-over and hoped the jury wouldn't find him as frightening as she did; she was having trouble believing he was truly a cop.

"Detective Wade," Lowell said, "I show you this nine-millimeter Uzi assault pistol and ask when first you saw it.”

"On the night ... well, let me correct that," Wade said. "It was still dark, but it was morning already. The morning of August first last year.”

"Where did you first see this pistol?”

"In the hallway of a house at 1143 Talley Road.”

"Where is that, Detective Wade?”

"In Riverhead. The Four-Six Precinct.”

"What were you doing there?”

"We were there to apprehend a pair of suspects in a murder case we were investigating.”

"Which murder case was that?”

"The murder of Anthony John Carella.”

"And which suspects were you there to apprehend?”

"Desmond Whittaker and Samson Cole.”

"Is Samson Cole the same Mr. Cole who is the defendant in this trial?”

"He is.”

"Was Mr. Cole in that hallway at 1143 Talley Road when first you saw this pistol?”

"He was.”

"Where was the pistol when first you saw it?”

"In Mr. Cole's right hand.”

"Can you tell me how the pistol came into your possession?”

"It was seized as evidence after Mr. Cole was subdued and apprehended.”

"When you say `subdued` ...”

"He had raised the gun into a firing position.

It was necessary ...”

"This gun?”

"Yes, the gun in your hand. He had turned it on us and was about to fire. It was necessary to take him by force.”

"When, exactly, did you seize the pistol as evidence?”

"After Mr. Cole was in handcuffs.”

"What did you do with the pistol then?”

"Tagged it as evidence and gave it to my superior officer.”

"May I have your superior officer's name?”

"Detective-Lieutenant James Michael Nelson," Wade said, "commander of the Forty-fifth Detective Squad.”

"Detective Wade, what is the usual procedure when evidence is passed from one individual to another in the Police Department?”

"There's what we call a Chain of Custody tag attached to the evidence.”

"Can you tell me what is printed on these tags?”

"First there are the words Received From and then the word By and then the words Date and Time. There's room on the tag for three people to write in the information. After that, you have to use a supplementary tag, which is usually stapled to the first one.”

"So that when you passed this tagged pistol on to Lieutenant Nelson, for example, he would have indicated that he'd received it from you, and then he would have signed it after the word By, is that correct?”

"That's correct.”

"Would you know what happened to the pistol after you passed it on to Lieutenant Nelson?”

"Yes, sir. It was sent to the Ballistics Section for test-firing.”

"Your Honor," Lowell said, "I would like this so-called Chain of Custody tag marked in evidence.”

"No objection," Addison said.

He was stroking his beard, Carella noticed. Idly stroking his beard. Seemingly throroughly bored with all this stuff about the pistol.

"Mark it Exhibit Five for the prosecution," Di Pasco said.

"Detective Wade," Lowell said, "would you please take a look at this tag?”

Wade accepted the tag, glanced at it, nodded.

"Can you tell from that tag who after Lieutenant Nelson was next in possession of the pistol?”

"Yes. Receipt of the pistol was signed for by Detective Peter Haggerty at Ballistics Section, on the morning of August first at eleven twenty-seven.”

"The chain of custody, then, as indicated on the tag was from you to Lieutenant Nelson and from Lieutenant Nelson to Detective Haggerty.”

"That's correct.”

"Are there any other names on that tag?”

"None.”

"Would anyone else have been in possession of this pistol at any time? Other than the persons whose names appear on that tag?”

"No one else would have had possession of it.”

"Then there is no question in your mind that the pistol you seized from Samson Cole on the morning of August first is the same pistol received by Detective Haggerty later that morning.”

"No question whatever.”

"After Detective Haggerty received this pistol, did you have any conversation with him?”

"I did.”

"Can you tell me the nature of that conversation?”

"I told him we wanted him to test-fire the gun and compare the bullets and spent shells with the ones my partner had sent him earlier. The bullets and casings in the Carella murder.”

"Did he do that?”

"He did.”

"Did you have a subsequent conversation about his results?”

"I did. He gave me a verbal report on his findings.”

"What did he say?”

"The bullets and casings matched.”

"That is to say, the test-firing showed that the gun you had seized from Mr. Cole was the same gun used in the Carella murder.”

"Yes.”

“Was this later confirmed in writing?”

"We received the Ballistics report the very next day. It confirmed what Detective Haggerty had told me on the telephone.”

"Which was what?”

"That the gun recovered from Mr. Cole was the same gun used in the Carella murder.”

"Thank you, no further questions.”

Margins was a restaurant large enough for a bar mitzvah celebration, but small enough to provide privacy for any couple seeking a quiet little nook in a hidden corner. It was entirely possible that Bowles and the so-called flower-shop lady had been here on Monday without anyone having seen them. If that turned out to be the case, then the alibi held, and Parker was probably right in thinking that the next thing to do was lean on the lady.

The headwaiter was a man named Frank Giglio.

Jacketless, wearing black trousers, a ruffled white shirt, a black bow tie hanging loose around his neck, black suspenders, black socks, and highly polished black shoes, he pushed open one of the swinging doors leading from the kitchen and immediately apologized for having kept Meyer waiting so long.

"I was getting ready for lunch," he said, and looked at his watch.

It was ten minutes to eleven. The tables were set with pristine white tablecloths and sparkling glassware. Sunlight streamed through the leaded windows, touching with a cold, flat silvery light the silverware set at each place.

"Mr. Giglio," Meyer said, "I wonder if I could see your reservations book for this past Monday, the seventh of January.”

"Why, yes, certainly," Giglio said.

"Was there anything in particular you were looking for?”

"Yes, a twelve o'clock reservation for a Mr.

Martin Bowles.”

"Oh, yes, of course," Giglio said.

Meyer looked at him.

"Mr. Bowles of Laub, Kramer," he said. "Yes, he was here on Monday. I took the reservation myself.”

"Are you sure?”

"Positive," he said. "But let me check my book.”

He went to a podium near the entrance, where two brass stanchions some four feet apart supported a red velvet rope.

Reaching into a little shelf under the slanting top surface of the podium, he pulled out a long book bound in black, opened it wide, and ran his finger down the page for Monday, January 7.

His finger stopped.

"Twelve noon," he said. "Martin Bowles. Reservation for two.”

"Do you know who was with him?" Meyer asked.

"A woman," Giglio said. "I don't know her name. He's been here with her before.”

"What did she look like?”

"A tall, very pretty blonde woman.”

"How old would you say?”

"In her forties.”

"What time did they leave?”

"One-thirty? Two o'clock? I can't say for sure.”

"Thank you," Meyer said.

He was thinking none of them are ever easy.

"If you don't mind, Mr. Wade,”

Addison said affably, "I'd like to go over this one more time.”

"Objection, Your Honor," Lowell said, unfolding his long body, and coming to his feet, and managing to convey to the jury the impression that he was exceedingly weary and beginning to lose patience.

"Detective Wade has answered the same questions, by my count, at least three times now. The same questions over and over again, Your Honor. Now I don't know what purpose it serves to keep going over the same ground incessantly ...”

The way he says that word makes him sound very British, Carella thought.

"... except to harangue the witness, which I hope is not my learned colleague's ...”

Those words, too.

"... intention. But unless ...”

"Want to come up here, please?" Di Pasco said.

Both attorneys approached the bench.

"You do seem to be covering the same ground repeatedly, Mr. Addison," Di Pasco said.

"I am merely trying to make the facts clear to the jury, Your Honor.”

"Begging my colleague's pardon, Your Honor, and not wishing to impute an - ulterior motive to him ...”

"Well, thank you for that," Addison said.

"But it seems to me his insistence on reliving the arrest of Mr. Cole on the night of August first is merely an attempt to circumvent ...”

"Oh, come now," Addison said.

"Yes, go on," Di Pasco said.

"... to circumvent, I was about to say, Your Honor's pretrial finding on admission of the pistol as evidence. I think Mr. Addison is trying to plant doubt in the jury's mind as concerns the legality of the seizure, despite the fact that Your Honor found ...”

"Do you intend to put questions as to the legality of the seizure?" Di Pasco asked.

"I intend to put questions that go to the officer's credibility.”

"But as his credibility pertains to the seizure of this weapon?”

"As it may or may not pertain, Your Honor.”

"Then I would have to object," Lowell said.

"The issue here is credibility," Addison insisted.

Shaking his head, raising his eyebrows in disbelief, Lowell said, "Your Honor, I would like a ruling on this, please.”

"It's not up to any jury to discount evidence because they may believe it was illegally seized," Di Pasco said. "The jury finds only on facts. You know that, Mr. Addison. It's the judge who makes the legal findings. And in this case, I've already found that the pistol was legally seized and could be admitted as evidence. My pretrial finding stands. I'll allow the questioning to continue, but only as it pertains to credibility.

Justice doesn't require or allow the relitigation of a suppression issue.”

"Thank you, Your Honor," Addison said, and smiled sourly.

Carella saw him smile, and wondered what they'd been talking about up there.

They were in the museum when she asked him what the middle initial in his name stood for: Andrew N.

Darrow. A new exhibit had opened yesterday, and though she'd told him there was no longer any need for his services now that Tilly was dead, he'd insisted that until he was dismissed by Martin Bowles himself, he intended to stick to her like glue.

As they moved through the galleries, he mentioned that Chicago had a very good museum called the Art Institute, but he'd never been to it. There was something totally disarming about his confessions of ignorance. The new exhibit concerned itself with adventurous forms of sculpture, one of which he almost stepped onto, or into, because it did sort of resemble a ladder, a pile of bricks, and a trowel lying there on the floor. Some ten minutes later, as they wandered through the permanent collection, he stopped before a massive Seurat, and said it was completely amazing how a man could make a whole painting from just all those little colored dots.

When she asked if he'd seen Sunday in the Park with George, he looked totally bewildered, and she realized he didn't know what on earth she was talking about.

Changing the subject, she said, "What does the N stand for?”

"The what?”

"In your name.”

"Oh. Nelson," he said.

"Like the admiral?”

"Exactly.”

"How come?”

"My mother liked the ring of it.”

"Is she British?”

"No, but my father used to be a sailor.”

"Was he British?”

"No. American.”

"Then why didn't she name you after an American sailor? Like John Paul Jones?”

"I'll have to ask her one day," he said, and shrugged.

They came out of the museum at a little past three, into blustering winds and a day already ominously dark. The weather forecasters had promised more snow for the weekend, and the sky overhead was leaden, but so far they'd been lucky. She asked if he'd like a hot chocolate, and said she knew a nice little tearoom nearby. Her long mink coat flapping about her ankles, gloved hand holding the collar closed at her throat, she rushed him toward the avenue up ahead, thronged with pedestrians and passenger cars, taxis and buses. He was wearing a belted camelhair Burberry that he'd told her he'd bought in Chicago but that had been manufactured in England, was she familiar with the Burberry label? Smiling, she had said Yes, she'd heard of the label.

"Where'd the Darrow come from?" she asked.

"Darrow?" he said. "I have no idea.”

"You know there was once a famous lawyer named Darrow, don't you?”

"Oh, sure," he said. "The Leopold-Loeb case. That was a Chicago case.”

"Yes," she said, and guessed she felt relieved. She was never quite certain what he knew.

"But I don't think we're related to him,”

he said. "My father was originally from Rhode Island.”

Approaching the corner, stopping for the red light there. Scaffolding overhead, the inevitable razor wire running along its upper edge, windows being replaced in the corner building. Put up a scaffold in this city, somebody would climb it. And if it was climbed, and there was no wire on it, then whoever climbed it would get into the first-floor windows. If you worked for the window company, you had to watch out for the damn razor wire. It was like everything else in this city. The honest citizens paid for what the thieves were doing.

"Do you have any brothers or sisters?" she asked.

"Nope. I'm an only child. How about you?”

"I have a sister in Los Angeles.”

"Older? Younger?”

"Younger.”

"If she looks anything like you," he said, "she must be a beauty.”

The light changed to green, sparing her an answer. She stepped off the curb, took two steps into the gutter, glanced automatically to her left to check on traffic-and saw the bus.

"Emma!" he shouted.

She would remember later that this was the first time he'd used her given name.

The bus was shiny and metallic and huge, and it was racing to beat the light, but the light had already changed. She stopped dead in her tracks, not knowing whether to move forward or backward, it was coming at her so fast. She heard the squealing of brakes. And then he shouted her name again- "Emma!" And suddenly she was being pushed at from behind, his hands on her back, shoving her, almost knocking her off her feet. She staggered - forward, struggling to keep her balance. The brakes kept shrieking at her, and now a woman on the sidewalk was screaming. She realized all at once that he was still immediately behind her, the bus hurtling past them, missing them by what had to be a scant six inches. They kept stumbling forward, both of them carried by their own momentum. She felt herself falling. She put her hands out ahead of her.

He reached for her, missed her, and she tumbled to the pavement, hitting her knees as she went down, but managing to break her fall before she landed on her face. He picked her up at once. Lifted her to her feet. Held her for just an instant. The woman on the sidewalk was still screaming.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, and caught her breath.

The bus was already half a block away, approaching the next corner. "You stupid bastard!" he yelled after it, and then he turned to her and said, "I'm sorry. I hope I didn't hurt you.”

"No," she said. "I'm fine.”

Her heart was pounding.

"Let's talk about that morning of August first again, shall we?" Addison said pleasantly.

Wade said nothing.

He had been talking about the morning of August first all afternoon. It was now almost three-thirty, and they were still talking about the fucking morning of August first. "You told me that you went to the house on Talley Road on information provided by ...”

"Yes.”

"... a prostitute named Dolly Simms, now deceased.”

"Yes.”

"Tell me, Detective Wade,”

Addison said, "on the morning of August first last year, had you obtained either an arrest warrant or a search ...?was "Objection, Your Honor!”

"Sustained. And please come up here.”

The attorneys approached the bench.

"Now what is this?" Di Pasco said.

"Sir?" Addison said.

"You argued this business of the warrants at the pretrial hearing, and I found that the circumstances that night did not require warrants. Your question now implies to the contrary. You know very well that this is not a jury question. So what are you doing?”

“Well, sir, I thought ...”

"Leave it alone. Do you understand me?”

"Yes, sir.”

"Good. No more shenanigans, please.”

Lowell smiled. Addison went back to the witness stand.

"So, Detective Wade," he said. "On the night of August first, you went to this house ...”

"Yes, sir.”

"... on information supplied by a prostitute ...”

"Yes, that the two men we were looking for ...”

"A prostitute told you ...”

"Yes, that was her trade.”

"Told you that Desmond Whittaker and Samson Cole were inside that house ...”

"Yes.”

"So you went there with ... how many other officers were there?”

"Before the hostage situation broke out?”

"I want to know how many police officers accompanied you to the house on Talley Road?”

"There were ten of us altogether.”

"In how many cars?”

"Two.”

"Ten detectives. All from the Forty-fifth Precinct?”

"No. Not all.”

"Was there a detective there who was not from the Forty-fifth Precinct?”

"Yes.”

"Who was that detective?”

"Detective Stephen Carella.”

"What precinct is he from?”

"The Eight-Seven.”

"What was he doing there?”

"I called him.”

"Why?”

"I thought he would like to be in on the arrest.”

"Why did you think Detective Carella might like to be in on this arrest?”

"These men had killed his father ...”

"Your Honor ...”

"Strike that," Di Pasco said. "You know better, Officer.”

"Was Detective Carella related to the victim in the case you were investigating?" - Addison asked.

"Yes, he was.”

"What was his relationship to the victim?”

"He was the victim's son.”

"So included among the detectives who were about to make an arrest was the son of the victim, is that right?”

"That's right.”

"Were there any other detectives involved in this arrest?”

"Yes.”

"How many of them?”

"Eight.”

"Also from the Four-Five?”

"No. From the Four-Six. Talley Road is in the Four-Six.”

"So that altogether, there were eighteen detectives involved in this raid.”

"It wasn't a raid.”

"Then how would you characterize it? Eighteen detectives descending upon ...”

"It was an arrest, not a raid. We knew from Dolly Simms where these two men were, which was why we were there to make the arrest. We already had specimen bullets and casings that were fired at us by these men during the course of our investigation. And these had compared positively with the bullets and casings from the murder weapon. So we knew that these men were in possession of the murder weapon. It was as simple as that. This was what you might call hot pursuit in that ...”

"Now, really, Detective Wade ...”

"Yes, sir, in that we knew where they were and we went there as soon as we could to make the arrest. As it was, by the time we got there, the girl had already told them we were on the way, and we walked into a hostage situa ...”

"That's the subject of another trial," Di Pasco said.

"I wasn't going to talk about that in detail, sir," Wade said. "I was only trying to explain why we felt time was of the essence, that's all, Your Honor.”

"Are you familiar with Police Department guidelines regarding the use of deadly force?”

Addison asked.

"I am.”

"Do those guidelines dictate when a pistol may be unholstered?”

"They do.”

“And when a pistol may be fired?”

"They do.”

"You testified earlier that the first time you saw the Uzi pistol was in a hallway at 1143 Talley Road ...”

"That's correct.”

"... and that it was in the right hand of the defendant.”

"That's also correct.”

"Had you already unholstered your pistol by that time?”

"Yes, sir. A felony was in progress.

The guidelines specifically state that a pistol may be unholstered if it is evident that a felony is in progress.”

"Had you already fired your pistol by that time?”

"Yes, sir. As a defensive measure.”

"Were you being threatened by the defendant at that time?”

"The defendant was holding an Uzi assault pistol in his hand. This was the same make and caliber pistol that had fired the murder bullets.”

"So, naturally, you assumed this was the murder weapon.”

"Well, it seemed logical to me that if here's the man Dolly Simms told us had fired at us six nights ago ...”

"Did you assume this was the murder weapon?

Yes or no?”

"Yes.”

"And on that basis, you fired your pistol at the defendant.”

"On the basis that we were confronting a man holding a weapon that was used in a previous felony, yes.”

"By `we,` whom do you mean?”

"Me and Detective Carella.”

"You and Detective Carella were both in the-by the way, how did you come to be in that hallway?”

"We were waiting in the basement for the signal to assault.”

"The signal from whom?”

"Inspector William Cullen Brady, commanding officer of the Hostage Negotiating Team.”

"Your Honor ...”

"Your Honor, I'm sorry," Wade said, "but it was a hostage situation there, and it's impossible for me to talk about it without saying what it was. The two men were holding this young girl hostage. That was the felony in progress, Your Honor. That was what gave me the right to draw my gun.”

"Are you allowing that, Your Honor?”

"Let it stand.”

Addison sighed heavily. "So you were waiting in the basement," he said, "you and Carella ...”

"Yes, sir.”

"... for the signal to assault.”

"Yes.”

"I expect you got that signal ...”

"We did.”

"... and came out into the hallway.”

"Yes.”

"Was the defendant surprised?”

"I don't know what he was.”

"Well, did he look surprised?”

"He looked surprised, yes.”

"He wasn't expecting you, was he?”

"No, he wasn't expecting us.”

"Then he was surprised, isn't that correct?”

"I suppose he was surprised.”

"Surprised to see you.”

"Yes.”

"You and Detective Carella, in that hallway, with guns in your hands. Had both of you unholstered your guns by then?”

"Yes.”

"Did both of you assume that the man there in that hallway with you was a murderer?”

"I don't know what Carella assumed. I know what I myself thought.”

"Yes, what did you think, Detective Wade? Tell us what you thought in that split second before you shot Samson Cole.”

"I thought here's a man with a deadly weapon in his hand, I better take him out before he hurts somebody.”

"Take him out?" Addison asked, looking astonished. "Am I to understand that you shot to kill?”

"No, sir, I shot to take him out. That's not to kill him, I didn't shoot to waste him, I didn't shoot to box him. I shot to take him out. Knock him down before he could hurt anybody.”

"Where did you shoot him?”

"In the leg.”

“Were you aiming for his leg?”

"I was.”

"And that's where you got him.”

"Yes. His right leg.”

"You must be a good shot.”

"I am.”

"Took him out with that single shot, is that right?”

"Yes, sir.”

"Knocked him down.”

"Yes.”

"Then what?”

"He sat up and turned the Uzi on us. I kicked it out of his hand and we subdued him.”

"How?”

"I don't remember.”

Carella remembered. Sitting there in the third row of the courtroom, watching Wade as he recited impassively the events of those empty hours of the night on that early August morning last year, he remembered it all, Wade's bullet catching Cole in the right leg and knocking him off his feet, Wade kicking the Uzi out of his hand as Cole tried to sit up and raise the gun into a firing position, Carella kneeing him under the chin and slamming him onto his back on the linoleum-covered floor in the narrow corridor.

Green linoleum, he remembered now. Yellow flowers in the pattern. Green and yellow and Sonny Cole's wide-open brown eyes as Carella put the muzzle of his gun in the hollow of his throat, and beside him Wade whispered, "Do it.”

"... aware, are you not, Detective Wade, that the guidelines specifically prohibit using a weapon as a means of apprehension?”

"I did not use it to apprehend the defendant.”

"Then what do you call it when the man has not threatened you, the man is surprised by you as you burst into that hallway, the man does not even turn the gun on you until after you've shot him, what do you call that if not using your weapon as a means of apprehension?”

"Sir, when a man has a semiautomatic pistol in his hand, that is threatening, sir. And in a situation such as that, firing in self-defense is permissible.”

"Even if the man makes no threatening gesture with the pistol?”

"Sir, I consider a pistol in a man's hand to be very threatening.”

"Well, that's for the jury to decide, isn't it?”

"Yes, sir, but it was also for me to decide right there on the spot. I know what the guidelines say, I'd better know what they say. I had maybe five seconds to make my decision, and I made it.”

"No further questions," Addison said.

Lowell rose and walked toward the witness chair.

"I just wanted to clear up one point," he said. "You testified that you had already recovered bullets that had been fired at you ...”

"Yes.”

"... and spent cartridge casings as well.”

"Yes.”

"Under what circumstances had you recovered these bullets and casings?”

"An informer had told us that two men-who might've been the ones we were looking for-were holed up in an abandoned building on Sloane.

So we went there to check it out.”

"When was this?”

"On the twenty-sixth of July.”

"What happened when you got there?”

"We were shot at, which enabled us to recover the four casings, but only three bullets. We couldn't find a fourth bullet.”

"What did you do with these?”

"My partner bagged them and tagged them and sent them to Ballistics.”

"When?”

"The next day. July twenty-seventh.”

"Why did he send them to Ballistics?”

"To compare against the bullets and casings we had in the Carella homicide.”

"How did they compare?”

"Positively. They had been fired from the same gun.”

"And this gun was what?”

"A nine-millimeter Uzi.”

"And only five days later, on the first of August, you saw a nine-millimeter Uzi in Sonny Cole's hand.”

"I did.”

"Thank you," Lowell said.

Nodding, Addison rose and walked toward the stand again.

"Detective Wade," he said, "when you burst into that hallway, did you at that time know for certain that the pistol in Samson Cole's hand was the same pistol that had killed Mr.

Carella?”

"No, I didn't know that at the time.”

"Did you even know it was an Uzi?”

"Not until I saw it.”

"When you saw it, did you then know it was an Uzi?”

"Yes, I'm familiar with Uzis.”

"Was that when you fired? When you saw the Uzi and assumed it was the murder weapon?”

"I fired when I saw a man with a semiautomatic pistol in his hand.”

"Even though you had no proof at the time that the gun in his hand was, in fact, the weapon used in the Carella homicide.”

"I had no proof.”

"You merely made that assumption.”

"I made that assumption.”

"Thank you, no further questions.”

"Let's recess till tomorrow at nine," Di Pasco said, and rapped his gavel.

As enforcer for the Benalzato crime family, it was charged-but never proved in a court of law-that Jimmy the Blink had ordered the murders of some fourteen people, all of whom had turned up in the river in assorted bits and pieces. Some responsible and normally reliable detectives in this city maintained that Jimmy had once eaten the heart of a rival gangster, yanking it still bleeding from his chest and swallowing it raw like some Indian in the Wild West. This, too, had never been substantiated.

At the age of sixty-seven, Jimmy looked as if he'd never in his lifetime eaten anything but well-done steaks and French fries. Corpulent just short of obesity, he looked like a bald Sumo wrestler with unexpectedly piercing green eyes. His true name was James Albert Biondi, but he'd been called Jimmy the Blink ever since he was eight years old, when he developed an unfortunate tic that kept yanking his left eyelid out of kilter every ten or twenty seconds. Some law-enforcement people in this city claimed that Jimmy had developed the tic at that tender age because that was when he'd committed his first murder. The cops would have liked - nothing better than to ship him back to Sicily.

The trouble was they couldn't do that because Jimmy wasn't Italian, or even Italian-American. He'd been born right here, folks, and was therefore a one hundred percent Yankee Doodle Dandy.

And dandy he was, make no mistake about it.

Wearing a white shirt and a dark blue nailhead suit with a silk rep tie as red-white-and-blue as his birthright, he sat at a table in a restaurant named Colucci's-known for a fact to be mob-owned-and greeted Carella cordially, just as if he weren't interrupting an honest citizen finishing an early dinner. The clock on the wall read twenty to six. Carella had come here directly from the courthouse. Sitting with Jimmy was a man he introduced as Senator Ralph Antonelli. Carella knew that Antonelli had just got out of the slammer. That he was now sitting here openly with a known gangster was evidence of Jimmy's influence and power.

"I was hoping we could talk alone," Carella said.

"Then maybe you should have telephoned first, huh?" Jimmy said, and the left eye blinked.

"Ah, if only I had your number, Jimmy.”

The double entendre was not lost on him. He burst out laughing and then said, "The senator here only stopped by to say hello, he was just leaving.

Give me a call, Ralph, huh?" he said, blinking, and extended his meaty hand to him. The senator, graying and on a cane, took Jimmy's hand, said he was happy to have met Carella, and then hobbled off to a booth at the far end of the long room.

"Haven't seen you in a long time," Jimmy said.

"Well, you know. Busy.”

"I was sorry to hear about your father.”

"Thank you.”

"When does the trial start?”

"It started Monday.”

"How's it going?”

"Good, I think.”

"They don't nail that jig, you let me know, huh? There are people in this city like to see justice done.”

"Uh-huh," Carella said.

"So what can I do for you, paisan? You want something to drink? Or is this a duty call?”

"I wouldn't mind a Coke.”

Jimmy signaled to the waiter.

Carella tried not to look at that blinking left eye. He picked up a matchbook and began toying with it. But the eye was hypnotic. His gaze kept drifting back to it.

"You want a lemon in that?" Jimmy asked.

"No, just plain," Carella said.

"Bring my friend here a plain Coke, no lemon," Jimmy said to the waiter, and then turned to Carella and said, "So how you been?”

"Fine, thanks. You're looking good.”

"Well, I could stand losing a few pounds.

What brings you here?”

"Ever hear of a Chicago hitter named Andrew Denker?”

"No," Jimmy said at once, and blinked.

"What am I, a stoolie? Come on, willya?

Hey, waiter, cancel that Coke," he shouted, and burst out laughing. "Asking me such a question," he said to Carella. "You know better than that.”

"Excuse me, Mr. Biondi," the waiter said, coming over. "Did you really wish me to cancel that Coke?”

"No, bring it, bring it, I'm a big spender," he said. "Anyway, I haven't seen my friend here in a long time.”

"Maybe too long a time," Carella said.

Jimmy looked at him.

"Maybe your memory's going, Jimmy.”

Jimmy blinked.

"How's your son?" Carella asked.

So that was it.

"Fine," Jimmy said.

Now it was on the table. You do me a favor, I do you a favor, that's the way it works, friend.

In politics or in crime, which were maybe synonymous, sooner or later all the markers got called in. Carella had done the favor a long time ago, but he'd never taken advantage of it till now. Maybe he should have saved the marker for something more important. But if anyone in this city knew whether a hitter from Chicago was in their midst, it was Jimmy the Blink.

"At long last, huh?" Jimmy said.

Carella shrugged.

"A hitter from Chicago, huh?”

"Andrew Denker," Carella said, and nodded.

"Let me think," Jimmy said. "Here comes your Coke.”

The Coke came with a complimentary cognac from the house. Jimmy nodded a pleased acknowledgment and then picked up the snifter. He warmed the glass between his hands, just like an expert. He inhaled the bouquet. He nodded again and took a swallow, and rolled the cognac around on his tongue. Carella sipped at his Coke.

Back then, Jimmy's son was eighteen years old. As handsome as his father had been when he was that age, with the same curly black hair, astonishing green eyes, and a face kissed by angels.

He'd been riding in an automobile with a pal of his who'd carelessly smoked four marijuana cigarettes before hitting the road, and who'd even more carelessly rammed his Cadillac Seville head-on into a VW Bug, instantly killing the driver and sending the only passenger to the hospital.

There was no question but that James, Jr., hadn't been driving and was cold sober at the time of the crash. There was nothing with which the police could charge him, nothing for which he could be booked. But the cops downtown at the Twelfth, where the accident occurred, recognized that the handsome young kid they had here was the son of Jimmy the Blink Biondi, the cocksucker who'd beaten more raps than Also Capone ever had. So they thought it would be comical if by mistake they ran cherubic little Jamie here through the city's lovely legal system, sent him along in the wagon with his hophead friend, let both of them spend the night in the pen downtown while waiting for arraignment.

With the one call allowed him, Jamie naturally telephoned his father. Jimmy the Blink sent a lawyer to the Twelfth at once, but the kid was already on his way downtown to the Criminal Courts Building, the wheels of justice grinding exceedingly fast in this singular case. Jimmy then called Carella at the Eight-Seven uptown.

Carella owed him nothing. In fact, he had once arrested Jimmy, only to see him walk when the case came to trial. But the first thing Jimmy said on the phone was, "I know you don't owe me a thing." Which Carella knew, anyway. Unless Jimmy was talking about a long prison term, in which case Carella-and every other cop in this city-owed him a lot. "So what's up?" he asked.

Jimmy told him.

Carella said, "So?”

"I want him out of there," Jimmy said.

"He's eighteen," Carella said. "That makes him ...”

"I'm not talking legal here," Jimmy said.

"If you want legal, he wasn't even charged or booked.”

"Then what are you talking?”

"Human. You know what'll happen to him in that pen.”

"Not if they find out you're his father.”

"They already know I'm his father. That's why he's in the fuckin pen.”

"I'm talking about the people in there with him.”

"You're talking about animals in there with him,”

Jimmy said. "You're talking about junkies and rapists and misfits who don't know how the system works. Don't you know what this city is nowadays? For Christ's sake, don't you know?”

"I know," Carella said.

"All right then, help me. To them, my son's only fresh meat. You got to get him out of there.”

"Why?" Carella asked.

But, of course, he knew why. Unless you subscribed to the theory that the sons were accountable for the sins of the fathers, then the police-if Jimmy was telling the truth-had no right to lock up his son overnight. Jimmy was right; he would not come out of that pen the way he'd gone into it. And whereas a lot of dumb people might later find themselves with their throats slit as a lesson on how the system really worked, it would be too late then to save an innocent kid. Carella had no reason to want to help Jimmy. For all he cared, Jimmy could rot in hell. But Jimmy's son was something else again. And Jimmy had mentioned the key word: human.

So Carella went all the way downtown to the County Courthouse and talked to the sergeant who was the jailer there and asked him to pull Jamie out of the pen.

"The fuck for?" the sergeant asked. "You know whose kid that is?”

"Yank him out," Carella said.

"You on Biondi's ticket?" the sergeant asked.

"How'd you like a broken nose?" Carella asked. "I'm a fuckin sergeant," the sergeant said, reminding Carella that he was outranked.

"Okay, Sergeant," Carella said, "the kid hasn't been charged or booked. You're asking for a lot of grief down the line, believe me.”

"My middle name is grief," the sergeant said, but he was beginning to look doubtful.

"My lieutenant wants him out," Carella said. "Is that high enough up for you? Or you want to call my precinct commander? There's the phone, Sergeant. The number's 377-8034.”

The sergeant looked at the phone.

"Go ahead, call," Carella said.

"Only to check it out," the sergeant said, letting Carella know he wasn't backing down.

Lieutenant Byrnes told him the prisoner should be released in his detective's custody.

They were both going way out on a limb-but they both had sons of their own. With a great show of reluctance and indignation, the sergeant unlocked the pen door and let Jamie out. He seemed unaware that the police had pinned a hand-lettered sign to his back. The sign read: SHORT EYES. This meant that the wearer of the sign had eyes only for short people-in other words, children. The police were telling the assembled crew of law-breakers in the pen that Jamie was a child-abuser. If this did not guarantee his rape, nothing would have. Apparently, Carella had got there just in time. The other prisoners had already taken Jamie's gold Rolex from him and ripped open his custom-made silk shirt.

Jimmy the Blink's lawyer was waiting outside with a subpoena ordering that the prisoner either be charged or released. There was some further red tape about the commanding officer of the arresting precinct having to sign the official release, but the acting officer at the Twelfth-this was now eleven o'clock at night, and Carella should have been home three hours ago-was happy to drop this potentially hot potato. By eleven-fifteen James Biondi, Jr., was stepping into a limousine his father had sent downtown for him. Jimmy's lawyer shook hands with Carella and told him that Mr.

Biondi never forgot a debt.

The next morning, a case of Glenfiddich scotch arrived at the squadroom.

The card inside the carton read: Thanks.

Jimmy Carella resealed the carton and asked Charlie-Car to run it by the whiskey store that had delivered it.

His card read: No, thanks.

Stephen Louis Carella Detectivest2nd Grade But now it was payoff time.

"There was some guy from Chicago looking for a piece," Jimmy said, and blinked, and took another sip of cognac.

"When?" Carella asked.

"Around Christmas sometime. Right after Christmas," Jimmy said. "I forget exactly.”

What had happened was that one of his people who owned a candy store, and incidentally a numbers drop, out in Majesta, called to say some guy from Chicago was in looking to buy a gun. Guy came recommended by a Cicero bookie named Danny Gerardi, who was into horses and football and such.

Jimmy knew the name only vaguely, a small-time book reported to be a bit hotheaded and heavy-handed. But professional courtesy was professional courtesy, and so he told his man in Majesta to see what he could do for him. He was figuring a guy comes in from Chicago, he can't carry a gun on an airplane, can he? So you try to lend a hand.

Professional courtesy, right? This can be a big city when you're a stranger.

"It can," Carella agreed. "Did this stranger happen to leave a name?”

"I'll tell you the truth, I never asked further.”

"Or an address?”

"I'll have to find out," Jimmy said.

He was thinking he'd got off cheap.