Kiss

8.

Four detectives, two to a car, were waiting up the street from the Bowles apartment building at seven-thirty that Friday morning. It had been snowing all night. The world was white. The - sky was crisp and clear and achingly blue. The temperature was five degrees Fahrenheit.

The car engines were running, and the heaters were on.

At twenty past eight, a black limo pulled up to the curb in front of the building. A uniformed driver got out, went into the building, and emerged again a moment later. Meyer got on the pipe.

"Cotton?”

"Yeah?”

"This may be the pickup.”

"We spotted him.”

"Be ready to roll.”

"Yep.”

Some five minutes later, Martin Bowles came out of the building ...

"There's your man," Meyer said.

"Got him," Hawes answered.

... wearing a dark overcoat and a fur hat with earflaps. He walked over the shoveled sidewalk to the limo, said something to the driver who was holding open the rear door on the passenger side, and stepped into the car. The door slammed shut behind him ...

"Stay with him," Meyer said.

"Yep," Hawes said.

... and the limo pulled away from the curb.

Hawes gave it barely enough time to reach the corner and then pulled out after it. He did not even look at O'Brien or Meyer as he drove by.

Kling's eyes, too, were intent on the road ahead.

At ten minutes to nine, a man answering Emma's description of Denker came walking up the street from the direction of the subway kiosk two blocks away. He was hatless, his blond hair blowing in the wind. A long brown-and-green-striped wool muffler was draped around his neck and hanging loose down the front of his camel-hair coat. His hands were in his pockets. He paid no attention to the faded blue Dodge across the street. But Meyer wondered if he'd spotted them.

"Good-looking guy," he said.

"Yeah," O'Brien said.

"With Tilly dead, how's he justifying his existence?”

"Beats me," O'Brien said.

"I mean, who's he protecting her from now?”

"Himself?" O'Brien said. "I would like Dr. Josef Mazlova to take the stand, please," Lowell said.

This was the moment Carella had been dreading.

"Mom," he whispered, "I don't want you to hear this.”

"I want to hear it," she said.

"... truth and nothing but the truth, so help you, God?”

"I do.”

"Angela, take her outside.”

"I don't want to go outside.”

"Mom ...”

"Dr. Mazlova, can you tell me where you are currently employed?”

"I work for the Medical Examiner's Office here in this city.”

Heavy Middle-European accent of some sort, the word work coming out vork. Thin white hair combed across a balding pate. Thick-lensed eyeglasses. Wearing a brown suit and vest, a gold chain hanging on it.

Carella took his mother's hand.

"In what capacity?”

“Mom, please ...”

"I'll be all right.”

"... to the Deputy Chief Medical Examiner.”

"Do you have occasion to teach forensic medicine?”

"I am Associate Professor of Forensic Medicine at Ramsey University.”

"And do you also have occasion to lecture on the subject?”

"I have lectured on forensic medicine at the College of Physicians and Surgeons at Carlyle University, and I have lectured on Criminologic Medicine at the Police Academy here.”

"Have you often testified as an expert witness in homicide trials?”

"I have testified, I would guess, some twenty or thirty times.”

"And in which courts and which counties ...?was And now came the credentials again, flatly and dryly, all the courthouses and the counties, all the honors and awards. And now came Lowell again asking the court to accept Mazlova as an expert witness, and the judge doing so with his subsequent customary instruction to the jury.

"Now then, Dr. Mazlova," Lowell said, "does working as assistant to the Deputy Chief Medical Examiner sometimes entail performing autopsies on trauma victims?”

"Not very often. Only occasionally. In cases considered of unusual importance.”

"Dr. Mazlova, did you on the morning of July eighteenth last year ...”

"Mama, please, I wish you'd go outside.”

"... perform an autopsy on the body of Anthony John Carella?”

"I did.”

"Please, Mom.”

"Shhh!" someone sitting behind them said.

His mother covered his hand with her own. Patted it.

Nodded. Don't worry, the nod said. I'm all right. I'll be all right.

"Can you show us on this body chart what your findings were that day? If it would help you to consult your notes, you may do so.”

No photographs, Carella thought. Thank God, no photographs. Not yet, anyway.

"There were three entrance wounds," Mazlova said, looking at the top sheet on the clipboard in his lap, "bullet wounds, that is, all of them described by an area some thirty-three centimeters in diameter in the region between the lower end of the manubrium ...”

"Excuse me, Doctor, but for the laymen on the jury ...”

"That is the upper part of the breastbone or sternum ...”

"Thank you.”

"... between the manubrium and the ensiform cartilage," Mazlova said, indicating the area on the chart. "The defining lateral boundaries ...”

Carella held tight to his mother's hand.

Sitting on her right, Angela took the other hand. Together, hands clasped, all three sat listening as Dr. Mazlova told of having found two bullets in the victim's left lung ...

Carella squeezed his eyes shut.

... and another in the anterior abdominal wall.

The doctor's voice droned on.

... bone fragments from a perforated rib ...

blood in thoracic cavities ...

Our Father who art in heaven ...

... perforated pulmonary artery ... ... hallowed be Thy name.

... dark red in color ...

Thy kingdom come ...

... likely that the same bullet ...

Papa, he thought. Oh God, Papa.

"... as a result of asphyxia and profuse hemorrhage," the doctor concluded.

"Dr. Mazlova," Lowell said, "did you subsequently recover the bullets that had caused these wounds?”

"I did.”

"Is it usual to find bullets still inside the body in wounds of this type?”

"I would say the bullets do not pass through in sixty, perhaps sixty-five, percent of such cases.”

"What did you do with these bullets after you recovered them?”

"As per instructions from the Forty-fifth Precinct, I bagged them and sent them to the Ballistics Section for identification purposes.”

"From whom did these instructions come?”

"Detective-Lieutenant James Michael Nelson.”

"Were the bullets addressed to anyone in particular at Ballistics?”

"I addressed the Chain of Custody tag to Detective Peter Haggerty.”

"How did you send these bullets to Detective Haggerty?”

"By messenger. A police officer picked up the sealed package for delivery to him.”

"How was the package sealed?”

"With red plastic tape marked in white with the words Evidence-Medical Examiner's Office.”

"Is it your belief that Detective Haggerty received this package?”

"I'm certain he would have signed the Chain of Custody tag when he accepted the package. That is usual procedure. In any event, he telephoned to say he was in receipt of the bullets and wanted to know what the priority was.”

"Thank you, Doctor, I have no further questions," Lowell said.

Addison rose, stepped up to the witness chair, and immediately asked, "What did you tell him?" Mazlova cocked his head to one side, puzzled.

"About the priority," Addison said. "What did you say the priority was?”

"I told him exactly what Lieutenant Nelson had told me.”

"And what was that?”

"That a police detective's father was the victim.”

A police detective's father, Carella thought.

My father.

"No further questions," Addison said, smiling.

"I have no other witnesses, Your Honor,”

Lowell said. "The prosecution rests its case.”

Di Pasco looked up at the wall clock.

"It's been a long and difficult week for all of us," he said. "If the defense has no objections, I'd like to recess until Monday morning. Will you be ready to call your first witness at that time, Mr. Addison?”

"I will, Your Honor. And on behalf of the jury, I thank you for the respite.”

"Yes, well," Di Pasco said dryly, "this court is adjourned till Monday morning at nine," and rapped his gavel once, sharply.

"All rise!" the clerk of the court shouted, and Di Pasco came up off his chair like a bat spreading its wings, and glided out of the courtroom, his black robes trailing.

At five minutes past ten that morning, Martin Bowles came out of his office building at 3301 Steinway, and immediately hailed a taxi. Hawes and Kling-who had parked the unmarked sedan in an underground garage four blocks away-were waiting outside 3303.

The moment they spotted Bowles, they flagged another cab and told the driver to follow the taxi up ahead. This was the first time the driver had ever had cops in his automobile. He looked bored.

The streets and most of the sidewalks down here in the financial section had already been cleared of snow. But many of the people who worked down here lived in the outlying reaches of the city, where the plows would not be through for weeks, if then. This was a city in decline. The cabbie knew it because he drove all over this city, and saw every part of it. Saw the strewn garbage and the torn mattresses - and the plastic debris littering the grassy slopes of every highway, saw the bomb-crater potholes on distant streets, saw the black eyeless windows in the abandoned tenements, saw public phone booths without phones, saw public parks without benches, their slats torn up and carried away to burn, heard the homeless ranting or pleading or crying for mercy, heard the ambulance sirens and the police sirens day and night but never when you needed one, heard it all, and saw it all, and knew it all, and just rode on by.

The police also knew what was happening to this city.

The only difference was they couldn't just ride on by.

Bowles was heading uptown. Not too far uptown, as it turned out, because his cab made a left at the Collins Building with its spectacular curving glass front, and then continued crosstown for several more blocks before taking a right and then a left into a tree-lined street of snow-capped brownstones. The sign on the corner streetpost read JACOB's WAY.

Both detectives were familiar with the street. It was one of the city's block-long surprises, a little jewel pincered between two avenues narrowing toward an imminent intersection. Bowles's cab was stopping in the middle of the block.

"Pull in right here," Hawes said.

"Who you following?" the driver asked. "Jack the Ripper?”

"Yes," Hawes said.

Up ahead, Bowles was getting out of the cab, pulling on his gloves. He went up the steps of the three-story brownstone ahead of him, pulled off his right glove again, and pressed the bell button set in the doorjamb. A moment later, he reached for the doorknob and let himself into the building. Up the street, Hawes and Kling were just getting out of their taxi. The wind was sharp, their eyes were already beginning to water. Hatless, they stood on the sidewalk and waited. The taxi pulled away. The wind keened through the narrow little street.

"Give him a few minutes," Hawes said.

"Yeah.”

Breaths vaporizing on the air.

Hands in their pockets.

Hawes looked at his watch. "Should be settled in by now," he said, and both men walked quickly down the street. The address on the building Bowles had entered was 714.

Kling went swiftly up the steps, stooped to read the name under the doorbell, and came down again just as swiftly. The men began walking toward the opposite corner.

"What'd it say?" Hawes asked.

"Moorthy," Kling said.

"What?”

"Moorthy. More-O-O-Rather-That-Have-Y.”

"Is that a name?”

"I don't know.”

"I never heard of a name like that," Hawes said.

An hour and a half later-by which time both men were almost frozen solid to the sidewalk-Bowles came out of the building. He was not alone this time.

Clinging to his arm as they came down the front steps was a tall blonde wearing a dark fur coat.

"Enter the bimbo," Hawes said.

"Coming this way," Kling said, and both men ambled around the corner like two gents out for a stroll on a balmy afternoon. A moment later, Bowles and the blonde approached the corner, talking animatedly. The blonde laughed. Bowles hailed a taxi, opened the door for her, and then waved goodbye as the taxi pulled away from the curb. The detectives, facing the reflecting plate-glass window of a store selling handbags, watched Bowles flag a second taxi for himself and get into it. They turned from the window as the cab pulled away.

"I want to take another look at that doorbell," Hawes said.

"I'm telling you it said Moorthy," Kling said.

Which was what it did say.

"Well," Hawes said, and shook his head in disbelief.

"Let's get some coffee," Kling said.

He had put his mother into a taxi and sent her home, figuring there was only so much of this she could take in any one day, and now he sat with his sister and Henry Lowell, who was trying to explain to both of them what game plan he'd been following all during the past week.

The dining room at the Golden Lion was a faithful replica of what one might have found in an English coach house, circa 1637. Huge oaken beams crossed the room several feet below the vaulted ceiling, binding together the rough plastered walls. Here and there throughout the room there hung portraits of Elizabethan gentlemen and ladies, white-laced collars and cuffs discreetly echoing the whiteness of the walls, rich velvet robes or gowns adding muted touches of color to the pristine candlelit atmosphere. At a little past noon, the dining room was busy and bustling, the muted hum of voices and occasional laughter drifting into the adjacent bar where the three of them were sitting in a corner booth.

Carella had been in this place only once before, a long time ago, with an attorney named Gerald Fletcher, who'd been trying to tell him he'd killed his own wife. He'd felt uncomfortable that day because the place was too rich for his blood, and he hadn't known what the hell Fletcher was up to. Today he felt uncomfortable because he had the distinct impression that Assistant District Attorney Henry Lowell was hitting on his sister.

Angela.

His kid sister.

A married woman, albeit tentatively, in that the outcome of her husband's commitment to shake a deeply embedded cocaine habit could very well determine whether or not she stayed married to him.

Nonetheless, a married woman with three kids.

Sitting there beside Carella, same slanting brown eyes as her brother, giving her an exotic Oriental look, hair an inky black as opposed to his merely dark brown, hanging on every word Lowell said.

"What I tried to do was link the gun irrefutably to Cole," he said. "My first witness ...”

"Assanti," Angela said.

"Yes," he said, nodding, "Assanti. He told the jury he'd seen Cole coming out of your father's bakery with the gun in his hand. ...”

"Or a gun like it," Carella said.

"Exactly, but I think I got that point across, don't you?" he said directly to Angela. "That the gun he saw looked exactly like the gun I introduced in evidence?”

"What was that all about, by the way?" Angela said. - "Well, in the sidebar, Addison was trying to have the gun evidence excluded all over again.

No gun, no case. But Di Pasco refused to fall for that, he'd already ruled in the pretrial hearing. Which is why Addison came back later with all that garbage about a search warrant and an arrest warrant ...”

Angela nodding.

"... and firing his gun outside the guidelines, all that. Point is, I don't think that'll wash with the jury. Because I think I did show, through subsequent witnesses-the Ballistics expert, and the medical examiner, and Wade himself ...”

"Wade was important," Carella said.

"Enormously important," Lowell said to Angela. "He's the one who took the gun from Cole, he's the one who sent it to Ballistics for test-firing ...”

"That was very good, what you did," Angela said.

"Showing all the names on the tag ...”

"Yes, the Chain of Custody," Lowell said, smiling.

"Yes, that was very good. So there'd be no mistake about who got the gun and the bullets and all that.”

"Point is," Lowell said, again addressing all this to Angela, "we now have Assanti saying he heard the shots, and saw the ...”

"Three shots in rapid succession,”

Carella said.

"Exactly. To establish the gun as a semiautomatic," Lowell said to Angela.

"Yes," she said, nodding.

Was she flirting with him? Carella wondered.

His little sister?

His little married sister with a husband and three goddamn kids?

"Heard the shots," Lowell said to her, "and saw the killer, and saw the gun in the killer's hand. And next we have Haggerty from Ballistics saying he tested the gun and it's definitely the gun that fired the murder bullets ...”

"I thought he was very good, too," Angela said.

"Excellent witness," Lowell agreed, nodding, and all but patting her left hand where it rested on the tabletop, her gold wedding band and diamond engagement ring clearly in evidence for any and all to see. "Addison couldn't get anywhere with his cross, he knew there - wasn't a damn thing he could do to shake him. And then we had Wade saying this was the very gun he'd taken from Sonny Cole, which of course establishes a direct line from the gun to Ballistics ...”

"He seems like a very good cop," Angela said to her brother.

"He is," Carella said.

"Strong witness, very strong," Lowell said.

"Addison went at him hammer and tongs, but he wouldn't be shaken, either. He'll score well with the jury, wait and see. It doesn't hurt that he's black, by the way.”

"Does that bother you?" Angela asked. "The number of blacks on the jury?”

"Well, I discussed this with your brother before the trial began. What I've been trying to do is stay away from the black-white angle ...”

"I don't think it's been brought into the trial at all," Angela said.

"And I hope it won't be. But Addison's still to be heard from, you know. Point is, we then had Dr. Mazlova saying the bullets he sent to Ballistics were the bullets he'd recovered during autopsy. The last link in a clear and direct chain. I merely hope the jury followed it all.”

"Oh, I'm sure they did," Angela said. "It was all very clear and ... well, direct.”

Carella looked at her.

"Addison's star witness is Cole himself,”

Lowell said, "and of course he'll lie about everything that happened. He's a habitual criminal being tried for Murder Two, and what-ever the verdict in this trial, he'll be standing trial later for the murder of that little girl.

I argued initially that both counts be tried together, you know, because there are overlapping transactions, you see, and the evidence in one case would appear to be probative evidence in the other. Cole's taking of a hostage, for example, when confronted by the police ..." He turned suddenly to Angela and said in explanation, "He and his partner were holding a sixteen-year-old girl hostage ...”

"Yes, I know.”

"And the partner killed her. Guiltlike flight would be admissible as evidence, you see, the hostage-taking. On the other hand, trying both murders at the same time would obviously - be prejudicial to the accused, so perhaps the decision was a fair one, who knows? In any case, we're stuck with two trials, and my job is to win this one.”

"Yes," Angela said, and smiled encouragingly.

"My job is to make sure he never sees another sunrise without bars in front of it.”

He thinks that's poetic, Carella thought.

And realized with amazement that Angela thought so, too.

"Point is," Lowell said, "Cole's going to lie to save his neck. The only people who tell the truth in court are law-abiding citizens. The murderers and thieves lie. Always.”

Angela nodded as if she were hearing wisdom dispensed by a guru on a mountaintop.

"I want Addison to lead him down the garden," Lowell said, almost gleefully. "I want Cole to parade all his damn lies, so I can knock them over one by one.”

"Are you confident you can do that?" Carella asked.

"Oh, am I!" Lowell said, and grinned in evil anticipation. And then, suddenly, he turned to Angela again and said, "Were either of you planning to have lunch downtown? Because the food here is marvelous, and I'd be delighted if you'd join ...”

“I have to run," Carella said.

Angela hesitated. Her eyes met Carella's. There was nothing in his eyes that she could read, but they'd been brother and sister for a good long time now.

"Thank you," she said, "I have to get back home.”

And could not resist adding, "Maybe some other time.”

They wandered from gallery to gallery, walking along Hopper Street toward the Scotch Meadow Park, the area taking its name from the fact that Hopper ran parallel to the park, hence Hopscotch, trendy and memorable. O'Brien and Meyer followed at a respectable distance behind them, enjoying the sunshine but not the fierce cold, turning to look into a window whenever Denker and Emma did, moving on again past art gallery and boutique, glancing now and again at windows displaying sandals, or jewelry, or antiques, or drug paraphernalia imported from Bombay, trying to make themselves look like tourists browsing a tourist area, rather than detectives following a possible killer and his prey.

At a little before two o'clock, Denker and Emma went into a little soup-and-sandwich joint on Matthews. Meyer and O'Brien bought hot dogs and Cokes from a street-corner cart, and stood outside in the cold, eating and drinking, waiting for them to emerge again.

They hoped it would not be a long lunch.

It was.

They did not come out onto the street again until close to three-thirty.

"Let's go home, kiddies," Meyer whispered.

But they were not going home. They continued wandering the area all afternoon, seemingly impervious to the cold.

Shivering, the detectives at last saw Denker hailing a taxi and putting Emma into it. He himself caught another cab. He was their prey; they followed him.

At twenty minutes to five that afternoon, the four detectives converged outside Bowles's office building. Hawes and Kling were already in a car parked across the street, ready to follow Bowles's limo, which was waiting for him at the curb.

O'Brien and Meyer had followed Denker downtown, surprised when he led them to Bowles's building, but unsurprised-now that he was here- to see Bowles come out and walk directly toward him. The stock market had closed at four; they guessed that Bowles had asked Denker to meet him here at four-thirty, and had been a little late getting downstairs.

The two men did not shake hands. All four detectives watched as they walked toward the limo at the curb. O'Brien and Meyer stood there as the limo moved off. Across the street, they saw Hawes pull the unmarked Dodge away from the curb and into a wide U-turn. A moment later, the Dodge fell in some four car-lengths behind the limo.

Like a submarine in murky waters, the limo nosed its way through late afternoon traffic. Dusk was upon the city; knife-edged towers loomed against a sky turning purple to the west.

It had been a sunny day; it would be a spectacular sunset. There were things in this city that still caused the heart to leap in something other than fright.

The men sat in a black leather, tinted-window cocoon. The glass privacy panel was up, and the driver could not hear what they were saying.

Nonetheless, Andrew spoke in a voice almost a whisper; he did not trust limos with their little toggles and switches, and he especially did not trust men who drove limos for a living.

"Do you own a gun?" he asked.

"No," Bowles said. "A gun? No. Of course not.”

"I thought you might.”

"No, I don't.”

Bowles had lowered his voice, too. The limo purred gently in the encroaching darkness.

Outside, there was a city waiting to pounce. But the limo was impervious. The limo spoke the same language in every nation on earth. The limo said, Here is wealth, here is power.

"Is there a safe in the apartment?”

"Yes.”

"Where is it?”

"In the master bedroom. Why?”

"I plan to do a burglary.”

Bowles looked at him.

"Can you let me have the combination?”

"I'm not sure that's such a good idea,”

Bowles said.

"I think it'll work.”

"A burglary and then what?”

"Do the job," Andrew said.

"That's what I thought.”

"Make it look like a felony murder.”

He glanced at the separating glass partition.

He could perceive the driver only dimly through the tinted glass.

"Do you know what a felony murder is?" he whispered.

"I think so.”

"A murder committed during the commission of a felony.”

Still whispering.

"A burglary is a felony.”

"Yes, I know that. Why didn't you let that bus hit her yesterday? She told me she almost got hit by a bus, but you ...”

“Suppose it only sent her to the hospital?”

"Well ...”

"You know a more public place than a hospital? You want me to do this thing with hundreds of nurses and doctors and ...”

"Well ...”

"... visitors all over the place? The reason I'm asking about a gun, I want to make this thing look like a burglar picked up a weapon of convenience. Do you know what that is? A weapon of convenience?”

"Of course I know what that is.”

"It's a weapon that just happens to be there.”

"Yes, I know.”

"A weapon convenient to the ...”

"Yes, yes," Bowles said impatiently.

"But I just told you, I don't have a gun.”

"What I thought," Andrew said, "is the burglar gets surprised while he's in there, has to kill the lady in self-defense.”

"Well," Bowles said, and shrugged.

"Which is why I'd need the combo to the safe.”

"Why?”

"To open it. To take what's in it. Because this is supposed to look like an interrupted burglary.”

"Well," Bowles said again.

"So what's the combo?”

"I don't think I like this," Bowles said.

"Why not?”

"Because it'll come right back to me.”

"How?”

"My wife's already been to the police ...”

"I know.”

"... told them someone was trying to kill her.”

"Yes, I know.”

"So now a burglar conveniently ...”

"Happens all the time.”

"Maybe so. But if it happens to Emma, the police will automatically ...”

"Let them.”

"Sure," Bowles said, and nodded sourly.

"This is some accident you've arranged, I've got to tell you.”

"I think it's better than an accident.”

"I told you I wanted this to look like an accident. So you're arranging a fake ... what do I tell the police when they get there?”

"You'll be in Los Angeles," Andrew said.

Bowles looked at him. "Far, far away," Andrew said, and smiled.

Bowles kept looking at him.

"In fact, you can leave for Los Angeles ...”

"Why would I go to L.A.?”

"It doesn't have to be L.A., I don't care where you go. Where would you like to go? You can go anyplace but Chicago. The point is, you'll be out of town when it happens. You'll leave three, four days before it happens, the police'll call you and tell you all about this terrible tragedy.”

"They'll know right off," Bowles said.

"Knowing is one thing. Proving is another.”

Bowles was silent, thinking.

"I'm sure Emma told them about you," he said at last. "That I hired a private eye.

I'm sure she'd have reported that.”

"So what? Let them find A. N. Darrow.”

"Well ...”

"Who doesn't exist.”

Bowles was still thinking, trying to find holes in it. Andrew didn't mind that. Sometimes a devil's advocate was valuable.

"They'll know the burglar had the combo,”

Bowles said.

"No, I'll rough up the box, make it look like I worked it.”

"What'll you take from it?”

"Whatever's in it. What's in it?”

"Lots of stuff.”

"Like what?”

"I'm still not sure I want to go along with this.”

"Okay, forget it. I'll find another way.

Only, I have to tell you, you and your fucking accident clause are turning this job into ...”

"You knew what you were getting into.”

"That's true. But I don't like you shooting down a perfectly good idea. It's me who has to do this, not you. What is it? Don't you trust me going into that box?”

"The price we agreed on was a hundred thousand. There's at least that much in the safe.”

"In what?”

"Jewelry, treasury bills, cash ...”

“If you don't trust me ...”

"I didn't say that.”

"If you don't trust me, then take out anything negotiable. Just leave the jewelry. Just leave what a woman would normally keep in a bedroom box.”

“That'd still come to something like fifty thousand dollars' worth of stuff.”

"I'm not a jewel thief, I don't want the goddamn jewels. I'll put them in a pay locker someplace, you pick the place. A bus terminal, a railroad station, whatever. The minute you pay me the second half, I'll hand over the key. Is that fair?”

"If I'm out of town, how can ...?was "I'll wait for you, but I don't want to come anywhere near you till the police get through questioning you.”

"I'll have to think about where," Bowles said.

"Yeah, well, think about it fast, okay? I want to get this thing done. Your wife's starting to give me a pain in the ass.”

"Tell me all about it.”

"Also, I have business to take care of in Chicago. I didn't intend making this job a lifetime career.”

"Well, I'm sorry about that. But you knew what ...”

"Yeah, yeah. Incidentally ...”

He turned to Bowles.

"Did you kill Tilly?”

"No," Bowles said.

"Have the cops been around?”

"Yes.”

"To ask about the Tilly hit?”

"Yes. They wanted to know where I was. And so on.”

"And did you tell them?”

"I did.”

"Where were you?”

"I didn't kill Tilly.”

"That's not what I asked.”

"I was having lunch with a client.”

"Did the cops buy that?”

"They went to see her. She confirmed what I'd told them.”

"Uh-huh. A lady, huh?”

"Yes.”

"Who is she?”

"That's none of your business.”

"You're right," Andrew said, and smiled. "So have you thought it over yet?”

"I want you there when I open the locker,”

Bowles said. "Fine," Andrew said. "Just pick a place convenient to both of us. We're making a federal case out of this fucking ...”

"Wherever," Bowles said.

"Fine, what's the combo?”

"My birthday," Bowles said. "September twenty-third.”

"You're a Virgo, huh?”

"Yes.”

"No wonder you don't trust anybody. So what is that? Nine, two, three?”

"Yes.”

"What's the right-left sequence?”

"Four to the right, three to the left, two to the right.”

Andrew was writing this down. He looked up and said, "Four to the right, stop on nine. Three to the left, stop on two. Two to the right, stop on three. Is that it?”

"That's it. When do you plan to do this?”

"As soon as possible. Few things to figure out yet. I'll let you know." The intercom erupted with an audible click.

"We're on Lewiston, Mr. Bowles," the driver said. "May I have that address again, please?”

"Pulling in," Kling said.

"I see him.”

The limo was nudging its way gently toward the curb.

"Roll it by," Kling said.

Hawes drove past the limo as it maneuvered into what seemed to be the only free parking space on the block.

"Better let me out.”

Hawes double-parked only long enough to let Kling out. Up the street, Denker was just getting out of the limo. From a distance, Kling watched him. He leaned over, said something into the car, and then straightened up and closed the door. Turning away from the car, he walked to a building some two doors up from where the limo had parked. The limo was pulling away from the curb now. Kling started up the street. By the time he reached the building, Denker had already gone inside. He wrote the address into his pad, waited a moment or two, and then stepped into the small entrance hallway.

There were thirteen mailboxes on the wall to the right. One of them was marked SUPER. The other twelve were numbered for each floor of the building, three to a floor, starting with 1A, 1B, and 1C on the first floor and ending with 4A, 4B, and 4C on the fourth floor.

4C was the only mailbox without an identifying name on it. A plastic stick-on label above the boxes, black lettering on a silver field, gave the name, address, and telephone number of the real estate company managing the building. Kling copied down the information. When he came out of the building, Hawes was just pulling the sedan into the space the limo had vacated.

"What've we got?" Hawes asked.

"Nothing yet," Kling said. "We've got to make some phone calls.”

"Tomorrow," Hawes said. "It's already ten after five.”

"No, today," Kling said.

The telephone company gave Hawes a listing for a Dr. Kumar Moorthy at 714 Jacob's Way and advised him that the unpublished number had been in service for the past four years now. The supervisor Hawes spoke to outdid herself by informing him that this was the only telephone listed for that address. Which meant single occupancy for the three-story brownstone. Too bad he didn't know who Dr. Kumar Moorthy was.

"Got to be Indian," Parker said, looking at the pad on Hawes's desk. "That's an Indian name, for sure.”

"Which tribe?" Hawes asked him.

"I'm talking Indian Indian.”

"No kidding?”

At his own desk, Kling was on the phone with a woman from Bridge Realty. He motioned for them to tone it down. She was telling him that apartment 4C at 321 South Lewiston was rented to a man named Raymond Androtti. Kling wondered if the absence of a nameplate in the 4C mailbox meant anything at all.

"Do you have a renter named Andrew Denker?" he asked.

"Denker? No, sir.”

"Or Darrow?”

"No, sir. I can give you the names of all the renters in the building ...”

"Yes, would you do that, please?”

She ran down the list for him. As she'd told him, there was neither a Denker nor a Darrow. Nor was there anyone with the initials A. D. or A.N.D. "How long has Mr. Androtti been renting the apartment?" Kling asked.

"Since last July.”

"On a lease?”

"Yes, sir. A year-long lease.”

"Well, thank you very much," he said.

"Not at all," the woman said, and hung up.

Kling looked up the name Raymond Androtti in the directories for all five sectors of the city. There was a listing for an R. Androtti in Majesta. He dialed it.

"What you should do," Parker told Hawes, "is try every hospital in the city. If this guy's an Indian doctor, that's where you'll find him. We got more Indian doctors in this city than they got in all Bombay.”

Hawes was thinking that wasn't such a bad idea. How the hell was Parker coming up with all these good ideas all of a sudden?

"Hello, Mr. Androtti," Kling said into his telephone.

"Yes?”

"Raymond Androtti?”

"No, this is Ralph Androtti.”

"Is there a Raymond Androtti at this number?”

"No, I'm sorry, there isn't.”

"Thank you," Kling said. "Sorry to bother you.”

He hung up and began dialing down the list of all the other people named Androtti, although not Raymonds. It was not a common name, there were only eight of them scattered throughout the city. Hawes had already begun dialing down the list of hospitals in his personal directory.

"Hello, I'm trying to locate a man named Raymond Androtti," Kling said. "Can you tell me ...?was "Wrong number.”

"Hello, this is Detective Cotton Hawes, 87th Squad? I'm looking for a doctor named Kumar Moorthy, I wonder if ...”

Kling was finished with his comparatively short list before Hawes had made even a small dent in his. Parker, who had relieved at a quarter to four, and who was enjoying a relatively quiet night watch, did not offer to help either of them when they split the list and continued dialing. By twenty minutes past seven, they had called every hospital in the city and had not located a doctor named Kumar Moorthy.

"Call the Indian Consulate," Parker suggested.

Hawes looked at him in something close to wonder.

Parker shrugged as if to say Elementary, my dear Watson. The consul Hawes spoke to was a man named Ajit Sakti Vedam, and he spoke with a marked British accent. He told Hawes that indeed they were familiar with Dr. Moorthy, and then explained that the doctor taught Sanskrit, Hindu, Bengali, and Nepali at Ramsey University and was a frequent and honored guest here at the consulate.

"As well as seminars on Modern India, Indic Studies, and Hindu and Buddhist Controversies," Vedam said.

"Would you know how I can reach him?" Hawes asked.

"I believe I have an address for him in New Delhi," Vedam said.

"New Delhi?”

"Yes, sir. He is there enjoying a sabbatical.”

"When will he be back, would you know?" Hawes asked.

"I believe he left in September,”

Vedam said.

"Did he mention how long he'd be gone?”

"I'm sorry, sir.”

"Would you know what he's doing with his apartment meanwhile?" Hawes asked.

"I have no idea, sir.”

"Renting it? Or whatever?”

"I'm sorry.”

"Thank you very much, Mr. Vedam," Hawes said, and put the receiver back on its cradle.

"Any other ideas?" he asked Parker.

"Sure. Go on the earie.”

The request for a court order to begin surveillance of the telephone equipment installed at 714 Jacob's Way stated that the detectives of the 87th Squad were actively engaged in an ongoing homicide investigation and had good and reasonable cause to believe that the current occupant or occupants of the building might have knowledge valuable to the investigation, which knowledge might be revealed through aforesaid surveillance.

The simultaneous request for a court order to begin surveillance of the telephone equipment installed in apartment 4C at 321 South Lewiston stated that the detectives of the 87th Squad had good and reasonable cause to believe that the current occupant of the apartment had entered into a conspiracy to commit murder, and that sufficient cause for arrest might be divulged through aforesaid surveillance.

Both petitions asked for a No-Knock provision granting permission to enter and install listening devices on whatever telephones discovered therein.

Both petitions were denied in their entireties.

This being America, that was the end of that.

Parker suggested that they go in, anyway.

Plant their bugs, get what they needed, worry about the rest of it later. He was just whistling in the wind; he knew as well as the others that anything they uncovered through an illegal wiretap would be considered fruit of the poisonous tree and would be kicked out of court in a minute.

They were right back where they started.

Until Jimmy the Blink called on Saturday morning.