Money, Money, Money

11 .

WILL GUESSED this was why he'd never been to bed with a hooker.

You went to bed with somebody who you had to pay, she put on her clothes directly afterward, said, "Thanks, I had a nice time," and went home. He guessed. But with a woman like Antonia Belandres, you sat here on a Saturday morning, drinking orange juice and coffee, and eating the chocolate croissants he'd gone down to the bakery to get, and it was … well … intimate. You could have sex with a hooker, but he didn't guess you could get intimate with one.

Antonia was wearing nothing but a little silky peignoir she'd taken from her bedroom closet. Will was wearing the slacks and shirt he'd put on when he went downstairs for the croissants. It was a little past ten-thirty. The snow had stopped and the sun was shining. In the street outside, everything looked clean and white and sparkling. He told Antonia that maybe they should go for a walk later on, if she thought she might like that. She told him she might like that a lot. He smiled and nodded. She smiled and nodded back.

He didn't tell her his plan until they were in her bed together again, and then only after they'd made love yet another time. She was cuddled in his arms, the blanket pulled up over their shoulders, frost still limning the window across the room, sunlight striking the glass.

"I know how we can both become millionaires," he said.

"Yes, how?" she said.

Black hair fanned out on the pillow. Brown eyes opened wide. Wearing no makeup. Her face looking as expectant as a child's on Christmas Day.

"We use the bills."

"What bills?" she asked.

"The super-bills."

"Use them?" she asked. "How do you mean?"

"You said you send any suspect bills to the Federal Reserve."

"Yes?"

"That's what you told the detectives."

"That's right. That's what we do."

"Somebody brings in a bill that looks phony …"

"Right, we send it to the Fed."

"You confiscate the bill, is that right?"

"That's right."

"Do you give the person a genuine bill in exchange?"

Which was just what the Treasury Department had done with the eight grand they'd taken from him. But he didn't know that.

"Of course not," she said. "That would be the same as condoning counterfeiting."

"Do you give the person a receipt for the bill?"

"Not if we know for certain it's counterfeit," she said. "In that case, we simply take the bill out of circulation."

"Even if the person didn't know it was counterfeit?"

"Too bad for him."

"How about if you're notsure it's counterfeit? If it's one of those terrific bills you have to send to the Fed?"

"Then we give the customer a receipt for it, yes."

"And if the Fed decides it's phony?"

"It never comes back to us. They take it out of circulation, and notify us. We in turn notify the customer, and that's that."

"What if they say it's real?"

"They return it to us, we notify the customer, and he comes to pick it up. No harm done all around."

"Okay, what if youdon't send a suspect bill to the Fed? What if you just take it from the customer, give him a receipt for it … and keep it."

"Keep it?"

"Yes. And then two weeks later … or however long it usually takes the Fed to get back to you …"

"It varies."

"Two weeks, three weeks, whatever, you call the customer and tell him Sorry, your bill was phony and the Fed has confiscated it. Goodbye, sir, and good luck."

Antonia looked at him.

"That would be stealing," she said.

"Yes," he said. "But it wouldn't be stealingreal money."

Antonia was still looking at him.

"It would be stealingcounterfeit money," he said.

"What's the difference?" she said. "I fail to see the difference."

"That's exactly my point. If nobody cantell the difference, we can use tons of fake money just as if it's real money. We can use fake money to pay for anything we buy."

Which was just what Jerry Hoskins had tried to do with the Mexicans. But Will didn't know this, either.

"It still seems like stealing to me," Antonia said.

"Ain't nothing wrong with stealing," Will said, and kissed her again.

"Do you like violin music?" she asked.

FAT OLLIE was eating.

He was also listening.

For him, he was eating lightly. That is to say, he was eating a baloney sandwich on rye with butter and mustard, and a sour pickle, and a potato knish, and a banana, and he was drinking coffee while he and Carella listened to the tape they'd retrieved from the recorder Tigo Gomez was wearing when the unidentified blonde-now in the hospital, andstill unidentified-shot and killed him. Carella was eating a tuna and tomato sandwich on white, and drinking a glass of milk. The two detectives were in the interrogation room at the Eight-Seven, where Ollie seemed to be spending a lot of time lately, now that he was responsible for Carella's life two times over. Carella devoutly wished he would not save his life a third time, otherwise he might become a permanent fixture up here.

Ollie much preferred eating to listening to tapes.

The trouble with police tapes was that they were very rarely interesting. If you went to see a movie or watched a television show, or even if you were desperate and decided to read a book, there was usually a story you could follow. Listening to a tape was the same as hearing people talking, except that when you were in a room with people and they were babbling away, you didn't always recognize how boring it was. Listening to a tape, you were always aware of the fact that you were hoping these people wouldsay something you could use against them. Usually, there was one person wearing the wire and the other person or persons present were totally unaware that they were being recorded. So they rambled on about anything under the sun, while you sat there with your thumb up your ass waiting for some kind of plot development. Even though Ollie did not much enjoy reading books, he knew all about plot development now that he'd started writing his thriller, which to tell the truth he'd found much easier than learning the first three bars of "Night and Day." In fact, he couldn't understand why the guys who wrote such shit got paid so much money for it.

The interesting thing about the tape Gomez had recorded was that Wiggins hadn't shot him at once. Because anyone listening to it-as Ollie and Carella were listening to it now-had to recognize from minute one that Tigo was on a fishing expedition and that what he was fishing for was an admission of murder. But Wiggins had something else on his mind, and as the detectives listened and ate-Ollie's banana was particularly tasty with a baloney sandwich smothered in mustard-they began to become more and more interested in what Wiggins was saying than in Gomez's inept attempts to wring a confession from him.

Since Gomez's voice was the only one they'd heard before now, they cleverly detected which of the two speakers was the one wearing the wire and doing the fishing, which easily enabled them to assign the other voice to Wiggins. And since both detectives were used toreading transcripts of tapes, they automatically beganlistening that way, labeling each voice as it came from the recorder. They were frankly getting bored stiff with Tigo's clumsy interrogation, expecting Wiggy to yell "The fuck youdoin, man?" and shoot the silly jackass dead, when all at once Wiggy began talking about the computers he'd tapped into up at Wadsworth and Dodds. Ollie wondered what the man had been doing up there at his future publishing house, but Wiggy wasn't about to explain that. Instead, he began talking about what he'd found on the computers. Ollie looked at Carella. Carella shrugged.

WIGGY:

All these files labeled with girls' names.

TIGO:

Whut you mean names?

WIGGY:

Rina and Bela and Ada and Gina and Tessie, and here's the one really got me … Diana.

TIGO:

Like Princess Di?

WIGGY:

Yeah, but it's Diamondback. It's code for Diamondback.

TIGO:

How you know that, Wigg?

WIGGY:

It was on the PC. Man left it wide open for me when I showed him the ugly. D-I-A-N-A. Right there in the name Diamondback, juss mixed up and turned all aroun, is all.

TIGO:

If the man put a code in there, why he want to gosplain it to you?

WIGGY:

Nobody splained it to me, man. I doped it out all by myself. Same as how B-E-L-A is for Lebanon. And G-I-N-A is for Nicaragua.

TIGO:

Why they want to do that for, Wigg?

WIGGY:

To hide what theydoin in those places. Man, don't get me wrong. I don't give a shit bout the mischief they into anyplace else. But when they buyin dope in Mexico and sellin it up here in Diamondback …

TIGO:

We selling dope here, too, Wigg.

WIGGY:

It ain't the same thing, man. They sellin dope up here for altogether different reasons. Man, they shittin on us black folk is what they doin.

TIGO:

I just don't know, Wigg. I mean …

WIGGY:

What is it you don't know? I justtole you what's happening, what is it you don't unnerstan?

There was a long silence on the tape. Ollie peeled another banana. He looked at Carella again. Carella shrugged again.

TIGO:

You really think all this is true, huh? Cause to me …

WIGGY:

Man, I was lookin straight in they computer! I seed all this stuff with my own eyes!

TIGO:

It just sounds, you know, like science-fiction, you know? This file named Mothah you can't open cause you need a password, an all this money floatin aroun, and these people causin trouble all over the world, an tryin'a fuck us right here in Diamon'back, I mean, man, it sounds like suppin you'd see in amovie, you know what I'm sayin, man?

WIGGY:

It'd make agood movie, that's for damn sure, but it'strue, man! I got it from theycomputer

TIGO:

That don't mean it couldn't of been garbage in there.

WIGGY:

The point is, whut we gonnado about it, Tigo? I mean, these guys are messin with ourpeople!

There was another long silence.

"What the hell's he talkin about?" Ollie asked.

"Shhh," Carella said.

WIGGY:

I think we should go to the police, tellthem the story.

"Good idea," Ollie said to the tape.

There was the sound of a phone being dialed.

"He's calling me," Ollie said.

"I figured."

They listened to Wiggy's end of the conversation. Ollie opened a bag of potato chips. Carella finished his glass of milk. There was the sound of the phone receiver clicking onto the cradle. Ollie dipped into the bag of chips.

WIGGY:

Weeks is on the way.

TIGO:

That's just great.

WIGGY:

You maybe seed him aroun the streets. Fat Ollie Weeks. He's this big fat guy.

"Hey, watch it," Ollie said.

TIGO:

You goan tell him you a drug dealer?

WIGGY:

No, I don't have to tell him that.

TIGO:

Then how come youknow these people are sellin dope up here?

WIGGY:

I coulda heard.

TIGO:

Howyou coulda heard, Wigg? You goan tell the fuzz this man Hoskins come up here Christmastime, sold you a hundred keys of coke to distribute to li'l kiddies in the streets?

"Here we go," Ollie said.

"Shhh," Carella said again.

WIGGY:

No. But I could …

TIGO:

You goan tell him you shot this man Hoskins back of the head an dropped him in a garbage can? You goan do that, Wigg?

"Go for it, man," Ollie said.

WIGGY:

I'm sayin' it don't seem right, what these mothahs are doin to our people.

TIGO:

They's evil folk in this world, itis a shame.

WIGGY:

You know what the name Nettie stans for?

TIGO:

Nettie, you say?

WIGGY:

N-E-T-T-I-E. You know what word that name is hidin' in?

TIGO:

No, I has to admit I do not.

WIGGY:

Counterfeit. That's the word. You search that word, you find Nettie lurkin in there. You double-click on her name, you transported straight to Nettieland. You want to hear this, man, or you want to stay ignorant the ress of your life?

"This is all bullshit," Ollie said.

"Let's hear what the man …"

"He's hallucinatin," Ollie said.

"For Christ'ssake!" Carella said, and snapped off the recorder, and shot Ollie a look. Ollie dug into the bag of chips again. Carella hit the rewind button. Ollie looked offended.

WIGGY:

… hear this, man, or you want to stay ignorant the ress of your life? What these mothahs doin, they buyin fake money in I-ran. Hunnerd-dollar bills. So good you want to lick'em right off the page. They buy 'em at a fifty-percent discount. That means they pays half a century for a C-note, they ahead of the game by fifty already, you dig, man?

TIGO:

I'm listening.

WIGGY:

They takes this fake money to Mexico, where they buy high quality shit with it. You member what that white dude was sellin us aroun Christmastime?

TIGO:

The one you shot and thowed in the garbage can?

WIGGY:

The hunnerd keys we tested, you member it?

TIGO:

I member you shootin him. Why'd you kill that man, Wigg?

WIGGY:

Point I'm makin is them hunnerd keys was purchased with funny money, man. They gettintwice the dope they should be gettin cause they payin for it with bills coss 'em onyhalf what they face value is. You see the scam they got goin here, man?

TIGO:

Wish we'da thought of it, Wigg.

WIGGY:

Butweain't gettin no fifty-percent payback here in Diamondback, man! We payin the full an honorable price for the shit. And they takin the big profit they make up here an usin it for financin all they activities all over the world, you know what I'm sayin? Man, we payin 'em good money, an they usin it to start some revolution inAfrica someplace!

TIGO:

Who you mean bythey, man? Who'sthey?

WIGGY:

I don'tknow who they is. But I'll bet you any amount of money it's right there in that folder markedMothah. You fine the password to that folder, man, you on the way to trackin downzackly who these people are.

TIGO:

Why you so keen on knowin that, man?

WIGGY:

What's the matter with you, Teeg, you some kind of fool? They fuckin us six ways from the middle! You close Nettie and you double-click on Diana, you know what you fine in that Diamondback file? You fine what the plan is forus, man. You see what theyreally doin up here, you see how this thing comes full circle.

TIGO:

What is it they doin, Wigg? I'm sorry, but I don't see what …

WIGGY:

They buildin a community ofdope fiends, man. They keepin the nigger in his place so he can't work, he can't vote, he can't do a fuckin thing but shoot H in his arm or sniff coke up his nose! They turnin us into fuckin slaves all over again.

TIGO:

Man, Wiggy. wiggy: Yeah, man, is right. That's why I called that fat hump cop. They got to know what's goin on here, Teeg. Somebody got to put a stop to it.

TIGO:

One thing I don't get, Wigg.

WIGGY:

What's that?

TIGO:

These dudes in I-ran? The ones gettin paidreal money for the fake stuff?

WIGGY:

Who gives a shit about them, man? You unnerstan what I'msayin here?

TIGO:

I was juss wonderin what theydo with that money, that's all.

The shots exploding from the recorder startled both detectives. Ollie actually dropped the bag of potato chips. Screams erupted over the ugly stutter of automatic gunfire. A woman's voice shouted, "The window!" There was the sound of glass breaking. Heavy breathing. More shots. Footsteps clanging on metal. The breathing harsher now. Yet more shots. More footsteps pounding. And then Carella's own voice came from the machine.

CARELLA:

You know who did this to you? Who, Tigo? Can you tell me?

TIGO:

Mother.

CARELLA:

Yourmother shot …?

TIGO:

Nettie.

CARELLA:

Is that your mother's name?

TIGO:

Diana.

CARELLA:

I don't under …

There was more shooting.

Heavy breathing.

OLLIE:

That's two, Steve.

"Who the fuck is Mother?" Ollie asked.

FROM WHERE SVI COHEN stood center stage, he could see the vast enclosing arms of Clarendon Hall, from the orchestra level soaring upward to the first and second tiers, and the dress circle, and the front and rear balconies. A giant of a man himself, he felt dwarfed by the golden sweep of the most prestigious concert hall in the United States. It was here that Jascha Heifetz, a seventeen-year-old Russian violinist, made his explosive American debut in 1917. It was here-not a decade later-that a ten-year-old prodigy named Yehudi Menuhin stunned the world of classical music with a violin style that combined the elegance of Kreisler, the sonority of Elman, and the technique of Heifetz himself. Here, too, on this very stage, the great Russian pianist Svetlana Dyalovich had made her American debut. Svi stood staring out at the red-carpeted space, overwhelmed.

"So how does it look to you?" Arthur Rankin asked, beaming.

Rankin was the Philharmonic's conductor, a man in his sixties, a man who'd been playing violin since he was four years old and conducting since he was thirty, but in the presence of this thirty-seven-year-old genius from Tel Aviv, he was virtually awe-stricken.

"Wait till you hear the sound," he said.

"I can imagine," Svi said.

The orchestra was beginning to tune up.

Tonight's program would start with "La Gazza Ladra"-the "Thieving Magpie" overture from Rossini'sThe Barber of Seville. They would then play Mozart's no. 40 in G Minor to conclude the first half of the evening. There would be a twelve-minute intermission, and then Svi Cohen would take the stage. The orchestra had been rehearsing all of the pieces for the past week now, but this was the first time they would be playing the Mendelssohn E Minor with the Israeli violinist.

Rankin tapped his baton for silence.

"Gentlemen?" he said. "May I introduce our honored guest?"

THE PLAN was a simple one.

They had been trained to believe that all good plans were simple ones.

Part of the seed money had been spent for false identity papers created for them by a master forger who'd been trained in Bucharest and who now lived in a small town upstate, where he sold antiques as a sideline. Passports, green cards, driver's licenses, social security cards, credit cards-all that anyone might need to move freely around the United States, or indeed around the world. From the stock of a Cadillac dealership in the state across the river, Nikmaddu-using the assumed name on his new driver's license-had purchased outright a black DeVille sedan. The car would be used in the attack tonight, and then driven to Florida, where it would be disposed of before all four men parted company. Akbar, Mahmoud, and Jassim would board separate flights to Zurich, Paris, and Frankfurt, and would then disperse to the far corners of the Arab world. Nikmaddu would leave first for Chicago, and then San Francisco, and finally Los Angeles. The attack here in this city would have put only a small dent in the cash he'd carried from home. Activities elsewhere in the United States required money, too. Money was what made the world of terrorism-or, as he preferred to call it, liberation-go round. Money was both the engine and the fuel.

At seven-forty-five tonight Akbar, wearing a chauffeur's uniform, would drive the Cadillac-

They called this luxurious car a Caddy, the Americans. They also used this word to describe the menial who carried a golfer's clubs. A strange country.

He would drive the Caddy, then, to the front door of Clarendon Hall. Jassim, barbered and bathed and manicured and groomed, well-tailored in a black business suit, carrying a man's handbag purchased at Gucci on Hall Avenue, would present his ticket and enter the hall. If he was asked to open the bag, which was highly unlikely, they would find in it only a package of cigarettes, a gold and enamel cigarette lighter also purchased at Gucci, a Coach leather wallet, and a paperback copy ofCatcher in the Rye. It was not until later that Jassim would re-enter the hall carrying the armed bomb.

"Where will you be during the first part of the concert?" Nikmaddu asked.

Akbar, who had assembled the bomb, and who would be responsible for arming it before Jassim went back in, said, "I'll be parked just across the street."

"Wouldn't it be better to park directly outside?"

"It is forbidden to park in front of the hall. Or, in fact, anywhere on that side of the street. Most of the limo drivers park across the way or around the corner. Jassim knows where I'll be. We've run this through many times already."

Mahmoud looked at him skeptically.

"Half the taxicab and limousine drivers in this city are from the Middle East," Akbar said. "I will not arouse any suspicion. I will sit behind the wheel quietly, minding my own business, smoking a cigarette and waiting for my fat Jew employer to come out of the hall. Jassim and I will find each other, don't worry."

"You've got only twelve minutes to find each other," Mahmoud reminded them.

"I'll be watching for him to come out," Akbar said. "We'll have more than enough time, believe me."

"What time does the concert start?" Nikmaddu asked.

"It's supposed to begin at eight. Experience has taught me that it always starts some five or ten minutes later."

"And the intermission is when?"

"The Rossini overture can take anywhere between nine and eleven minutes and the Mozart symphony between twenty-five and thirty-five. On average, I would expect the first half of the concert to run some forty minutes. The intermission should start at around nine or a little bit after."

"Can you not be more precise?" Nikmaddu asked.

"I'm sorry," Akbar said. "Western music is not always precise. In any case, I'll arm the bomb when Jassim returns to the limousine. I'll place it in his bag, and he'll go back into the hall. You'd be surprised how long a time twelve minutes is."

"I hope so. I wouldn't want the bomb to explode while he's still outside on the sidewalk."

"No, that can't possibly happen. The intermission will end, let's say, at nine-fifteen. They will allow at most five minutes for everyone to get settled again. Let's say the Jew comes on stage at nine-twenty. The bomb will be set to explode at nine-thirty. Jassim will be long gone by then."

"Inshallah,"Mahmoud said.

"Inshallah,"the others repeated.

The men fell silent.

"The weather is supposed to be clear and cold tonight," Nikmaddu said at last.

"Good," Mahmoud said. "Then our drive to Florida should be trouble free."

"Someday, I would love to spend some time in Florida," Akbar said, almost wistfully.

THE BLONDE Ollie had shot in the back was in a room on the sixth floor of Hoch Memorial. A male police officer was stationed outside the door to the room. The clock on the wall behind him read twelve-fortyP.M. The blonde had plastic tubes trailing out of her nose. The blonde had lines running into her arm. Neither Carella nor Ollie felt the slightest bit of pity or compassion for her on this cold December afternoon at the end of the year.

"Want to tell us who you are?" Carella asked.

"I don't have to tell you anything," she said. "You're making a grave mistake here."

"You're the one who made the grave mistake," Ollie said.

"Threeof them," Carella said.

The blonde smiled.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"I don't have to tell you that."

"You killed two civilians and tried to kill a police officer. Do you know what kind of trouble you're in here?"

"I'm not in any trouble at all."

"Two counts of Murder Two …"

"Another count of Attempted …"

"On our block, that's pretty serious," Ollie said.

"On my block, it's routine," she said.

"And where's that, Miss?"

"What's your name, Miss?"

"Where do you live?"

"How come you weren't carrying any identification?"

The blonde smiled again.

"You think this is pretty funny, don't you?" Ollie said. "Trying to kill a police officer."

"How about a police officer shooting me in the back?" she said. "Do you thinkthat's funny?"

"Not as funny as it might have been if I'd killed you," Ollie said. "That really would've been comical."

"You think so, huh? Just wait, Mister."

"For what?" Ollie said.

"Just wait."

"What it is, you see, we don't like cops getting shot in this city."

"Then cops in this city should keep their noses out of other people's business."

"Which people are you talking about?"

"People with more important matters on their minds than two piss-ant dope dealers."

"Oh?" Carella said.

"Oh?" Ollie said.

"You knew they were dealing, huh?"

The blonde smiled.

"What else did you know about them?"

She shook her head.

"Did you know one of them killed a man named Jerry Hoskins?"

She kept smiling, shaking her head.

"Ever hear that name?"

"Jerry Hoskins?"

"Got himself shot on Christmas Eve by one of the guysyou shot last night? Think there might be a connection?"

"Stop blowing smoke up my skirt," she said.

"Jerry Hoskins? Frank Holt?" Ollie said.

"One and the same person," Carella said.

"Sold Wiggins a hundred keys of coke on Christmas Eve …"

"Got paid for it with a bullet at the back of his head. Ever hear of him?"

"Jerry Hoskins?"

"Frank Holt?"

The blonde said nothing.

"Ever hear of a woman named Cass Ridley?" Ollie said.

"Cassandra Ridley?" Carella said.

"Flew a hundred keys of shit out of Mexico for Jerry Hoskins. Ever hear ofher?"

"I'm not saying anything until my people contact you."

"Oh? Your people? Who are these people?"

"You'll find out."

"You got friends in high places?" Ollie asked.

"The Mayor's office?"

"The Governor's mansion?"

"The White House?"

"Go ahead, laugh," she said.

"Nobody's laughing," Ollie said. "What it looks like is you knew Walter Wiggins was dealing drugs, and maybe you also knew Hoskins was in the same business …"

"Keep blowing smoke," she said.

"Did you also know Cass Ridley, who flew the shit up from Mexico?"

"Did you happen to take a bottle of champagne to her apartment?"

"Did you and another fine lady walk her over to the zoo?"

"You and another blond lady?"

"Both of you wearing black?"

"We got a doorman justitching to identify you."

"Keep blowing, I'm beginning to enjoy it."

"I wonder how you'll enjoy your date with the D.A."

"You'vegot a date with my people," she said. "But you don't seem to …"

"We're dying to meet them," Carella said.

"Tell us who they are, we'll go pay them a visit."

"Maybe they can explain how come you killed Wiggins who killed Hoskins who hired Ridley to fly dope for him."

"Maybe they can explain how Ridley ended up in that lion's cage," Ollie said.

"No ID on her," Carella said.

"Maybe your people can explain all that."

"Maybe my people can have you both walking beats tomorrow morning."

"Oooo," Carella said. "A threat, Ollie."

"Oooo," Ollie said.

There was nothing he liked better than a perp trying to pull rank. Especially when the perp had tried to gun down a cop.

"You think these important people you know'll come riding to the rescue, is that it?" he said.

"You don't know what you're messing with here."

"Gee, I thought we were messing with an Attempted Murder One and a pair of Murder Twos."

"You'd never make it to trial. They'll step on you like a bug."

"Who? Your important people in high places?"

The blonde smiled.

Ollie just loved it when they smiled.

"If your friends take you out of here, they'll be harboring a fugitive," he said. "That's called Hindering Prosecution in the first degree, Section 205.65 of the Penal Law. Want to hear it?"

"Shove it up your ass," the blonde said.

"Nice talk on the lady," Ollie said. "Hindering prosecution is rendering criminal assistance to a person who's committed a class-A felony. Murder Two is a class-A felony. So's Attempted Murder One. If your friends whisk you out of here, they'll be staring at a seven-year max in the slammer. Maybe that's why they're not here yet, huh?"

"All in good time," the blonde said.

"Oh sure, I hear them thundering down the hallway right this minute."

The blonde actually cocked her head toward the door.

"But maybe not," Ollie said. "Ballistics is checking the slugs that killed the two dealers. If they match the ones we test-fire from that cannon you were carrying …"

"Save it. I'm not interested."

"Well, let me tell you what else we've got," Carella said. "It might change your mind."

"I got shot last night. I'm tired. Goodbye, Mr. Detective."

"We've got one of the guys you killed wearing a wire. We've got the other guy you killedtalking on that wire. Saying a lot of interesting things about a company called Wadsworth and Dodds, ever hear of them?"

"No."

"W amp;D?"

"No."

"Witches and Dragons?" Carella said. "Is that a glimmer I see in your eye? How about Mother? Do you know who Mother is?"

The blonde said nothing.

"Ever see that name on a W amp;D computer?"

The blonde was still silent.

"Ever hear that name anyplace?"

"Why don't you go home, Mr. Detective?"

"People keep telling me to go home," Carella said to Ollie.

"Maybe you should," Ollie said.

"Yeah, but gee, I'd like to finish this, you know?"

"So finish it."

"Here's where we're coming from, Miss," Carella said, turning back to the bed. "A person is guilty of Murder in the First Degree when the intended victim is a police officer who at the time of the killing is engaged in the course of performing his official duties, quote, unquote, Section 125.27 of the state's Penal Law. You tried to kill a police officer last night, honey.Me. Would have killed me, in fact, if another police officer-Detective Oliver Wendell Weeks here-hadn't expediently intervened. That makes the crimeAttempt to Commit Murder, which in this case is an A-1 felony. Add to that theactualmurders of both Tito Alberico Gomez and Walter Kennedy Wiggins, and you're looking at twenty-five years to life, three times over. That comes to seventy-five years in the slammer. You'll be a hundred years old when you get out."

"A hundred and five," the blonde said.

"That's if we don't get a positive ID from the doorman."

"What doorman?"

"The one who let you in Cass Ridley's apartment building. Where you stuck an ice pick in her forehead. You can add another twenty-five for that one."

"You think so?I think I'll be out of here before you jerks leave the building."

"You got shot when?" Ollie said. "Seven, seven-thirty last night? You know what time it is now? Almost one o'clock the next day. Has anyone been here to see you? Has anyone even called you? Where's the cavalry, sweetheart? They're riding into the sunset, that's where they are, and leaving you to take the fall. But, hey, be loyal. Seventy-five years behind bars may seem better to you than anything we've got to offer."

The blonde was looking at him.

Ollie figured he had her attention.

"Want to hear it?"

"No. I want to go to sleep."

"Okay, go to sleep. I guess we'll have to charge her on all three counts, Steve."

"Maybe four if we get lucky with the doorman," Carella said. "Too bad she can't help us get our search warrant, huh?"

"A crying shame," Ollie said.

"Well, what are you gonna do?" Carella said, and shrugged. "Let's go home."

"So long, Miss," Ollie said, and both detectives started out of the room.

"What do you mean?" the blonde asked.

They turned back to the bed.

"About a search warrant?" she said.

"Let me be honest with you, okay?" Ollie said, which was the last thing he wished to be with her. "We know you won't admit you're a hitter for W amp;D because that would make this Murder for Hire, and that means the Valium cocktail if you're convicted."

"The death penalty," Carella explained. "Lethal injection."

"I hear it's actually pleasant," Ollie said, and smiled. "But we know you won't admit that somebodypaid you for offing the redhead and the two Negroes, so all we've really got for sure are the pair of Twos and the One-Ten. Which is enough to put you away for seventy-five, I might remind you, ah yes, if that's the route you choose to take."

"Or," Carella said.

"Or," Ollie agreed, and nodded.

"Orwhat?Let me hear it."

"To the point, I like that in a woman," Ollie said. "Do you know what's on any of the W amp;D computers?"

"Let's say Ican know what's on them if Ineed to know what's on them."

"Let's say youneed to know what's on them if you want to deal here," Ollie said.

"But of course we can't speak for the D.A.," Carella said.

"Of course not. Butif the lady wants to deal, she would have to tell us she knows what's on those computers."

"You're both so full of shit," she said. "Tell me what you want me to say."

"We want you to say that evidence of a crime exists on W amp;D's computers."

"What crime?"

"From what we understand, the Criminal Sale of Controlled Substances."

"In the first degree," Carella said.

"Section 220.43."

"An A-1 felony."

"Twenty-five to life upstate."

"Heavy," Carella said.

"That's the crime," Ollie said. "From what we understand."

"And how do you happen to understand this?"

"A good question," Ollie said. "We've got a tape, remember?"

"We want you to listen to that tape," Carella said.

"Tell us it's accurate …"

"… so we can get a search warrant on probable cause."

"Reliable information from a cooperative witness and all that," Ollie said.

"IfI cooperate," the blonde said.

"Well, that's entirely up to you, m'little chickadee, ah yes."

"What do I get in return?"

"We'll drop the One-Ten," Ollie said. "That okay with you, Steve? I mean, you're the one she tried to kill."

"That's fine with me, if it's okay with the D.A."

"Yeah, well, it's not fine with me," the blonde said.

"Then you tell us."

"Drop everything."

"We can't do that."

"Oh, yes you can. I walk, you get the big boys."

"Well, maybe we can reduce the murder counts to manslaughter."

"Well, maybe I don't think that's good enough, either, okay?"

"Two counts of Manslaughter One? That'svery good," Ollie said. "And we'll drop the Attempted, don't forget."

"Sorry, boys."

"Somewhere between five and twenty-five on each?" Carella said. "That's a good deal. Don't you think that's a good deal, Ollie?"

"I do indeed. What do you say, Miss?"

"I say I want five, not twenty-five."

Carella pretended to be thinking this over. He looked at Ollie. Ollie sighed.

"Okay, five," Carella said.

"And you run the sentences concurrently," the blonde said.

"No, we can't do that," Carella said. "That'd come to only two and a half on each hit."

"Come on, honey, be realistic," Ollie said.

"The guys who got whacked were a pair of shits," the blonde said. "I did society a favor."

"Still, just fiveconcurrently?" Carella said.

"For adouble hit?" Ollie said.

"That's all they're worth," the blonde said.

"Let me call the D.A.," Carella said. "Play the tape for her, Ollie."