The Killing Man

Mickey Spillane

The Killing Man

1

Some days hang over Manhattan like a huge pair of unseen pincers, slowly squeezing the city until you can hardly breathe. A low growl of thunder echoed up the cavern of Fifth Avenue and I looked up to where the sky started at the seventy-first floor of the Empire State Building. I could smell the rain. It was the kind that hung above the orderly piles of concrete until it was soaked with dust and debris and when it came down it wasn't rain at all, but the sweat of the city.

When I reached my corner I crossed against the light and ducked into the ground-level arcade of my office building. It wasn't often that I bothered coming in at all on Saturday, but the client couldn't make it any other time except noon today, and from what Velda had told me, he was representing some pretty big interests.

Two others were waiting for the elevator, one an architect in the penthouse suite and the other a delivery boy from the deli down the street. Both of them looked bored and edgy. The day had gotten to them, too. When the elevator arrived, we got in, I punched my button and rode it up to the eighth floor.

On an ordinary day the corridor would have been filled with the early lunch crowd, but now the emptiness gave the place an eerie feeling, as though I were a trespasser and hidden eyes were watching me. Except that I was the only one there and the single sign of life was the light behind my office door.

I turned the knob, pushed it open and just stood there a second because something was wrong, sure as hell wrong, and the total silence was as loud as a wild scream. I had the .45 in my hand, crouched and edged to one side, listening, waiting, watching.

Velda wasn't at her desk. Her pocketbook sat there and a paper cup of coffee had spilled over and stained the sheaf of papers before dripping to the floor. And I didn't have to move far before I saw her body crumpled up against the wall, half her face a mass of clotted blood that seeped from under her hair.

The door to my office was partially open and there was somebody still in there, sitting at my desk, part of his arm clearly visible. I couldn't play it smart. I had to explode and rammed through the door in a blind fury ready to blow somebody into a death full of bloody, flying parts . . . then stopped, my breath caught in my throat, because it had already been done.

The guy sitting there had been taped to my chair, his body immobilized. The wide splash of adhesive tape across his mouth had immobilized his voice too, but all the horror that had happened was still there in his glazed, dead eyes that stared at hands whose fingertips had been amputated at the first knuckle and lay in neat order on the desktop. A dozen knife slashes had cut open the skin of his face and chest and his clothes were a sodden mass of congealed blood.

But the thing that killed him was the note spike I had kept my expense receipts on. Somebody had slipped them all off the six-inch steel nail, positioned it squarely in the middle of the guy's forehead and pounded it home with the bronze paperweight that held my folders down. And the killer left a note, but I didn't stop to read it.

Velda's pulse was weak, but it was there, and when I lifted her hair there was a huge hematoma above her ear, the skin split wide from the vicious swelling of it. Her breathing was shallow and her vital signs weren't good at all. I grabbed her coat off the rack, draped it around her, stood up and forced the rage to leave me, then found the number in my phone book and dialed it.

The nurse said, "Dr. Reedey's office."

"Meg, this is Mike Hammer," I told her. "Burke in?"

"Yes, but-"

"Listen, call an ambulance and get a stretcher up here right away and get Burke to come up now. Velda has been hurt badly."

"An accident?"

"No. She was attacked. Somebody tried to smash her skull."

While she dialed she said, "Don't move her. I'll send the doctor right up. Keep her warm and . . ." I hung up in midsentence.

Pat Chambers wasn't at home, but his message service said he could be reached at his office. The sergeant at the switchboard answered, took my name, put me through and when Pat said, "Captain Chambers," I told him to get to my office with a body bag. I wasn't about to waste time with explanations while Velda could be dying right beside me.

I was helpless, unable to do anything except kneel there, hold her hand and speak to her. Her skin was clammy and her pulse was getting weaker. The frustration I felt was the kind you get in a dream when you can't run fast enough to get away from some terror that is chasing you. And now I had to stay here and watch Velda slip away from life while some bastard was out there getting farther and farther away all the time.

There were hands around my shoulders that yanked me back away from her and Burke said, "Come on, Mike, let me get to her."

I almost swung on him before I realized who he was and when he saw my face he said, "You all right?"

After a moment I said, "I'm all right," and moved back out of the way.

Burke Reedey was a doctor who had come out of the slaughter of Vietnam with all the expertise needed to handle an emergency like this. He and his nurse moved swiftly and the helpless feeling I'd had before abated and I moved the desk to give him room, trying not to listen to their comments. There was something in their tone of voice that had a desperate edge to it. Almost on cue the ambulance attendants arrived, visibly glad to see a doctor there ahead of them, and carefully they got Velda onto the stretcher and out of the office, Burke going with them.

All that time Meg had very carefully steered me to one side, obscuring my vision purposely, realizing what was going through my mind, and when they had left she handed me a glass of water and offered me a capsule from a plastic container.

I shook my head. "Thanks, but I don't need anything."

She put the cap back on the container. "What happened, Mike?"

"I don't know yet." I pointed to the door of my office. "Go look in there,"

A worried look touched her eyes and she walked to the door and opened it. I didn't think old-time nurses could gasp like that. Her hand went to her mouth and I saw her head shake in horror. "Mike . . . you didn't mention . . ."

"He's dead. Velda wasn't. The cops will take care of that one."

She backed away from the door, turned and looked at me. "That's the first . . . deliberate murder . . . I've ever seen." Slowly, very slowly, her eyes widened.

I shook my head. "No, I didn't do it. Whoever hit Velda did that too."

The relief in her expression was plain. "Do you know why?"

"Not yet."

"You have called the police, haven't you?"

"Right after I spoke to you." I nodded toward the door. "Why don't you go back to the office. I'll take care of things here."

"The doctor thought I should look after you."

"I'm okay. If I weren't I'd tell you. The cops will want to speak to both you and Burke later but there's no use of you getting all tied up with them now."

"You're sure?"

I nodded. "Just stay with Velda, will you?"

"As soon as the doctor calls I'll check in with you."

When she left I walked over to the miniature bar by the window and picked up a glass. Hell, this was no time to take a drink. I put the glass back and went into my office.

The dead guy was still looking at his mutilated hands, seemingly ignoring the spike driven into his skull until the ornamental base of it indented his skin. The glaze over his eyes seemed thicker.

For the first time I looked at the note on my desk, the large capital letters printed almost triumphantly across a sheet of my letterhead under the logo. It read, YOU DIE FOR KILLING ME. Beneath it, in deliberately fine handwriting, was the signature, Penta.

I heard the front door open and Pat shouted my name. I called back, "In here, Pat."

Pat was a cop who had seen it all. This one was just another on his list. But the kill wasn't what disturbed him. It was where it happened. He turned to the uniform at the door. "Anybody outside?"

"Only our people. They're shortstopping everybody at the elevators."

"Good. Keep everybody out for five minutes," he told a cop who stood in the doorway. "Our guys too."

"Got it," the cop said and turned away.

"Let's talk," Pat said.

It didn't take long. "I was to meet a prospective client named Bruce Lewison at noon in my office. Velda went ahead to open up and get some other work out of the way. I walked in a few minutes before twelve and found her on the floor and the guy dead."

"And you touched nothing?"

"Not in here, Pat. I wasn't about to wait for you to show before I got a doctor for Velda."

Pat looked at me with that same old look.

I could feel a twist in my grin. There was nothing funny about it. "Oh, I'll get to the bastard, Pat. Sooner or later."

"Cut that shit, will you?"

"Sure."

"You know this guy?"

I shook my head. "He's new to me."

"Somebody thought he was killing you, pal."

"We don't look alike at all."

"He was in your chair."

"Yeah, that he was."

He was looking at the note and said, "Who did you kill, Mike?"

I said, "Come on Pat. Don't play games."

"This note mean anything to you?"

"No. I don't know why, but somebody sure was serious about it."

"Okay," he said. His eyes looked tired. "Let's get our guys in here."

While the photographer shot the corpse from all angles and did closeups on the mutilation, Pat and I went into Velda's office where the plainclothes officers dusted for prints and vacuumed the area for any incidental evidence. Pat had already jotted down what I had told him. Now he said, "Give me the entire itinerary of your day, Mike. Start from when you got up this morning and I'll check everything out while it's fresh."

"Look . . . when Velda comes around . . ." I saw the look on Pat's face and nodded. My stomach was all knotted up and all I wanted was to breathe some fresh, cold air.

"I got up at seven. I showered, dressed and went down to the deli for some rolls, picked up the paper, went back to the apartment, ate, read the news and took off for the gym."

"Which one?"

"Bing's Gym. You know where it is. I got there at nine thirty, put in a little better than an hour in the exercise room, showered and checked out at eleven thirty. Bing can verify that himself. It was a twenty-minute walk to the office and on the way I saw two people I knew. One was Bill Sheen, the beat cop, the other was Manuel Florio who owns the Pompeii Bar on Sixth Avenue. We walked together for a block, then split. I got to the office a few minutes before twelve and walked into . . . this." I waved my hand at the room. "Burke Reedey will give you his medical report on Velda and the ME will be able to pinpoint a time of death pretty well, so don't get me mixed up in suspect status."

Pat finished writing, tore a leaf out of the pad and closed the book. He called one of the detectives over and handed him the slip, telling him to check out all the details of my story. "Let's just keep straight with the system, buddy. Face it, you're not one of its favorite people."

The assistant medical examiner was a tubby little guy with light blue eyes that bristled with curiosity. Every detail was a major item and when he was finished with the physical aspect of the examination, he stepped back, walked around the body slowly, seeming to do a psychological analysis of the crime. Pat didn't try to interrupt him. This was the ME's moment and whatever he could garner from his inspection now would be valuable because the body would never be seen in this position again. Twice he went back to do a close scrutiny of the desk spike in the dead man's forehead, then made a satisfied grimace and snapped his bag shut.

Pat asked, "What do you think?"

"About the time?"

"Yes, for one thing."

The ME looked at his watch. "I would say that he was killed between ten and eleven o'clock. Certainly not after eleven. I will be more specific after the post-mortem. Has he been identified?"

"Not yet," Pat said.

"An interesting death. Those facial and chest cuts seem to have been made with an extremely sharp, short-bladed instrument."

"Penknife?" I asked him.

"Yes, possibly. Some people carry things like that."

"Any medical reasons for the slashings?"

"Want me to speculate?"

"Certainly," Pat said.

"Those were made to terrorize the victim. It's amazing what the sight of a blade opening up his own body can do to a person's psyche. Those wounds are too deep to be superficial, yet not deep enough to be fatal."

"And that brings us to the hands."

"A very unusual disfiguration." His bright blue eyes looked at both of us, then settled on Pat. "Have you ever seen this before?" Pat shook his head. "Someplace I recall hearing of this happening. I'll do a little research on it when I get back to the office. Frankly, I think it's a signature stratagem."

"A what?"

"Something a killer leaves to remember him by."

I said, "That's a pretty complicated way of writing your name."

"Agreed," the ME nodded, "but you'll never forget it. But the one he was impressing it on was the victim himself. Look, let me show you how he did this." He took the dead man's arm, stiff with rigor mortis, forcing the hand with the forefinger out and the other knuckles bent down, against the desk. Where the finger ended you could see the cut of the blade in the wood. "Imagine having to watch as each finger was cut off at the knuckle and not even being able to scream for relief? The pain must have been incredible, but even then, it could not have been as bad as the final act of hammering that spike into his head."

"What are you saving for last, Doctor?"

The ME gave Pat a sage little smile. "You're wondering how a grown man would let himself be totally immobilized like that?"

"Right on," Pat told him.

Swinging the swivel chair around so the back of the corpse's head faced us, the ME lifted up the shaggy hair and fingered a small lump over the ear. "A tap with the usual blunt instrument, hard enough to render the victim unconscious for ten minutes or so,"

My mouth went dry and something felt like it was crawling up my back. The one he had laid on Velda wasn't to knock her out. That one was a killing blow, one swung with deliberate, murderous intent. I looked at the phone again. Meg still hadn't called.

Pat bent over and examined the body carefully. His arm brushed the dead man's coat and pushed it open. Sticking up out of the shirt pocket was a Con Edison bill folded in half. When Pat straightened it out he looked at the name and said, "Anthony Cica." He held it out for me to look at. "You know him, Mike?"

"Never saw him before." His address was on the Lower East Side of Manhattan.

"You're lucky you had a stand-in."

"Too bad Velda didn't have one." The tightness ran up me again and I began to breathe hard without knowing it.

Pat was shaking my arm. "Come off it, Mike."

I wiped the back of my hand across my mouth and nodded.

The ME was pointing toward the note. "And that's his ego trip, wouldn't you say? The dead man can't read, so who will? And who is Penta?"

"You're leaving all the fun stuff for us, Doc."

"Keep me informed. I'm very interested. You'll get my report tomorrow." As he went to pass me he stopped and gave me those blue eyes again. "Do I know you, sir?"

"Mike Hammer," I told him.

"I've heard mention of you."

"This is my office," I said.

"Yes." He looked around, curiously critical. "Who is your decorator?"

"That's his sense of humor," Pat said when the ME left. Then he went over and called in two of his people to go over the corpse itself.

I went to the phone and called Meg. The answering service said she would be back at six. I called the hospital directly, but there was no report on Velda's condition so far. Nobody would speculate.

It was another hour before the specialists finished and the body was carted out in its rubberized shroud. Pat was on the phone and when he hung up he turned to me and said tiredly, "The papers just got wind of it. They still on your side?"

"Hell, most of the old guys are buddies, but some of those young ones are weirdos."

"Wait till they read that note."

"Yeah, great."

"You still haven't told me who you killed, Mike." This time there was a quiet seriousness in his tone. It was a question direct and simple.

I turned and faced him, meeting his eyes square on. "Anybody I ever took down you know about. The last one was Julius Marco, the son of a bitch who was about to kill that kid when I nailed him, and that was four years ago."

"How many have you shot since?"

"A few. None died."

"You testified in a couple of Murder One cases, didn't you?"

"Sure. So did a few other people,"

"Recently?"

"Hell, no. The last one was a few years back."

"Then who would want you dead?"

"Nobody I can think of."

"Hell, somebody wants you even better than dead. They want you all chopped up and with a spike through your head. Somebody had a business engagement with you at noon, got here early, took out Velda and didn't have to wait for you because there was a guy in your office he thought was you and he nailed that poor bastard instead."

"I've thought of that," I said.

"And we're stuck until we get IDs on everybody and a statement from Velda."

"Looks like that," I told him. "You through here?"

"Yeah."

"Sealing the place up?"

Pat shrugged. "No need to."

I picked up the phone again and called the building super. I told him what had happened and that I needed the place cleaned up. He said he'd do it personally. I thanked him and hung up.

Pat said, "Let's go get something to eat. You'll feel better. Then we'll go to the hospital."

"No sense in that. Velda was unconscious and in critical condition. No visitors. I'll tell you what you can do though."

"What's that?"

"Station a cop at her door. That Penta character missed two of us and he just might want another go at somebody when he finds out what happened."

Pat picked up the phone in Velda's office and relayed the message. When he hung up he said to me, "What are your plans?"

"Hell, I'm going to Anthony Cica's apartment with you."

"Listen, Mike . . ."

"You don't want me to go alone, do you?"

"Man, you're a real pisser," Pat said.

Outside it was barely raining. It was more like the sky was spitting at us. It was ending up the way it had started. Bad, real bad.

Pat had an unmarked car at the curb and we drove across town and headed south on Second Avenue. The pavements were slick, brightly alive with neon reflections and the broad streaks of dimmed headlights. The weather meant nothing to the people who lived here. They never were out in it long enough to annoy them. Pat didn't bother with his red light, simply moving in and out of the stream of yellow cabs and occasional cars with automatic precision.

Both of us stayed pretty deep in our thoughts until I mentioned, "You could have had one of the detectives do this."

"Don't get hairy on me, pal. I'm not letting you alone on any primary investigation."

"You're investigating a corpse, not a murder suspect. What the hell could I do?"

The car in front of us hit the brakes and Pat swore at the driver and cut to the left. "I don't know what you could do, Mike. There's no telling what's ever going to happen with you. There's something that hangs over you like a magnet that pulls all the crazies right to your door."

"No crazy did this."

"Any killer is crazy," he stated.

"Maybe, but some are more deliberate than others."

Pat slowed and turned left, checked the numbers on the buildings when he could find one, then counted down to the tenement he was looking for. Hardly anybody in this area owned a car and whoever did wouldn't park it on the street. We parked behind a stripped wreck of an old Buick and got out of the car.

A lot of years ago they talked of condemning areas like this but never got around to it. One by one the buildings lost any rental benefits and were abandoned by their owners. Here and there were a few that somebody had renovated enough to warrant having paying tenants as long as they didn't mind sharing the space with roaches and rats.

We went up the sandstone stoop and pushed through the scarred wooden doors. The vestibule light in the ceiling was protected by a wire cage, a forty-watter that turned everything a sickly yellow. As usual, the brass mailbox doors were all sprung open, each one with a cheap paper circular stuck in it. Scrawled on the top of the brass frame were names in black marker ink. The middle two were half rubbed out. Anthony Cica was the one who had the top floor.

The inner vestibule light only went halfway up the stairs, but Pat had a pocket power light with him and lit our way up among the litter that spilled down the stairs. We stepped over a couple of empty beer cans and some half-pint whiskey bottles to get to the first landing. Apparently visitors never got above the top steps. The rest of the way was clear. The door we were looking for had the number four drawn on it in white paint. It was locked. In fact, it had three locks on it.

"Think a credit card can get them open, Pat?"

"Hell no. I have a warrant."

"Then use it."

He kicked the door panel out, reached in and opened the locks, then pushed it open with his foot. Standing to one side, he felt for the light switch beside the jamb, found it and flipped it on. Nothing moved except the roaches.

The occupant hadn't been a total slob. There were no dirty dishes and the sink was clean. The furniture was old, probably secondhand, the bed wasn't made, simply straightened out a little, and the small bathroom had a semblance of order to it. The refrigerator belonged in a museum, but it still worked, the unit on its top humming away. In it were two frozen dinners, half a carton of milk, some butter and a six-pack of beer.

I said, "What do you think?"

"Permanent quarters. Lousy, but fixed."

Three suits and a sports jacket hung in the closet, all several years old. Two pairs of shoes, one brown, the other black, were on the floor beside a piece of Samsonite luggage that was open and empty. In the corner, almost out of sight, was a small metal rectangle. I picked it up with a handkerchief.

"Pat . . ."

He came over and I showed him the clip for an automatic. It was loaded with 7.65 millimeter cartridges.

"Nice," he muttered. "Let's find the rest of it."

We looked, but that was all there was. No gun was around to fit the clip. Pat said, "That's damned strange."

"Not necessarily. It was kicked in the corner of the closet. It could have been there before he moved in. I almost missed it."

In fifteen minutes we had covered every inch of the place. A cardboard box on one of the shelves held a few dozen receipted bills, some paycheck slips and a stack of old two-dollar betting slips from a Jersey track. It was a stupid souvenir, but at least he could count his losses.

The only thing that didn't seem to belong there was a handmade toolbox with a collection of chisels, bits and two hammers with well-worn handles. Pat said, "These tools are antiques, all made by Sergeant Hardware back in the twenties." He fondled one of the long, thin blades, feeling the sharpness with a fingertip. "Somebody did precision work with these babies. Real sculpture."

"Think they're stolen?"

"What for? No fast cash value in it. Looks more like a keepsake to me." He turned the box upside down. Neatly carved into the bottom were the initials V.D.

"You'd better handle that with rubber gloves." I grinned.

"I'll get a penicillin shot later." He gave the place a last look around. "Anthony Cica didn't leave much of a legacy. I wonder who inherits?"

I was fitting the broken panel back in the hole Pat's foot had made. "Well, take the toolbox for whoever the relative is. Nothing else is worthwhile."

He shut off the light and closed the door. When we felt our way down the stairs and got to the street we stood there a minute, both wondering what would make a guy like Anthony Cica live in a place like this, his only treasure an antique toolbox.

Pat finally hunched his shoulders against the rain and we got into the car. Deliberately, he looked across at me. "That killer couldn't have wanted Cica, Mike."

"Why the hell would he want me?"

He started the car. "Guess we'll have to find that out."

2

It was a dreamless night, but I awoke tired. I felt as if I had been running and to awaken was an effort. Only for a few seconds was there a blankness in time before the whole scenario of the day before came crashing down in front of me.

My hand grabbed for the phone and I hit the buttons for the hospital. I was overanxious, got the wrong number and had to hit them again. This time the switchboard put me through to the nurse on Velda's floor. Calmly, she told me Velda had had a quiet night, was still in critical condition, but improving. No, she could have no visitors yet.

The relief I felt was like a cool wave of water washing over me. Hospitals never wanted to sound optimistic, so the report was a favorable one. I called Burke Reedey at home and got him out of bed. All he could say was "Damn it, I've been up all night. Who is this?"

"It's Mike, Burke. What's with Velda?"

"Oh," he said. "You. Wait a minute." I heard him pour something, heard him swallow it, then he said, "She had a close one that time. One hell of a concussion. That blow was delivered with enough force to kill her, but her hair bunched under the instrument and blunted the impact. I was afraid we'd find a fracture there but we didn't. All her vital signs are coming up and we're keeping her isolated for another day."

"She regain consciousness?"

"About four this morning. It was just a brief awakening and she went back to sleep."

"When can I see her?"

"Probably this evening, but I want no communication. She is going to be highly sedated or have one hell of a headache. Either way she won't want to talk."

"What was she hit with?"

"Someday they'll find another term for the usual 'blunt instrument.' However, it wasn't a hard object like a pipe. This had a soft crushing effect and from what I've seen of leather blackjacks, this was what her attacker used. Incidentally, this is what I gave the police in my report."

He paused a moment, then went on: "Meg told me there was a dead man in the other office."

"Burke, you couldn't have helped. He was real dead. Velda was alive and that's all that counted."

"You're a sentimental bastard, you know that?"

"Just realistic, pal."

"I want to know what this is all about."

"You'll get it."

"I hope so. You're the only excitement I ever get anymore."

"Excitement I don't need," I told him. "And Burke . . ."

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

"No trouble. You'll get a bill."

I hung up, made coffee in the kitchen and had a leftover roll from yesterday. When I turned on the news I had to wait fifteen minutes before local events came on and the announcer mentioned a torture murder in the office of a Manhattan businessman. The case was under investigation and no names were made public. As yet, the victim was unidentified.

I just finished pouring my second cup of coffee when the phone rang. Pat said, "I think you ought to come on down to my office."

"What's happening?"

"For one thing, we had an ID on our victim."

"What's the other?"

"We have some strange company here."

"Bad?"

"It's not good."

"Well. I'll change my underwear," I said. After the good news from the hospital, nothing was going to spoil my day.

Sunday morning in New York is like no other time. From dawn until ten the city is like an unborn fetus. There are small sounds and stirrings that are hardly noticeable, then little movements take place and forms emerge, but nothing is happening. It is a time when you could get anywhere quickly and quietly because of the strange emptiness.

The lonely cabbie who picked me up would be going off shift shortly and, fortunately, didn't want to talk. He took me to Pat's building, took my money, switched on the OFF DUTY light and went back uptown.

Sunday had even infiltrated the police department. On the ground floor it was coffee-and-doughnuts time with a minimum crew at work. Everybody was friendly including Sergeant Klaus who winked and told me Captain Chambers and company were expecting me upstairs.

Pat was in the corridor when I got off the elevator and without a word, steered me into his office. When he closed the door he said, "You told me you didn't know the guy who got killed."

"That's right, I didn't."

Something had hold of Pat and he was mad. "You sure?"

"Look, Pat, what's the deal here? I told you I didn't know him."

"He was a delivery guy from a stationery store who brought up some letterhead samples for you to okay."

"Velda took care of that stuff."

"The guy called the store and told the boss to go ahead with the order."

"So that's what he was doing at my desk. You get the time?"

"Around ten twenty or so."

"That fixes it then."

"But there's a little more to it."

"Oh?"

"His name was Anthony DiCica. Mean anything to you?"

I shook my head. "So someplace he dropped the 'Di' part of his name."

"Seems that way."

"That accounts for the V.D. initials on that toolbox. It must have been his old man's. So where does that leave us?"

"We have a package on him in New York. He went down twice for minor crimes fifteen years ago. Petty stuff, but at least he has a record. That much we got when we ran his driver's license through."

"How about prints?"

"Those first knuckle joints came back from the lab this morning. We rolled them and got them on the computers."

"Then what's on your mind, Pat?"

"Usually we can handle our own homicides here without any interference. Suddenly some first-class interest shows up . . . the DA's office."

I shrugged. "So, he's got a right."

"This is not a general occurrence, pal. When I got back here word had already come down. That note stays confidential until the DA decides to release it. What I think shook them up is that signature, Penta. Hell, it couldn't've been anything else."

"What did they give you on it?"

"They gave me a lot of shit, that's all. I raised hell upstairs, but when the inspector says to go along, we go along."

I gave Pat a friendly rap on the shoulder. "If those squirrels want to play games, let them. A nice screwball case like this can make some interesting headlines."

"Their attitude stinks, Mike." He paused, then glanced at me anxiously. "You mention that note at all?"

"This is the first time I've been on something that the newshounds weren't all over me. Between this being the weekend and my office on the eighth floor where you could contain those guys, it was a pretty damn quiet murder. How many others did you have last night?"

"Four in Manhattan."

"So we got lost in the crowd."

"Not for long, boy, not for long. I can smell this one about to bust open like an abscessed tooth."

"It's a weirdo."

"Weirdo my ass. Wait until you see who wants to meet you."

"Oh?"

"We have a new assistant district attorney who wants to speak to you. With her is somebody from the governor's office in Albany. He has a pretty heavy letter on embossed stationery that requests we give him full cooperation."

"And that he gets."

"Certainly," Pat acknowledged. "Let's go meet your enemy."

New York City has numerous assistant district attorneys, but they aren't numbered in order of rank or seniority so they can all sound like the top dog on the block. Candace Amory was far from being a dog.

She was a tall patrician-looking blonde with a cover-girl face and a body that didn't just happen. Every bit of her was carefully cultivated and when she moved you knew she danced and could ski and in the water could take two-hundred-foot dives in scuba gear. The high-breasted look she had was for real, enhanced by a suit so dramatically underplayed in spectacular design that it reeked of money that could buy whatever it wanted.

You would never call Candace Amory "Candy." You would want to kiss the lusciousness of those full lips until the thought occurred that it might be like putting your tongue on a cold sled runner and never being able to get it off.

One day I would like to catch her off base and tag her with a ball where she would never forget.

In that one second our eyes touched she knew everything I was thinking and knew I realized it as well. I nodded and said, "Miss Amory," and held out my hand. It wasn't lack of etiquette, just a challenge she met without any change of expression at all. I knew she would have a good grip and let her feel mine too.

"Mr. Hammer," she said. Her voice even matched the rest of her. Throaty, but not altogether soft. There was a firmness there. A tiny Phi Beta Kappa pin was suspended on a fine golden chain around her neck, nestling between her breasts.

There was a dominance about her that she was exuding like an invisible veil and I smiled, just barely smiled with my eyes licking hers, and for an instant there was the minutest change of expression, the cat suddenly realizing the mouse was a cobra, and the veil was sucked back in.

The man from Albany was Jerome Coleman and he didn't specify what his position was. But he was official, he looked legal and he could have been a cop. We said a brief hello and took Pat's offer to sit down around the small conference table. The chair I was offered made me the target for all remarks, so I ignored it and sat in the one next to it. If somebody wanted to fence me in they had better book me first. I saw Pat suppress a smile and Coleman seem annoyed. Miss Amory knew I did it deliberately and just as deliberately took the seat opposite me.

"Who starts?" I said.

Jerome Coleman felt inside his jacket and took out a folded sheet of paper and spread it out in front of him. It was upside down, but I saw it was a copy of the note left on my desk by the killer. "We don't like enigmas, Mr. Hammer."

I kept my mouth shut and waited.

Miss Amory said, "You seem to be implicated in a murder. The alibi you gave Captain Chambers checked out, so you weren't involved with participation in the killing, but nevertheless, you seem to be a principal in the act."

"I'm glad you said seem."

She ignored my remark. "Apparently the victim was mistaken for you and horribly brutalized. If that was an act of vengeance, the killer certainly must have had a reason."

"Miss Amory," I said, "I'm glad you didn't read me my rights."

"You're not being arrested, Mr. Hammer."

"This is a direct interrogation, you know."

"Quite so. And you are a licensed private investigator under the laws of New York State, with a permit to carry a weapon and expected to be in full compliance with the laws and statutes of this state and to cooperate fully in assisting in their enforcement."

There was nothing I had to crawl out from under, so I smiled that little smile again. "What can I tell you?"

"The note has reference to you killing somebody," she said.

"The note has reference to me killing the killer," I reminded her.

"And that is the enigma," Coleman put in. His finger underlined the capitalized YOU DIE FOR KILLING ME.

So far Pat had said nothing. He was letting me carry the ball. "Mr. Coleman . . . I've never been indicted for murder. Nor for a felony. What you seem to have here is some psycho who decided to crash my place to pull a wild stunt off."

"We understand you never go to the office on Saturdays."

"Rarely," I said.

"You had an appointment with a person you never met."

"Most of my business is like that."

"Your secretary didn't give you any indication of what the meeting was about," he stated.

"In my business, clients aren't interested in stating their affairs to secretaries. I'm the prime mover."

He stared at me a long moment, then: "The entire charade, it seems, was to set you up to be killed. That it was circumvented is not what we're after. It is why it happened at all. The killer apparently blames you for killing someone."

"And if he went to such lengths to avenge it, then it must have happened?" I waited. Nobody said anything. I added, "Your enigma is a beaut. He left the office alive with an accusation of having already been killed."

"Who is Penta?" Candace Amory asked.

But I was ready for that one too. "Why ask it of a dead man?"

"Because that note was written to be read by a man who wasn't dead yet. He was making sure the victim knew why he was dying and who was doing the killing. If he thought it was you he was murdering then he knew you would recognize the name before you died."

"Clever thinking, ma'am, very clever. It could be possible, but unfortunately it isn't. Now I want to tell you something right now. If I had any information at all on this matter I would have given it to Pat on the scene last night. We have a fluke going here and I don't know where or how, but damn it, I'm involved now. I'm sure as hell involved. When he put Velda down I was in and I'm going to stay in until that fucking psycho gets nailed to the wall. Sorry about the language, lady, but that's what it's all about."

With a beautifully modulated tone of voice she said, "You'll do nothing of the fucking kind, Mr. Hammer. You stay completely away from this matter or your license will be revoked immediately. Pardon the language, please."

"The ball's in your court," I said sarcastically.

"Yes, I know. And if I were you, I'd reflect a little on the origin of this name Penta. As a matter of fact, I think I'd reflect for no longer than one more day before you have a letter from the Bureau of Licenses." She stood up and looked down at me. "Clear?"

I stood up slowly and she wasn't looking down at me any more. She was tall, but not that tall. "Very clear," I said.

When they walked out of the room Pat let out a short laugh. "She really dumped one on you." He laughed again. "She really doesn't know you very well, does she?"

"Hell, can't she read the papers?" I kicked the chair out and sat down again. "What did your guys find in my office?"

"Nothing."

"Just like that? Nothing?"

"You and Velda laid down most of the prints, some came from the cleaning lady and a couple others seemed to have come from the dead guy. Our killer left smudges, so he was wearing gloves, and not the surgical kind that can transfer prints to surfaces on occasion. The adhesive tape was the kind you buy in any drugstore. He used two full spools of two-inch-wide stuff and took the spools with him."

"They vacuumed, didn't they?"

"And that's tedious lab work. A couple days and we'll see what they picked up."

"Didn't anything turn up on the Penta ID?"

Pat gave me an annoyed scowl and shook his head. "That went out on the wires first thing. Washington, Interpol . . . they've all been notified. Trouble is, it's the weekend. Everybody takes off the weekend and some overworked clerk has got everything backed up." He sat back, stretched and said, "What are you planning to tell the Ice Lady?"

"To go piss up a stick."

"Give her Penta instead. She'll love you for it."

"I can do without that. Who is she, anyway?"

Pat got up and poured himself a cup of coffee. He dropped in a couple of Sweet 'n' Lows, sipped it and said, "Somebody the DA has been keeping under wraps. She was the tactician on the two major cases that jumped him into the office last year. Suddenly she wants into field work and you drew her, buddy."

"Great."

"Don't try screwing with her brain. She's a real whiz kid."

"Not if she tried pulling a stupid bluff on me. Who the hell does she think I am, some kid with a new ticket?"

"Believe me," Pat said, she's got something going for her. I'd cover my ass if I were you."

The big clock on the wall read ten twenty-five and I reset my watch. I told Pat I had some things to do and would call in later. He damn well knew what I had in mind and just said so long.

Weekends are the odd times when the regular shift of office maintenance personnel is off and the occasional help comes on. Some are the steadies picking up a few extra bucks, a few are retirees bolstering their pensions and Social Security, and most of them I knew over the years. They were on yesterday and they were on today. The guard in the lobby was an old-timer who let me know the cops had spoken to everyone on the job yesterday and from what he could find out, nobody had anything to offer. Saturday had been a quiet day and, as always, there had been strangers in the building, but that was common and nobody seemed to have stood out from the rest.

I went in the office and Nat Drutman, the building manager, gave me a typed list of the help. "You had some reporters looking for you earlier," he told me.

"Let them in?"

"Temptation almost got me. One guy offered me five bills for a couple of photos."

"What kept you back?"

"Man, the place was still wet from the cleaning. That carpet is going to have to come up."

"They still around?"

"As of an hour ago they were."

"I'll keep my eyes open."

"Why don't you check your office? Those guys'll do anything for a photo."

There were four on the list that could possibly have seen someone going to my office. Unfortunately, the first two hadn't seen anything and like they said, "We wouldn'a told dem cops nothing anyway, Mike. To you we'd say. To them, nuts."

It was the third name that came up with something curious. Her name was Maria Escalante. She changed the sand in the ashtrays at the elevator banks and she was new in the building. I found her dusting the blinds at the far end of the third floor and said, "Miss Escalante?"

She turned, saw me and stiffened. "I have a green card," she said almost defiantly. "I told the others, I have a green card." She reached under her sweater and pulled out a wallet, thumbing its contents. "Look," she told me. "I show it to you." Her Mexican accent was thick.

"That's all right, lady, I believe you."

She tightened up at that. "You are a policeman?"

I rarely ever did it, but I popped my own wallet open to my license. It looked pretty damn official. She shook her head. It wasn't enough.

"Let me see your pistola."

That she could understand. I wondered what part of Mexico she came from. I opened my coat and let her see the .45 in the speed rig on my left side.

"Si. I believe. My name is Maria Escalante and I live at . . ."

I waved her off. "I don't need that, Maria."

"I tell the other policemen I don't see nothing. They want to know about the trouble on the floor ocho . . . floor eight. I-"

"Maria . . ." I reached out and took her hand and she was shaking. "They scare you about your green card?"

Immediately her mouth tightened and she held back the tears. "One said . . . he could take it . . . that maybe it was no good . . ."

"Is it good?"

"Yes. After the amnesty I get it. I am legal now. I am going to be a US citizen."

"He couldn't take it. He was just trying to shake something out of you, understand?" After a moment she frowned, then bobbed her head. "Where were you yesterday?" I asked.

"From the bottom to floor number . . . five. I did the ashtrays. I ran the sweeper."

"Many people?"

"Some. Mostly it was a day off."

"You know them?"

She nodded again. "They come in, they leave, nobody stay after noontime. Maybe four people."

"Think about ten o'clock. You see anybody then?"

"Who you want me to see?"

I let go her hand. "Beats me. I wish I could answer that."

"One walker is all."

"What's a walker?"

"He comes up the stairs. He walks. The elevator is downstairs a long time, but he walks. He come to floor five and he keeps walking up."

"What time?"

"Just before my break. I go for coffee at ten."

I motioned with my hands, trying to draw some information out of her. "What was he like?"

All I got was a noncommittal shrug.

"Think."

She looked up at the ceiling a few seconds. "He was a big man. He wore a hat." I waited. She shook her head. There was nothing more to add.

"He see you?"

"I did not see his face so he did not see my face," she stated flatly.

"Very big?" I asked her. "Middle-size big?"

She shrugged again. "He wore a coat. Like for the rain."

Like he could put on after a kill to cover up any bloodstains.

"He carry anything?"

Another shrug.

"Did you mention any of this to the other policemen?"

A flash of fear touched her eyes again. "I . . . they made me afraid and I could not think to tell them. Do you think they will . . ."

"Forget it, Maria. You have nothing to worry about at all. Just be a good US citizen, okay?"

I got a little smile then. "Si, si, very okay," she said.

And now I had a walker. He was big. He wore a raincoat and a hat. There would be a thousand other guys just a few blocks away who could answer that description, but at least it was a start.

There was more that went with the description. He carried some kind of a billy club, but most likely a straight professional blackjack. He had a knife that was honed razor-sharp. It would have to be functional, small enough to carry discreetly, big enough to work efficiently. It could be single- or multi-bladed. I elected for a standard brand-name pocketknife with a four-inch main blade with a possible smaller one opposing. He could have a gun, but guys who prefer steel don't seem to use guns.

That took care of the weaponry.

His personal profile was pretty damn shaggy. He had no compunction about taking out a woman. He felt no revulsion about torturing a victim. He could kill with absolute ease and apparently took a great deal of satisfaction from a grotesque act of murder. He was a deliberate killer and seemed to be acting as an avenger of sorts.

Fear wasn't in his makeup either. He came at me knowing I could put a gun in my hand pretty quickly and would have used it just as fast, but it was his expertise against mine and he was counting on his own.

But he was a dumb son of a bitch because he killed the wrong guy. And if he wasn't so dumb he'd know that and come back to have another try at me. And this time I'd have a little avenging going for me too.

Somebody who was very good had gotten into my office. A pick had been used on the lock and the place had been thoroughly searched. The desk drawers had been pulled open, and only shut to get at the ones beneath. Both closet doors swung wide and the filing cabinets had the drawers completely removed and set on the floor. There was no ransacking, simply a fast search job for something big enough to be seen easily.

I put everything back the way it was, not concerned about disturbing prints. Anybody clever enough to come in with picklocks would have been enough of a pro to wear plastic gloves.

I had to make five calls before I located Petey Benson in the Olde English Tavern on Third Avenue. Ever since he had been on a special assignment covering a serial killer case in London he had shepherd's pie on Sunday. He was alone, the remains of his dinner pushed aside, and he was finishing the paper with a stein of beer in his hand.

"Now you show up," he said. "Read the paper yet?"

"Uh-huh."

"Who's sitting on the story? All we got were official handouts."

"There's a loco loose, Petey. They're playing this one cool."

"Bullshit. What's the story? They said Velda was sapped and there was a killing in your office."

"That's the story. Hell, I came in after it was all over."

"Come on, don't hand me that baloney. A crackpot killing doesn't mean much, but doing it in your office does."

"All I can figure is, some gonzo came in out of the rain with a big mad on at something he thought I did and went after a guy who happened to be in my office at the wrong time. He made a messy job of it and got out without being seen."

"That sounds like a crock."

"It is, but it's the only crock I got."

He gave me a crooked grin and folded his papers up. "So what do you want with me?"

"What's the scoop on Candace Amory?"

"Ah, you have many faces, old boy." He picked up his stein and swirled the beer around. "You want one of these?" Before I could answer he waved to the waiter and motioned for two more steins. "Do you want a personal or a professional opinion?"

"Start with a pro rundown."

"Well educated, intelligent, brainy, intellectual, or is that being redundant?"

"The point's clear."

"She's sharp, mean as a snake, and when it comes to winning doesn't have any conscience at all. She takes every advantage she can of being a woman and doesn't seem to have chinks in her armor at all. She has powerful friends because she's so damn good at what she does and any political enemies who tried to lean on her didn't know what hit them."

"Great," I said sourly.

"She's got a nice ass, hasn't she?"

"I only saw her from the front."

"That's pretty good too." Petey chuckled. "Why the inquiry?"

"She's coming out in the open," I said. The waiter put the steins down with the handles facing in the wrong direction. I spun the mug around and slopped some of the beer on my sleeve.

Petey took a pull of his beer and wiped the foam from his lip. "Not to be unexpected. That lady has been waiting her chance. I take it she's into this thing with you?"

"She's asking questions."

He took another pull at his drink. "A wonderment," he said. He looked at me across the table, his eyes probing. "We have something big here, I imagine."

"Where did she come from, Petey?"

"Well, nobody does any great research on political appointments of that nature. The DA's office runs a lot of lawyers, plenty of lady lawyers too. But this one was a little special. After she got out of school she spent a year in the FBI, did private legal work in Washington, D.C., then came back to New York. It's easy to see why the DA's office picked up on her."

"She well liked?"

"Beats me, Mike. She probably is, but I don't know how. A lot of the hotshots date her, but she doesn't keep them around very long. She's still not married. Got a nice pad up near the UN." He hoisted the stein and drank the rest of the beer down without a stop. He belched, then said, "You got plans for the lady?"

I did the same thing with my stein but I didn't belch. "Nope," I told him. "It's just better to know what to expect."

That wise old face of his had a knowing expression and he leaned forward and laid his chin in his hands. "Something going down?"

"Something smells funny."

"Like the old days?"

I nodded and my eyes tightened up. "I don't like it, friend. I thought those old days were gone for good."

"Do I get the story?"

"Why not?" I said.

"You watch out for the lovely lady DA. Though I sure would like to see you two tangle, a real kiss 'n' kill situation."

"Thanks a bunch."

"No trouble." I picked up his check when I left. "You can leave the tip," I told him.

3

Burke had wanted Velda to stay quiet as long as possible, so I didn't get to the hospital until eight. We had coffee in the lounge and I asked him how she was progressing.

"She was lucky. You can't imagine how lucky. She was probably on the phone and tossed her hair all to one side while she was talking-"

"A habit she has," I interrupted.

"Anyway, she's awake and sedated."

"Did she say anything to you?"

He popped five spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee and stirred it around. "Sweet tooth," he explained. "No, she said nothing except hello and the usual 'Where am I?' but she's pretty aware of what's going on."

"Can I talk to her?"

"Gently, Mike, gently, and not for long. Nothing exciting."

"How long will she be here?"

"At least two more days. If that was just a simple knockout-type blow she would be home by now, but somebody tried to kill her."

I told him thanks and didn't bother to finish the coffee. I could see why Burke used all that sugar.

Pat had called ahead, and the cop at the door looked at my ID and let me in. The room was in deep gloom, only a small night-light on the wall making it possible to see the outlines of the bed and equipment. When the door snicked shut I picked up the straightbacked chair by the sink, went to the bed and sat down beside her.

Little by little I started to bunch up again, my hands squeezing the rails of the bed. My lips were stretched across my mouth and I wanted to hurt something or tear somebody apart. He should have told me. He never should have let me come in cold and see her like this.

Velda. Beautiful, gorgeous Velda. Those deep brown eyes and that full, full mouth. Shimmering auburn hair that fell in a page-boy around her shoulders.

Now her face was a bloated black-and-blue mask on one side, one eye totally closed under the bulbous swelling, the other a flat slit. Her hair was gone around the bandaged area and her upper lip was twice normal size.

I put my hand over hers and whispered, "Damn it, kitten . . ."

Then her wrist moved and her fingers squeezed mine gently. "Are you . . . all right?" she asked me softly.

"I'm fine, honey, I'm okay. Now don't talk. Just take it easy. All I want is to be here with you. That's enough."

So I just sat there and in a minute she said, "I can . . . listen, Mike. Please tell me . . . what happened."

I played it back to her without building it up at all. I didn't tell her the details of the kill and hinted that it was strictly the work of a nut, but she knew better.

Under my fingers I could feel her pulse. It was steady. Her hand squeezed mine again. "He came in . . . very fast. He had one hand over his face . . . and he was . . . swinging at me . . . with the other. I . . . never saw his face at all." Remembering it hadn't excited her. The pulse rate hadn't changed.

I said, "Okay, honey, that's enough. You're supposed to take it real easy a while."

But she insisted. "Mike . . ."

"What, kitten?"

"If the police . . . ask questions . . ."

I knew what she was thinking. In her mind she had already put it on a case basis and filed it for immediate activity. There was no way she could be foxed into believing the story of a psycho on the loose. We had been too close too long and now she was reading my mind. She wanted me to have more space to work in, even if she had to be a target herself.

"Play sick," I said.

Until she made a statement, everything was up in the air. She was still alive, so there was a possibility that she could have seen the killer. He couldn't afford any witness at all, but if he tried to erase her he'd be a sitting duck himself. From here on, there would be a solid cover on the hospital room. The killer was going to sweat a little more now.

I thought I saw the good corner of her mouth twitch in a faint smile and again I got the small finger squeeze. "Be careful," she said. Her voice was barely audible and she was slipping back into a sleep once more. "I want . . . you back."

Her fingers loosened and her hand slipped out of mine. She didn't hear me when I said, "I want you back too, baby."

Outside the door the cop said, "How is she?"

"Making it." He was a young cop, this one. He still had that determined look. He had the freshness of youth, but his eyes told me he had seen plenty of street work since he left the academy. "Did Captain Chambers tell you what this was about?" I asked.

"Only that it was heavy. The rest I got through the grapevine."

"It's going to get rougher," I said. "Don't play down what you're doing."

He grinned at me. "Don't worry, Mike, I'm not jaded yet."

"Way to go, kiddo."

"By the way . . ."

"What's that?"

"How come you never locked into the department?"

"King Arthur wouldn't let me go."

"That's right," he laughed. "I forgot, you're the Black Knight."

"Take care of my girl in there, will you?"

His face suddenly went serious. "You got it, Mike."

Downstairs another shift was coming on, fresh faces in white uniforms replacing the worn-out platoon that had gone through a rough offensive on the day watch. The interns looked too young to be doctors, but they already had the wear and tear of the profession etched into them. One had almost made it to the door when the hidden PA speaker brought him up short, and with an expression of total fatigue, he shrugged and went back inside.

I cut around the little groups and pushed my way through the outside door. The rain had stopped, but the night was clammy, muting the street sounds and diffusing the lights of the buildings. Nights like this stunk. There were no incoming taxis and it was a two-block walk to where they might cruise by. There was no other choice, so I went down the steps to the street. Behind me two interns were debating waiting for a nurse who had a car, then decided they were too tired to wait and followed me, taking the other side of the street.

At night this area was solid bumper-to-bumper parked cars, wedged so tightly together you wanted to see how they came unstuck in the morning. A smart one had a two-foot space in front of him with his wheels cranked hard away from the curb so he couldn't be pushed up, and I walked right past it like a Jersey tourist before I knew it didn't fit and the slight metallic creak of a door was wrong and everything exploded at once.

Ducking and twisting was automatic and something whispered by over my head. Then a pair of bodies were on me, fists smashing at my kidneys and bouncing off my neck. I rammed my elbow back and felt teeth go under it and the back of my head mashed the guy's nose who was holding me. I was off balance and before I could use my feet another flying pair of arms nailed my legs together in a crude tackle and we all hit the pavement with me on the bottom. My .45 was still tight in the shoulder holster and I felt a hand going under my coat and yanking it clear.

It wasn't a mugging. I felt the needle go into my hip and within seconds the drowsiness started. Somebody was cursing and spitting blood behind me, and when I had no strength left the restraining arms fell away and I heard a voice saying he wanted to kick my brains out for breaking his nose.

It wasn't dream time. There were faraway sounds and feelings of being in motion. I could hear voices, but didn't know what they were saying. And it was black. I felt tired and wanted to sleep, but I was in a limbo all alone.

Time itself had no meaning. Its passage I could record by the throbbing where my body hurt, but no other way. So I just let it all happen, thinking of what a damned sucker I had been for letting myself get trapped. I said, "Shit," and my ears heard it and I let my eyes slide open and lifted my head up.

Somebody said, "He's awake."

There was barely any light and it came from a small open bulb thirty feet away. I was tied to a chair, my arms and legs snug to it and two turns of rope holding me tight against the back. There was no sense wasting any strength thrashing around. Pros had done this job and I could barely make out the form of one of them in front of me, his face an indistinguishable pale orb. There was another behind me and he wasn't breathing right. He kept swearing under his breath and spitting on the floor.

A hand came out of the darkness and tilted my head back. The beam of a small flashlight swept across my eyes and the voice said, "It's all worn off. He's wide awake." It was an accented voice, but nothing I could place.

The other one sounded like he had a bad cold, his words whispery deep with a rasp to it. He moved in closer, but I still couldn't make out his face. "Tell us about Penta," he said.

Sometimes you have to mouth off. I told him, "Up yours."

His hand came around and there was no way I could move. It was a flat-handed slap with a hell of a lot of meat behind it and I could taste blood in my mouth.

"One more time, Hammer."

"Asshole," I said.

The hand got me again, harder than before. My ear was ringing so badly I hardly heard the other voice say, "Knock if off. We haven't got time for this."

"You just let me . . ."

"Damn it, you're not playing with some patsy. He's been through the rough stuff before. Give him the sodium pentothal."

I thought now somebody would come in close enough for me to get a good look at them, but an oily smelling towel was tossed over my head, then somebody pulled my sleeve back. I felt the cold touch of an alcohol swab, then a needle went into my forearm.

Again, reality drifted away. It took all my defenses with it and I could hear and speak and even see light through the worn towel. A little part of my brain told me if I fought real hard I could lie right through the truth serum, but then, why bother lying when telling the truth was so much fun?

"Who is Penta?"

"I don't know."

"Where is Penta now?"

"I don't know."

"When did you meet Penta?"

"I never met Penta."

"Who is Penta?"

"I don't know."

The first voice said, "Let's increase the dosage." I felt the needle again. There was another long pause before the questions started. I gave them the same answers. It was almost a pleasure to be able to do it.

Another needle, and this time they waited almost too long. The sleep was coming on me.

The voice said, "I am Penta."

Only my brain made an idiotic grin. If I said he wasn't, it would mean I knew Penta.

My tongue said, "Good for you."

"Do you work for Penta?"

They were trying it again.

"I work . . . by myself." The words didn't come out easily at all.

The raspy one said, "He's going."

"Well, that's it," his partner told him.

"You think he was faking it?"

"I don't know how he could."

Sounds were too faint now to register and I felt myself being jostled around, then the sleep came and the strange, fuzzy chemical dreams that had no direction or substance, shooting off into one area after another like a firefight pattern of tracer bullets gone wild.

Awakening was in slow motion, one part at a time. I stayed immobile until I had things back in focus again, trying to remember what had preceded the odd stupor I was in. Then the mental door unlatched and it was all there, not totally clear, but discernible enough.

The ropes holding me in the chair had been loosened, with just enough tension there to keep me from falling off the chair. I shook them loose, then leaned forward and stood up. I was shaky, so I didn't move for a minute.

No drugs were lousing me up now and I could see better in the light from that dull bulb than I could before. I was in some kind of a garage, the oil and grease smell thick, dull forms of heavy machinery on either side of me. On the floor, in front of my feet, was my hat. Next to it was my .45.

Bending down was easy. Getting back up wasn't. I put the .45 back in the holster and straightened out my hat.

No, that wasn't a mugging. That was as far away from a mugging as you could get. I still had my money in my wallet and when I looked at my watch it read four fifteen.

A wide sliding door was on the other side of the light with a normal door built into it. I twisted the lock, pulled on the knob and went out to the street. A sign over the door read SMILEY'S AUTOMOTIVE in old hand-painted letters. I walked to the corner slowly, saw where I was, then crossed the street and went another long block to where the lights were, waited a good five minutes, then flagged down a taxi.

The driver's eyes met mine in the rearview mirror. "You okay, mac?"

I nodded. "Yeah, just been one of those nights." I gave him my address and closed my eyes.

Pat looked at me with total disgust and jammed his hands in his pockets. "Mike, what kind of clown crap you call this? You let ten hours go by before you give me the story of what happened. You think we wouldn't have responded right away?"

"They were pros."

"Pros can leave marks behind," he reminded me.

"What did you find?"

"Okay, nothing of importance. The chair, ropes. Somebody spit blood on the floor. Type O positive."

"And that's half the population," I said. "At least there's somebody with some teeth out of whack and another dude with a busted nose probably sporting a pair of beautiful black eyes right now. You get anything more from the owner?"

"Zilch, that's what, Smiley's place has been in that spot for over twenty years. During the slow season he shuts down and heads for the tracks. Playing the ponies is his one vice."

"That's not a great area to leave a business alone, buddy."

"What's he got to steal? A couple of hydraulic presses for straightening car frames? What're you getting at anyway?"

"The guys who had me knew the place would be empty."

"Hell, there were two other places down the street that were empty too." He stopped and breathed in deeply. "Maybe we'll get lucky and find a broken nose or de-toothed slob who has grease marks on his shoe soles we can identify."

"Don't bother. They would have thought of that too."

"Why didn't you answer your phone?"

"Because I was beat. There wasn't one damn thing I could have done."

"When those interns called 911 we had you ID'd in fifteen minutes. Every car in the city was scrounging around looking for you."

"How about the car they threw me into?"

"A black Mercedes. Late model and nobody got the number. One intern said the right rear tail-light was out. So far, we haven't located it."

"So what are you all pissed off about?" I asked him. "I'm here, nothing's happened and we know somebody else is looking for the Penta character too."

Pat took another of those comforting deep breaths, quieted down and then told me, "We have all the information on the late Anthony DiCica."

"Oh?"

"Forget those minor counts in New York. DiCica turns out to have been an enforcer for the New York mob. He was a suspect in four homicides, never got tapped for any of them and gained a reputation of being a pretty efficient workman."

"Then how'd he get to be a delivery man?"

"Simple. Somebody cracked his skull open in a street brawl and he came all unraveled. He was in a hospital seven months and left with severely impaired mental faculties."

"Who sponsored him?"

"Nobody took him in. He remembered very little of his past, but he could handle uncomplicated things. He had been working with that printer you used for over a year. The hospital had no choice except to release him."

"What's the tag line, Pat?"

"He could have made enemies. Somebody saw him and came after him."

"In my office?"

"Anybody with a hate big enough to take him apart like that wouldn't be rational about it. He'd take him when and where he could and your office was it. He spotted him, followed him, then went in after him. If your unknown client did show up afterward all the activity scared him off."

For a minute I thought about it. There was still the "walker" Maria Escalante had seen, but for now I was keeping that to myself. I said, "Why the hell was I abducted then, Pat? Nobody wanted me. They wanted Penta."

A detective came in and handed Pat a thick folder and left. Pat flopped it open, scowled, then closed the office door, sealing out the confusion on the other side. "Mike, you remember Ray Wilson?"

"Sure. The old intelligence guy?"

"He's had Penta on the computers with Washington for two days. Usually we get some sort of a reply in a short, reasonable time. With Penta it's all delays and referrals to other agencies."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Probably nothing," Pat said. "Ray seems to think that when Penta was mentioned a flag went up somewhere down the line. When that happens we're into something pretty damn heavy."

I let out a laugh. "And I can see what will drop on you if they know we have such great heart-to-heart talks." I looked around. "This place bugged?"

He looked startled a second, then grinned. "Go screw yourself, pal. You're my pigeon and I'm running you."

"Good story," I said. "Stick to it." I looked at my watch. It was almost four o'clock. "When's the next briefing?"

"Like now," Pat said. "Let's go."

This time the Ice Lady wore a cool blue sheath of a fabric that seemed to caress her whenever she moved. She knew what it did and every motion was beautifully orchestrated for her audience. Their response was just as carefully calculated, as though they were totally ignorant of this vibrant woman who was one of them too. They saw us come in, but only stopped talking when we were close enough to hear what they were saying.

Pat motioned to the table. "Shall we sit down?"

I didn't bother with the chair bit this time. I took a seat across from Jerome Coleman and when he was ready, he nodded to the man next to him and said, "This is Frank Carmody and his assistant, Phillip Smith, both of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. On my right is Mr. Bennett Bradley, representing the State Department, and his special assistant from the CIA, Mr. Lewis Ferguson."

It's funny how cops look like cops. When they're federal they seem to dress alike, groom themselves identically and use the same body language. There were slight differences in the color and pattern of their suits, but not much. They were all in their early forties and probably had the same barber who gave proper haircuts and shaved close.

At least Bradley, the guy from State, was different. His suit was a light gray, his tie was red and he wore a mustache, which was more hair than he had on his head. Like Yul Brynner's, it was shaved off on the back of his skull for convenience. But he was still State, bore the bureaucratic attitude of tired integrity and seemed anxious to get on with the meeting.

Pat said, "I'm Captain Chambers and this is Michael Hammer. I believe you want to ask him some questions."

I held up my hand before they could talk, "This is a strange interagency relationship here. Cooperation between the FBI and CIA is pretty damn rare. Not to mention State. Do I need a lawyer here?"

The Ice Lady said, "You are not in jeopardy, Mr. Hammer."

"My licenses are intact, I presume."

"For now." There was no inflection in her voice at all.

I gestured with my hand and sat back.

Carmody spoke up first. "We want to know about Penta, Mr. Hammer."

"So does everybody else," I told him.

"Yes. We've all read the statement you gave Captain Chambers. The witnesses at the hospital saw the assailants, saw you abducted, and we know what you have said."

"What's your point?"

It was Bennett Bradley from the State Department who broke in. "Mr. Hammer . . . when your name came up in this matter I remembered having heard it before. After an inquiry or two I opened a file that made interesting reading."

Pat grunted and said, "Everything he does is interesting."

Bradley simply ignored him and said, "You testified at a trial as to the possible inaccuracy of the polygraph test. In fact, you gave a demonstration using an authorized operator of the device and succeeded in lying without being detected."

"There were two others who did the same thing, Mr. Bradley. If you know how to do it there's no trick to it at all."

"The State lost that case, I might add."

"So be it," I said. "What's that got to do with now?"

"Could you possibly do it under sodium pentothal?"

They were playing with me now and I was getting ticked off. "I suppose there could be a trick to that too."

All of them watched me, waiting.

I said, "Why are you so interested in nailing this loony?"

It was Lewis Ferguson who looked to Pat for confirmation and when Pat nodded slightly, he said, "This one . . . this Penta murdered one of our men. You seem to have enough . . . familiarization with police departments to understand how we feel about this."

"I know how the cops feel about it."

"We're no different."

"Cops don't have the State Department backing them up," I said.

Bradley gave me an enigmatic smile. Those State guys had a thing with them that made me want to belt them right in the mouth. "The agent who was killed was carrying some very valuable information. If he gave it up before he died, the security of the United States could be compromised."

"Oh, for Pete's sake, I've heard that 'compromised' line a million times. What the hell can one man carry that could destroy us? You know damn well nobody can afford to start tossing nukes around and live to brag about it, so how the hell do we get compromised?"

"I'm not referring to the big nations, Mr. Hammer. Some of the Third World countries have nuclear capabilities nobody likes to speak about. They may not have the same moral attitudes we have."

"So why kill your agent?"

"Because he knew which country was planning to let the first bird fly. He was about to deliver that information."

"Damn," I said, "here I was thinking about how altruistic you were about your agent getting killed. Things are starting to blossom out."

"Mr. Hammer," Ferguson said. "Did you lie to your abductors about Penta?"

I shrugged. It was better than words. Finally I told them, "I don't know. I was under the influence of drugs."

They were very polite and thanked me. The Ice Lady looked at me and her eyes were as cool as her dress. She turned just a little bit and the fold of her neckline opened enough to show the fullness of her breasts, snowy white against icy blue. I didn't try to hide my appreciation, and let her see the edges of my teeth under a smile.

Pat and I looked at each other in the empty room and he said, "Want to go have coffee?"

"Sure. Think we can get Ray Wilson to go with us?"

"He's always glad to go anywhere." He pushed back his chair. "What do you want him for, anyway?"

I said, "You reminded me that he was in the intelligence unit."

"Fourteen years' worth."

"Didn't he head up the operation when Qaddafi threatened personal attacks on Reagan?"

"He headed up the New York command post. Incidentally, he's our liaison with some international counterparts." He frowned, looking at me quizzically. "Why?"

"Maybe he can straighten out a few things for me."

"Beautiful. Never say New York's Finest doesn't do its damnedest to keep the public happy."

"Come on, pal, I pay my taxes," I said.

"Don't forget your license fees."

"Never," I grinned. "Now, do we go downstairs together or one at a time?"

Pat shook his head at me. "After all these years, this department has given up on you and me."

"Not the DA's office, though."

"Ah, them," Pat said. "They come and go with the elections. Just don't underplay Candace Amory, buddy."

Musingly, I said, "The Ice Lady."

"Yeah, her."

"She's going to supper with me," I told him.

"Bullshit." He seemed startled. "When did this happen?"

"As soon as I ask her, kiddo."

Ray Wilson was already at a table when we got to the deli, a half-eaten pastrami sandwich and an empty coffee cup in front of him. "Couldn't wait for you guys," he explained. "Want coffee?" We both nodded and he held up two fingers. Before we were in the booth the waiter had the coffee down. The old cop went back to his sandwich, had another bite and added, "Nobody ever asks me out for anything unless they want something."

"How about women?" I suggested.

"Boy oh boy, do they want something. My apartment, my salary, my pension."

"Just because you're good-looking?"

"Man," he leered, "I may not be a beauty, but I sure got something that is. Well trained. Knows all the tricks. But that's not what you want to know about. So what's up?"

"Mike's been thinking," Pat said.

He nodded and waited.

I said, "You know about me being mugged. I mean, classically mugged?"

"Pat told me," he said casually.

"Two of them questioned me about Penta. Their voices were accented, but at the time I was pretty cloudy from the shot they had given me and didn't try to place the inflections. Every time I think back now I seem to come to one conclusion. Those accents were faked."

"Well?"

My coffee was too hot to drink, so I sipped at it. "What's your opinion on Penta?"

Wilson gave Pat another of those looks and Pat gave him the "go ahead" sign with his hands. He said to me, "I assume you're asking me if the guys who grabbed you were from some government agency?"

"You got it."

"Why?"

"Their method, their attitude. All that was pretty well structured."

"Hell, Mike, even a bunch of punks could do that."

"Would punks want Penta?"

Pat held up his hand and interrupted. "Suppose as a mob hit man, DiCica thought he had killed Penta and didn't. That still leaves him open to be knocked off."

"Where does that put me then?" I asked Pat.

"In the middle, pal, right in the frigging middle. If you know anything about Penta, they wanted to know about it."

"Then why did they leave my gun right there on the floor? No punk is going to walk away from a piece like that."

Wilson let out a derisive laugh. "With the pieces we get in off the street, nobody would want an antique .45 like yours. Nowadays the hoods opt for Uzis, .357 Magnums and anything untraceable. A registered piece like your Colt could mean trouble."

"Right," I agreed. "But if they did come from some agency everything would still fit."

"True." Wilson finished his sandwich, wiped his hands on a napkin and lit up a butt. "All you wanted was my opinion?"

"That's all."

"Okay, they weren't hoods. They had some intelligence going for them. They knew about the hospital, they had the car preparked, ready for a quick getaway. Sodium pentothal or a quick-acting tranquilizer could be easy to get, but using Smiley's garage meant plenty of preknowledge. One other thing, after you damaged two of their guys nobody bothered to lay anything on you. That's a real professional attitude."

He stopped, took a long drag on his butt and let the smoke drift toward the ceiling, watching it laze its way upward. "So they were government personnel?"

"I didn't say which government. Or whose," he replied easily. "Besides, all you wanted was an opinion."

"There were FBI and CIA troops probing for more of the same an hour ago."

"Carmody and Ferguson," he stated.

"Those are the ones."

"Old spooks. I know them. Good guys but dull. They were real busy during the Black Panther days. Later Ferguson spent a lot of time overseas helping smooth over some of the blunders we made."

"You're real current, Ray."

He winked at Pat. "Interdepartmental cooperation, they call it."

Now I took my time about polishing off my coffee. When it was gone I put it down slowly. Little things were beginning to show. I said, "Where does Bradley come into it?"

"He's a State Department troubleshooter."

"On what level?" I asked him.

"That I don't know. He spent the last six months in England and was rotated back here about three weeks ago."

Someplace there had to be a connection. "Penta's beginning to have an international flavor."

"Not necessarily," Wilson told me. "State might be into this just to protect one of their own sources. Washington gets pretty damn touchy about the contacts they have running for them."

"Like Pat runs me?"

Wilson grunted something unintelligible. "Yeah."

"So who the hell is Penta?" I asked.

"And why did you kill him?" Pat said. When I gave him a nasty look he added, "That damn note meant something, Mike."

"Not if it was DiCica he was really after. In that case you guys have a plain old murder and not some kind of conspiracy." I got up to leave and tossed a buck down for my coffee.

"Somehow," Pat insisted, "that note is important. Just how do you explain him saying 'You die for killing me'?"

"Easy," I said.

They both looked up at me.

"Somebody gave him AIDS."

Pat's eyes got hard and I waved him off before he could say anything. "Wasn't me, buddy," I said.

I thought the little guy in the oddball suit who shuffled up to me was another panhandler. When I closed the cab door he peered at me, a grin twisting his mouth, and said, "Remember me? I'm Ambrose."

"Ambrose who?"

"How many people with a name like that you know? From Charlie the Greek's place, man."

Then I remembered him behind a mop getting the spilled beer off the floors. They called him Ambie then.

He said, "Charlie says for you to give him a call."

"Why?"

"Beats me, man. He just told me to tell you that. And the sooner the better. It's important."

I told him okay, handed him two bucks and watched him scuttle away. When I got upstairs I dug out the old phone book, looked up the Greek's place and called Charlie. His raspy voice started chewing me out for not stopping by the past six months and when he got finished he said, "There's a gent that wants to meet with you, Mike."

Charlie was an old-fashioned guy. When he said "gent" it was with capital quote marks around it, printed in red. Any "gent" would be somebody in the chain of command that led into the strange avenues of what they deny is organized crime. He wasn't connected; he was simply a useful tool in the underworld apparatus.

"He got a name, Charlie?"

"Sure, I guess. But I don't know it."

"What's the deal?"

"Like tonight. Can you make it down here tonight?"

"You know what time it is?"

"Since when are you a day person?"

"He there now?"

"I got a number to call. He can be here in an hour."

I looked at my watch. "Okay, but make it two. You think I ought to have some backup?"

"Naw. This guy's clean."

"Tell him to sit at the bar."

"You got it, Mike."

The Greek's place was just a run-down old saloon in a neighborhood that was going under the wrecker's ball little by little. Half the places had been abandoned, but Charlie's joint was near the corner, got a regular trade and a lot of daytime transients. From four to seven every evening the gay crowd took over like a swing shift, then left abruptly and everything went back to sloppy normalcy.

A pair of old biddies were sipping beer at the end of the bar and right in the center was a middle-aged portly guy in a dark suit having a highball. His eyes picked me up in the back bar mirror when I came in and we didn't have to be introduced. He waved Charlie over. I said, "Canadian Club and ginger," then we picked up the drinks and went to a table across the room.

"Appreciate your coming," he said.

"No trouble. What's happening?"

"There are some people interested in Tony DiCica's death."

"Pretty messy subject. You know what happened to him?"

He bobbed his head. "Tough."

"Yeah. He sure as hell messed up my office. But that's not what you want to know."

He stared around the room, then sipped at his drink. "You and that police officer checked out his apartment."

"Right."

"Did you find anything?"

"There was a loaded clip from an automatic, but no gun. The only thing he had was an old toolbox."

"You're coming at me fast and easy, buddy."

"Negative answers are easy to give."

"That place really get shaken down?"

"We didn't take it apart." I pushed my drink aside. I still hadn't tasted it. "What should we have found?"

He gave me a long, steady look, then showed a little smile. "You would have known."

Now I tasted my drink. Charlie had given me a double charge and barely taste it was all I did. The guy opposite was watching me curiously, not quite knowing how to steer the conversation. Finally I said, "Let's get something squared away here. You guys don't give a shit who knocked off DiCica, do you?"

"Couldn't care less."

"Don't hand me that," I told him. "You mean unless he got from Tony what you wanted."

After thinking about it he acknowledged the point. "Something like that."

I said, "You know, I don't give a rat's ass what Tony had. The guy who took him out thought he was me, and I give a shit who did the killing."

"Some people aren't going to look at it that way," he told me. "Until they're absolutely satisfied, you're going to have a problem."

"There's one hell of a hole in your presentation, fella," I said. "Tony's been running loose a long time. If he had something, why didn't they get it from him when he was alive?"

"You know about Tony's history?"

"I know."

"If you guess the answer I'll tell you if it's right."

Hell, there could only be one answer. I said, "Tony had something he could hang somebody with." The guy kept watching me. "He had permanent amnesia after getting his head bashed in and didn't remember having it or putting it somewhere." The eyes were still on mine. The storyline started to open up now. "Just lately he said or did something that might indicate a sudden return of memory." The eyes narrowed and I knew I had it.

When he put his drink away in two quick swallows, he rolled the empty glass in his fingers a moment. "It came in the day he was killed. A week before he suddenly recognized somebody they kept close to him and called him by his right name."

"Then he relapsed back into the amnesia again?"

"Nobody knows that."

"Don't tell me they never checked his apartment before."

"Twice. Didn't find a damn thing. If they had splintered the place he might have panicked. After all, he was living in a whole new world. If he stayed that way and the stuff stayed with him everything would've been okay. But he came out of it."

Now I was beginning to see what he was getting at. "And you think somebody else was watching him too, waiting for him to shake off the amnesia."

He just looked at me, not saying a word.

"Where do I come in?" I asked him.

"Mike, you got a big reputation, you know that?"

"So?"

"You have your fingers in all kinds of shit. You move with the clean guys and you go with the dirty ones just as easy. Nobody likes to mess with you because you've blown a few asses off with that cannon of yours and you got buddies up in Badgeville where it counts. So you'd be just the kind of guy Tony DiCica would run to with a story that would keep his head on his shoulders."

"Crazy," I said.

"Not really. He'd been to your office three times before."

"Business with the printer. My secretary took care of it."

"You say. He could have been discussing his business."

"Wrong," I stated.

"Can you prove otherwise?"

I thought a second. "No."

"The day he was killed he had come in to arrange something with you. Before you got there somebody else showed up and did the job, expecting to walk away with the information. He didn't have it on him, but he sure would have talked when he was getting his fingers whacked off."

This thing was really coming back at me. "Okay, what's my part?"

"He is your client, Mr. Hammer. He has told you all in return for an escape route you are to furnish."

"That's a lot of bullshit, you know."

A gesture of his hands meant it didn't make any difference. "You see, as far as certain people are concerned, you are in until they say you're out. The information Tony had can be worth a lot of money and can cause a lot of killing. One way or another, they expect to get it back."

"What happens if the cops get it first?"

"Nobody really expects that to happen," he said. He pulled his cuff back and looked at his watch. "If the killer didn't get the info from Tony he'll be thinking the same way the others are . . . that you have it or know where it is."

I took one more sip of my drink and stood up. "I guess everybody wants me dead."

"At least certain people are giving you a few days of grace to make a decision."

I could feel my lips pulling back in controlled anger and knew it wasn't a nice grin at all. I pulled the .45 out, watched his eyes go blank until I flipped out the clip and fingered a shell loose. I handed it to him. "Give them that," I said.

"What's this supposed to mean?"

"They'll know," I told him.

4

I've often wondered how Petey Benson got his information. The phone was his friend and the taxis were his ally. He seemed to know nobody, yet knew everybody. Twice in recent years his inside stories blew two administrations out of office and his penetration into a Wall Street operation almost wrecked a bank. Crime wasn't his bag, but devious causes were. Breaking down the intricate machinations of the power jockeys brought a glow to his face.

We met in front of the Plaza Hotel, then ducked inside to the bar. At this time there were only two others at the far end, immersed in their own business. Petey slid an envelope to me and I pulled out two sheets of handwritten notes and a photostat.

Petey asked me, "Want a drink?"

I wanted to read the notes, but said, "CC and ginger."

What he had scribbled were highlights of Candace Amory's background. Her family was one of those deadly kind that dropped a smoldering genius into the political arena every other generation, spewing out minor luminaries along the way. None of the Amorys ever really made the big time because they were smart enough to stay where the power base could be manipulated. Within her own family Candace Amory was a wild hair up everybody's ass, but seemingly controllable.

It was the photostat that laid it all out. Petey had finished his drink, so I pushed mine over to him. "Where did you get this?" I asked him.

"Trade secret."

What I had was an essay the Ice Lady had written. It was a statement of fact so direct, so concisely put together that I knew this was an exact timetable that Miss Amory was going to adhere to and fulfill. The young Candace was promising that she would be the district attorney of New York City, thence to the governorship of the state and from there to the presidency of the United States.

If she hadn't already made it into the DA's office and already insinuated herself into a first-class, spectacular news story, I would have said it was just the drivel the young and inexperienced enjoy fantasizing about.

But this was real.

"Clue me, Petey. Things like this just don't lay around. Where did you dig it up?"

"Buy me another drink."

I bought him another drink.

"You haven't figured it out yet?"

"No. I'm a dumb detective."

"Go to college, Mike?"

"Sure I did, why?"

"They make you do an essay on yourself as part of your admittance application?"

"Damn," I said. "That was pretty sharp, buddy. And they just handed this over to you?"

Across his fresh drink he said, "No, I stole it. You see, those are things I know how to do. Help any?"

"It gives me an edge," I told him.

"You'll need more than that if you tangle assholes with that lady."

"Well, no guts, no glory," I said. I reached in my pocket and dug out some change. "I suppose you know her phone number?"

He said sure and gave it to me, reminding me that it was unlisted. So much for privacy. "What're you calling her for?"

"I'm going to ask her out to supper."

"Hell, man, it's already supper time. Women don't buy that kind of action."

"This one might," I said.

I went out to a pay phone and called the Ice Lady. She said she had nothing better to do and would meet me at the Four Seasons. I told her she would meet me at the Pub on Fifty-seventh Street since I was buying. She knew better than to argue. I had a date.

Petey said, "Well?"

I glanced at my watch. "I'll see her in half an hour."

His mouth dropped open. "How did you manage that?"

"To paraphrase you, old buddy," I told him, "that is one of the things I know how to do."

What I didn't tell him was that I knew she'd been sitting there waiting for me to call ever since she put on that show with her titties.

The Irishman who ran the Pub gave me a big hello, reserved a table for me in back and set up a Miller Lite on the bar while I waited. I was early because I knew she'd be early. Anyone who wanted the presidency had to be early.

She smiled coming in the door and I said, "Good evening, Miss Amory."

"Hello, Mr. Hammer. Am I in time?"

"Right on the button. Want a drink at the bar or shall we go back to the table?"

"Oh, let's go to the table. It's been a long day. I'd rather sit down."

I waved toward the rear and let her follow the waiter. The Pub had good Irish class, great corned beef and typical New York customers. It wasn't upper crust and the elite choose other places to see or be seen, and from her surreptitious motions I knew Candace Amory was putting it in a niche of its own, adding another check mark on my character sheet.

When we sat down I said, "It's a good address."

Puzzled, she looked at me, a cigarette halfway to her lips. "What?"

"Nothing." I pointed to the butt between her fingers. "Why do you smoke?"

"Habit I suppose." Again she seemed puzzled.

"A mouth like yours doesn't need a cigarette in it."

Her tongue flicked out and wet her lips. "Oh? What does it need, Mr. Hammer?"

I gave her a little smile and her face got red. I got her off the hook nice and easy. "How about a hot corned beef sandwich?"

For a minute there some of the frost had melted on the Ice Lady, but the confusion only lasted a few moments. At least the first points were mine. She put the cigarette down.

A lot of things can get said across a dinner table. The mere fact of eating gives you time to think, to plan, to probe. We each had our own reasons for being there and all the weapons were out in the open.

The lady was coolly conscious of the way her dress accentuated the curve of her bosom, showing you just so much, yet letting you know there was so much more to be seen. When she'd walked to the table, shrugging the coat off her shoulders, she knew that eyes were watching her, drinking up her catlike grace, taking in sharp breaths at the sensuous rhythm of her walk. Now I had all her weaponry concentrated on me and I was glad I had enough years on me to tell me not to get blindsided like an amateur.

"Tell me, Mr. Hammer . . ."

"Mike."

"Then you may call me Candace."

"Never Candy?"

"No, never. And I am Candace only socially."

"Wouldn't be proper at a board meeting?"

She smiled. "Nor in a courtroom."

"Now what did you want me to tell you?" I asked.

"What your motives are in asking me for supper."

I took another bite of the corned beef. "To get you to open up and let me in on what's happening. Our Penta guy is getting some pretty high-level attention."

"Deservedly so."

"Bradley never mentioned the name of the agent who was murdered."

"Naturally."

"Do you know?"

She shook her head. "Nor do I want to. Dead men are . . . dead. The live ones can be made to talk and put on a witness stand. We are looking for a multiple killer now, a torture murderer who has to be stopped before he gets to somebody else."

"And that's what you really wanted to know in the beginning, wasn't it, Candace?"

This time her expression went through a variety of phases before it steadied into a defiant stare. "Tell me," she said deliberately.

"How come I'm not scared to death to be out alone knowing Penta wanted me? If I was the one he wanted."

"You amaze me, Mike. Why aren't you?"

"All of a sudden I'm on my toes. I don't feel like being mugged again. I don't like being a target, either, so the first slob who goes to do a heavy on me is going to get a slug up his kiester. Or wherever."

"Wherever sounds better." This time she got into her sandwich.

"Tell me something, Candace, aren't you spooked about the way all this is being handled?" She kept eating, waiting for an explanation. "Everybody is talking to me, inviting me in for open conferences, ostensibly giving me classified information . . . everything that's in direct violation of law-enforcement practices."

"Not necessarily. Witnesses can be treated . . . in a friendly fashion."

"Again, pardon the language, bullshit. You damn well know that I'm not anything so far. I'm an innocent bystander in a murder, a victim in a mugging and a suspect of an indefinable sort at this point. But I'm something else too, lady. I'm a guy with a reputation that has to hold the line. I'm a damn headhunter and I get the feeling every one of you are standing by waiting to see who makes the first move and hoping I can simplify your case with a .45 in Penta's nose."

She took a ladylike nibble at her sandwich. "Very forcefully said."

"So why the heavy hitters from the agencies?"

Once again she timed it nicely, finishing her coffee before she made her decision. "My friend Jerome Coleman was formerly with the FBI."

I took a wild shot. "He was one of your instructors at the academy in Norfolk, wasn't he?" The guess was right and caught her completely off guard.

"Why . . . yes." Her eyes were asking me a question.

"Just something I picked up," I said. Her association with the FBI would be public information, but not her friendship with Coleman. "Go on."

"He was in my office when we got news of the murder in your office. The name Penta touched something in his memory and he called Frank Carmody. That's when the federal agencies came into the picture. Penta was wanted for the murder of their man overseas."

"They must have a description of him," I suggested.

"Not an iota. No prints, no photos, nothing."

"Where did all this happen?"

"England. Somewhere in England. Outside Manchester, I think."

"Yet they know his name."

"Yes. I don't know how."

I was getting some ideas, but they would take time to look into. Now I had to let her have her turn. I said, "What can I do for you?"

She looked down at the small diamond-studded watch on her wrist. "Take me home, for one thing. We can talk on the way."

I paid the bill and walked her out of the place, enjoying the envious looks I got. This time her walk was more sedate, but she couldn't hide the contours of her body. A cab was at the curb and we got in and she gave the driver her address. We were almost there when I said to her, "You haven't answered my question yet, Candace."

"I've been told you're very aggressive," she started.

"Sure, I'm in a tough business."

"Then tell me . . . what do you plan on doing about this . . . matter?"

The lady asked some dramatic questions, all right. The cab pulled up outside her apartment, a uniformed doorman ran up, opened the door and we got out. He said good evening to Candace, barely nodded to me, then seemed to recognize me and nodded again, annoyed because he didn't remember my name.

"Would you care to come up for a drink?"

No way I'd spoil her plan of attack. I said yes, went inside, took the elevator up to the twelfth floor and did the bit of opening the door for her with her own keys.

Miss Candace Amory lived like the princess she was. The place was magazine-picture perfect, a miniature New York castle that unlimited money could buy. The damned place even looked comfortable. I think the music started automatically when we walked in, something low and sultry and classical. It was nearly nine thirty and I wondered when Ravel's Bolero would come on.

"What are you smiling about?"

"Appreciating your house."

"Is it suitably seductive?"

"Fits you well," I said.

She laughed, said, "I suppose now I should go in and put on something more comfortable. Is that my line?"

"Doesn't matter. I can handle buttons and snaps."

"Touche. Make us a drink while I call my office."

I went to the bar and built a pair of highballs. I put them on the coffee table and took a seat in the overstuffed chair across from the matching sofa. I wondered how she would handle this one.

She listened to her messages, wrote down some notes, then dialed again. The person she spoke to was the district attorney. She told him she'd be home all night, then came over, picked up her drink and eased herself down on the sofa. "Afraid of me?"

"Nope." I lifted my glass in a toast. "Cheers."

"Cheers," she said. "Once more. What are your plans?"

"Legally," I told her, "I have no position at all. I can contribute knowledge and information to the police department and associated agencies, but I stay hands-off on the case itself."

"I didn't ask you about legalities."

My drink tasted good. Smooth. I gave her a little shrug. "I'm a victim seeking redress."

"Bullshit to you too," she said.

A grin started slowly, tugging at my mouth. "Not too long ago you were about to take my license away." I took another taste of the drink. "This place bugged?"

"No."

"Doesn't really matter. I'm glad to tell you. I intend to tumble this Penta guy. I may just take him down or I may take him out altogether. The son of a bitch tried to kill somebody I care a lot about and he laid a load of shit on me with that kill in my office and I don't let something like that go by."

"How can you find him?"

"What did you learn at Norfolk, kid?"

"Legwork, informants, psychological profiles, and on and on."

"Good for you. Only you forgot the biggest one."

"Which?"

"Experience."

"And what is experience?"

"A lot of time being aggressive, stubborn, a target and a damn fool."

"You have all that?"

"More. I'm smart."

She couldn't hide the smile. "How smart is that?"

"Enough to tell you what you want to be when you grow up."

I knew she was going to say it. "Want to bet?"

"Sure. What do you want to put up?"

She walked right into it. "Oh, you name the terms."

I took my time and put away half the drink. "If I lose," I said, "I'll tell you who Penta is."

Her eyes narrowed. "You said you didn't know . . ."

"That was then."

She was on edge now. This was something she had to know and she wasn't concerned about losing. Even if I was lying, it still didn't matter. "And if you win?"

I shrugged casually. "You take off your clothes. Here."

All of the Ice Lady's emotions were exposed in a flash, the crudity of the suggestion, the daring of the act, the shame of exposure, the desire to do the unthinkable. It was one beautiful expression.

But she couldn't lose. She said, "You're on."

I finished the drink and put the glass down. "How many guesses do I get?"

"Just one."

"Fair enough." I leaned back in the chair and looked at her. The music playing was Brahms's Hungarian Dance No. 5. "You plan to be . . . no, you intend to be, without a shadow of doubt you know you have to be and will be . . ." She wasn't breathing. She was sitting there with a strange, stark look on her face. ". . . the president of the United States."

The back of her hand went to her mouth very slowly. Her eyes were wide, shocked, her lovely mouth opened slightly with astonishment tinged with fear because I was completely inside her mind.

"No!" I could hardly hear her. "It's impossible. No one knows. I . . . I've never mentioned it to anyone. Never. You can't possibly know this." She got to her feet slowly, putting her glass down before she dropped it. For a moment she almost lost her composure. "How did . . . you know?"

"Doesn't matter."

"Yes, it does."

"Experience. I won, didn't I?"

"Yes."

"I'm waiting," I said.

"You will never mention this to anyone, never."

"Why should I?"

Her lower lip went between her teeth and she stared at me. She was wondering how she'd lost all control of the situation. Her initial plan had gotten out of hand and now she had to put her integrity on the line.

The dress was a simple but dramatic arrangement. Her hand went to her chest and found the concealed zipper. She pulled it down quickly, not for effect, but because had she not she wouldn't be able to pay her debt at all.

My Ice Lady was hurting, but determined. She took a deep breath and I knew what she was going to do next.

I said, "Don't."

Her hands held the dress she was about to pull open locked to her breasts. "It's a debt I owe," she forced out.

"Wrong. It was a dirty trick I pulled."

"Mike . . . don't lie. What you said was true and no way outside of reading my mind you could have known."

"Zip up, Candace. If I really wanted you naked, I would have gotten you that way myself."

"Then why did you . . . ?"

"I wanted to see if you'd stick to your word."

Her fingers reached for the zipper and drew it up, slowly this time. A tiny feeling of anger showed in the tightness of her mouth, but there was hurt in her eyes. That was something I didn't expect to see.

"You really don't want me, do you?"

"Don't fool yourself, honey. I thought about it the first time I saw you and have ever since. You don't have to tell me you haven't been in the sack with anybody yet . . . no woman aching for the presidency in these days had better take that chance. That much I know. But now I like what I see better than I did before." I reached for my hat and pushed out of the chair.

"Mike . . . if you had lost . . . would you have told me about Penta?"

I didn't have to lie my way out of that. I said, "The point is moot, kid. I didn't lose." I winked at her and stuck my hat on. "Thanks for the drink."

She smiled when I walked past her toward the door and just as I was reaching for the knob, she said, "Mike . . ."

I looked back and suddenly had one of those feelings that I had been here before in another time.

The Ice Lady had let her dress crumple at her feet in soft folds and she had been wearing nothing beneath it. She was nude rather than naked, not icy at all, but warm and beautiful and so alive I could see the gentle movements of her breathing. Very alive. The nipples of her breasts were proudly erect.

She smiled at me. I smiled back and opened the door.

The desk nurse at the hospital was glad to have somebody to talk to, even at midnight. Velda was still under sedation, but definitely improving.

The doctors had been in twice that day and were pleased with her progress. Yes, a police officer was still at the door and no, they never wandered off. Officers would relieve each other at regular intervals. I thanked her, hung up and dialed Petey Benson at his apartment.

As I expected, he was having a beer in front of the TV and when he recognized my voice, asked, "How'd you make out?"

"Like brother and sister," I told him.

"Yeah, I bet. What's up this time?"

"You have any connections in England?"

"Hey, England's a big place."

"Manchester, England."

"Well, there's a sportswriter on the Manchester Guardian I met in London at a football game. Not like our football, but like soccer . . ."

"I know what you mean," I snapped impatiently. Don't steer him and Petey would go off into every odd angle. "How can I reach him?"

"Got a pencil?"

"Sure."

"Then I'll give you his number." He rustled some pages in his phone book, then read the number off to me. "I think we're five hours behind them over there. Call him a little later and you might get him in."

"Okay. I'm going to use your name."

"Be my guest. I don't suppose you want to tell me what this is all about."

"Later," I said.

Russell Graves was in and "delighted indeed" to speak to someone in the colonies. Actually, in fact, it was the first overseas call he had ever gotten, as he put it. Petey was some sort of a hero figure to him, an American crime reporter who had a fat expense account and was assigned to the really exciting cases. When I told him I was a real American private eye who was working with Petey and needed an overseas connection he got so worked up I thought he'd cream his jeans. He made sure I knew he was only a sports reporter, but I told him that crime was everywhere, even in sports, so that shouldn't stop him.

"Well, then, Mr. Hammer, what is it you wish me to do?"

"Sometime back an American was murdered outside Manchester. I don't know his name and can't describe him, but he was a federal agent working over there."

"That sounds awfully vague, Mr. Hammer."

"Possibly, but murders in your country aren't all that frequent."

"Times have changed somewhat, sir."

"I realize that. But this is an American who was killed. If it happened in the countryside somebody would be aware of it. There's one other thing . . . this kill could have been a vicious one."

"Vicious?"

"Not a clean kill. There might be something pretty nasty about it. You know what I mean?"

"Yes," he said, "I believe I do."

"Now," I went on, "there's a possibility that our government and yours are playing this matter down, but we're looking for a killer who hit over there and here, and likely will try to hit someplace else too. That's why I suggest you look outside the normal channels for anything on the murder over there."

"Is there any way I can get a story out of this? I'm sure my editor would see it in my favor . . ."

"Guaranteed, Russell. You and Petey can have it together if it works out."

That was enough for him. I gave him my home and office numbers, told him to call person-to-person and if he could expedite matters any, I'd get him tickets the next time our pro teams staged a preseason football game in a British stadium.

When I hung up, I got a cold beer out of the refrigerator, drank it down in two long draughts, as the British would say, and went to bed.

5

I parked the car a half block down from Smiley's Automotive, got out and took a look around. Lower Manhattan had a lot of areas like this, old buildings eroding away from lack of maintenance, homes to run-down shops dealing in out-of-date or surplus goods. The smell of Butyl rubber came from a tire-recapping place that had opened early. Outside their doors two guys were unloading casings from a pickup truck. One place had a TOOL-AND-DIE sign in the window, but didn't look as if it did any business at all. There was a plate-glass shop that looked stable and another garage, just opening, that specialized in TUNE UP AND REPAIRS. A few other places looked like they were closed for good.

When I passed Smiley's I thought it was closed, but there was a light in the back and somebody was moving around. I gave the door a bang with my fist, waited, then did it again.

A voice yelled, "Take it easy, I'm coming, I'm coming." A little old guy opened the door and said, "We ain't open."

I stuck my foot in the door and put my hand against it. "You are now, buddy." I shoved it open, reached in my pocket for my wallet and gave it an empty flash and put it back.

The gesture was enough. "You doggone cops, why don't you just come down and live here?"

"No TV," I said. "Where do you live, Pop?"

"The same place I lived when the other cops were here. I already told 'em."

"You didn't tell me."

"Right around the corner. Over the grocery store. What do ya think you're gonna find? There ain't nothing here."

"It's a followup call, Pop. You know what a followup call is?"

"I know you're gonna tell me, that's what."

"It's in case you remembered something you forgot."

"Well, I didn't forget nothing."

I reached in my coat pocket for a note pad and let him see the gun in the shoulder holster. There's nothing that impresses people more than seeing a gun. "What's your name?"

"Jason." I looked at him. "McIntyre," he added.

"Address?" He gave that to me. "Who do you work for?"

"I told you guys."

"Now tell me."

"When Smiley wants things done, I work."

"What things?"

"Clean up. Sometimes run errands. Hell, I'm too old for anything else. Had to come in after the cops shoved everything around. What in hell were they looking for anyway? They said somebody beat up on a guy in here. There was some bloody spots on the floor and you know what?"

"No, what?"

"I found a tooth, a whole tooth, by damn. It was right there on the waste pile in a glob of bloody spit. Wires and all still right on it."

"You show that to the police?"

"Nah, they'd already went."

"Let's see it." He gave me a glance as if it were none of my business and I said, "Get it."

It was a tooth, all right, a single partial plate holding what seemed to be a lower canine. Part of the plastic holding the tooth had been snapped off, but the wire bracings that attached to adjacent teeth were intact.

I asked him, "What were you holding on to this for?"

The old guy threw up his hands. "Shoot, mister, them things cost money. If that guy came back looking for it, I could work a fiver out of him."

I shook my head as if I didn't believe him.

"You think I'm kidding? Last year I had a pair of glasses that got under the hydraulic rig somehow. Glass was broke, but the rims was real gold. I got six bucks for it."

"When was that?"

"I dunno. It was winter. Cold as hell out."

"Where was Smiley?"

"He took that week off. I came in before he got back to make sure the heat was up. Smiley don't like to waste no money."

"When's he coming back this time?"

"Tomorrow," Jason told me. "He don't like all this crap going on here."

"Then I'll come back tomorrow."

"What about my tooth?"

"Tell you what," I said. "If I can't find who it fits, I'll give it back to you."

"Cops don't give nothin' back."

"You're probably right," I told him.

One block over I found the neighborhood coffee shop. I expected it to be the usual dilapidated slop chute that you come across in these areas, but the little old Italian lady who ran the place had it as neat as her own kitchen. When I walked in I must have had a pleased look on my face because she laughed and said, "Surprise, eh. You are surprise. Everybody new here is surprise."

I slid onto a stool and ordered an egg sandwich and coffee.

"Bacon?"

"Why not? Sounds good."

She nodded and turned to her stove. "And the big eggs I got. No little mediums. For the men who work hard, I got extra large."

"Sounds great."

"You don't work here, no?"

"Nope. I had something to do at Smiley's, but he's not there."

"Ah, fancy man Smiley. I used to tell my Tony, Smiley was a fancy man."

She poured my coffee and I asked her, "What's a fancy man?"

She shrugged and wagged her head. "Little man, too big pants. Likes to make a big show. He wants change for a twenty for a doughnut. You want your egg over?"

"Real easy. Don't break the yolk."

She buttered the bread, laid four slices of bacon on it and deftly put the egg on top. She watched me tap the yolk with my knife, spread it over the bacon and slap the lid on it. When I took my first bite I could feel the yolk roll down my chin. She laughed. "Only the sexy men, they eat like that."

"Delicious," I told her. Then: "Guy over there said Smiley would be back tomorrow."

"Sure, he come back," she agreed. "He'll buy coffee, give me a twenty. Big shot. Him and the ponies. I told my Tony he was a no-good fancy."

"Doesn't he ever lose?"

"Smiley the fancy man? Never. He's the big shot who never loses."

I finished my sandwich, gave her the right change with a dollar tip and said, "Just so you don't figure me for a fancy man."

For another hour I walked around Smiley's block talking to the guys who worked there. Nobody seemed to care much for Smiley at all. He got some odd jobs in his shop, but nothing that would mean big bucks. It was the track that kept Smiley a step above everybody else.

One of the guys didn't even believe that. "Shit, man, he goes to the track when there ain't no track running. He likes to make like he takes a plane somewhere, but shit, he's broke before he goes. When he gets back he has a bundle."

"So he goes to OTB."

"You kidding? Smiley goin' legal to Off Track Betting? A bookie, maybe, but no OTB."

"He's got some great luck," I said.

"Balls. You know what I think? I think he's got an in with somebody. Guys what can move the odds around and tell him who to pick."

"Where would he get clout like that?" I asked him.

After he thought about it, he nodded. "Yeah. So he's still a phony. So he's got money sometimes." He spit on the ground and went back to work.

There was nothing more here to see. When tomorrow came I'd come back to talk to Smiley. Him I wanted to see.

* * *

Burke Reedey finished with his patients, washed up and came into the office. He sat down and rubbed his face with his hands. "Feel like a drink?"

I shook my head. "Not now."

He opened a bottom drawer, found a mini-bottle of Scotch and poured it into a glass. He toasted me with "Souvenir of the airlines," poured it down and wiped his lips. "Velda's doing fine, you know."

"They told me when I called. When will she be free to talk?"

"If you don't overdo it, you can go anytime. Her face is going to be a mess for another week, but she'll get back to normal. That blow she took was so massive we want to make sure that there is no permanent injury."

"And what would that be?"

"For one thing, a possible memory loss. So far there's no indication of that. When are you going up?"

"Tonight."

"Good. She'll be glad to see you." He grinned and added, "You know, of course, she's in love with you."

"We've been working together quite a while," I said.

"Quit working and get married. Man, you can't see the forest for the trees. That's some woman."

"In my business the longevity factor is pretty lousy, Doctor. It makes business for you and a mess out of marriages." I changed the subject and handed him the broken partial plate from the garage.

He took it, turned it around and looked at it from all angles. "What am I supposed to say about it?"

"What are the chances of having this identified?"

"I assume you mean by the police?"

"Right."

"Well, they send dental X rays, photos of partials and full dental plates and patients' charts around the country. I don't know what percentage results in an accurate identification by the technicians who did the work, but I know there have been numerous successes." He reached out and dropped the partial in my hand. "A display this small wouldn't be easy to track. Its very simplicity is the trouble."

"Damn," I said.

"The police are pretty resourceful, Mike. Their modern technology is awesome."

"Sure, when it can be concentrated."

"Can't you narrow this down any?"

I gave him a nice grin. "Burkey-boy, you are one hell of a smart medicine man." I flipped the partial in the air, caught it and dropped it in my pocket.

Burke reached in the drawer and pulled out a small pill-sample envelope. "Let's be neat with that thing."

He watched me drop it in, seal it shut and put it away again. I told him thanks for his trouble, went down to the street and waved at a passing cab.

Pat rolled the tooth between his fingers before he laid it on top of the desk. "You come up with the damnedest things, Mike."

"Your guys didn't do a good sweep on that garage."

"Maybe if you had come right in that night the guys wouldn't have been so loose about it." I nodded. He was right on that. "What am I supposed to do with this anyway? And don't say try to trace it. We're not dealing with a dead body or a missing person, so what's the priority? There's probably been a million of these partials-"

"Hold it, Pat," I interrupted. "Just go to a pair of sources on this one. Check it out with the dental charts on FBI and CIA agents."

"Are you nuts!" Pat exploded. "You think our guys are going to pull a stunt like that?"

"Why not?"

He scanned my face. "Give me a reason. And not that bullshit about having a feeling."

"There was a finesse to the situation," I said. They were after one answer, nothing more. They didn't even try to kick the crap out of me for getting in a couple of good shots where they hurt. They left my rod alone. They had access to sodium pentothal, they swabbed my arm with alcohol before injecting me. This is stuff guys with training will do automatically."

"Suppose it doesn't pay off?"

"You won't know until you try, will you?"

"Inquiries like this can raise a few eyebrows."

"Pat," I said, "you know and I know that all of us have strange connections in odd places. The New York Police Department is a powerhouse, baby, and when they ask, everybody listens. Just go to your connections, kid."

The hard look on his face softened into an annoyed frown and he nodded agreement. "Okay, it's a possible, so I'll put it through."

"Good."

I started to get up and he said, "Wait." He found a message slip under his desk blotter and handed it to me. "Here is a connection for you to go to, old buddy. Good luck."

Candace Amory had left a number for me to call.

"But let's keep our priorities straight first, Mike. You have something going for you, haven't you?"

"Like you said, a possible. Nothing concrete."

"Okay, let's hear it, and cut the garbage about it just being an idea."

"No problem, but tell me . . . how many guys you got working on my abduction?"

"Guess."

"One."

"Right on."

"And what did he come up with?"

Pat's expression was a little shrewd. "I think we've been friends too long. You go first."

"Smiley's a middleman for somebody. That garage of his might make money, but it's a damn front."

"Can you prove it?"

This time it was my turn to grin a little. "I might be able to do it better than you can. My rules are different. Now, what do you know?"

"We're on the same track, I think. Trouble is . . . if he's on some kind of a payoff, he isn't leaving any tracks. He lives in a cheap apartment, has an old car . . ."

"And says he plays the ponies," I put in.

"Who's to say he doesn't? This time he did leave town . . . we checked him out . . . and probably did hit the track to keep his cover straight."

"You've been working, Pat."

"New York's Finest on the job," he said. "My guy tells me you've been nosing around the area down there."

"Just trying to help. In this case, I'm my own client if there's any controversy about legitimacy."

"So far, no squawks. If there were it would have hit the fan by now. The Terrible Trio have been prowling around here all day going through mug shots and burning up the phones."

"What trio?"

"Coleman, Bradley and your candy lady," he said.

"I don't get State's involvement in this thing, Pat. Why would they want a rep on the ground floor? We're dealing with a killer, not international intrigue. So Penta nailed one of their guys overseas . . . and got an ex-mobster here . . ."

"He was looking for you."

"Balls. I don't buy it. I'm no damn motive."

"Mike . . . somehow you're in this up to your ears."

"Yeah, great," I said.

"Cover your ass, pal. You prowl around like you own the city and somebody is sure as hell going to take you out."

I looked at my watch and stood up. "I won't make it easy for him."

They knew me at the hospital, but wanted to see my ID anyway. A new cop on the door scanned my PI ticket, driver's license, checking my face against the photo, before letting me into Velda's room.

"Hey, kid," I said softly.

In the dim light I saw her head turn slightly and knew she was awake. They had propped her up, the sheet lying lightly across her breasts, her arms outside it. The facial swelling had lessened, but the discoloration still put a dark shadow on her face. One eye still was closed and I knew smiling wasn't easy.

"Do I look terrible?"

I let out a small laugh and walked to the bed. "I've seen you when you looked better." I took her hand in mine and let the warmth of her seep into me. Inside, I could feel a madness clawing at my guts, scratching at my mind because somebody did this to her. They took soft beauty and a loving body and tried to smash it into a lifeless hulk because it was there in the way and killing was the simple way of moving it.

"Mike, don't," she said.

I sucked my breath in, held it, then eased it out. I was squeezing her hand too hard and relaxed my fingers. "Everything okay, kitten?"

"Yes. They're taking care of me." She tilted her head up. "I miss you."

"I know."

"What's been happening?"

I filled her in with some general information, but she stopped me. She wanted details, so I gave them to her.

Finally, after thinking a few minutes, she said, "The one you call the 'walker' . . . it was him all right."

"It's not much of an identification."

"Maybe . . . I can add something," she said. "If that caller . . . the one who made the appointment to see you . . . is the walker, or the one you call Penta . . ."

"What about him?"

"I taped that incoming call. You could get a voice-print off that and keep it for a match-up."

"Damn!" It was beautiful, all we needed was a suspect to tie into, but at least it was a plus.

Generally, incoming calls aren't monitored so the caller wouldn't be wary about leaving his voice recorded.

"How come you had it on?"

"I was getting ready to call Byers for those figures you wanted. He's always in a hurry, so I'd tape him and transcribe everything later."

"Where's the tape, honey?"

"I put it . . . in the Byers file."

"Velda doll, I could kiss you."

"Why don't you?"

I grinned at her. "Will it hurt?"

"Not that much."

I put my hands on the mattress and bent down so my face was close to hers. Her tongue slipped between her lips, wetting them, and as my mouth touched hers she closed the one eye. A kiss is strange. It's a living thing, a communication, a whole wild emotion expressed in a simple moist touch and when her tongue barely met mine, a silent explosion. We felt, we tasted, then satisfied, separated.

"You know what you do to me?" I asked her.

She smiled.

"Now I'm horny as hell and I can't go out in the hall like this. Not yet."

"You can kiss me again while you're waiting."

"No. I'll need a cold shower if I do." I stood up, still feeling her mouth on mine. "I'll be back tomorrow, kitten."

Her smile was crooked and her eye laughed.

"What are you going to do with . . . that?" she asked me.

"Hold my hat over it," I told her.

The night watchman at the desk told me hello and added, "Working late tonight?"

I signed the entry list. "Just picking up some things."

"How's Velda doin'?"

"Coming along fine."

"Damn shame, that. The cops got anybody yet?"

"No, but they're working on it." I gave him back the form and headed for the elevator bank.

Only at night do you realize that an office building is almost alive. Suddenly there is no movement and what sound there is has a hollow ring to it and seems to be amplified far beyond normal. The lighting has changed and you get to thinking about funeral parlors and look for coffins in the darkened corners. What was alive during the day is dead at night.

I pulled the .45 out, threw the safety off and cocked it. I tried the door handle first, making sure it was locked, then slipped the key in and turned it soundlessly. I gave it a full ten seconds, then knelt down, shoved the door open and went in fast, hit the floor in a roll and came up against the cabinets on the far side with the gun in my fist ready to fire.

There still was no sound or movement after thirty seconds, and I felt for the light switch above my head and flipped it on. The room was empty. So was my inner office.

Had anybody been watching it would have been a good show, but I wasn't taking any chances at this point. I closed and locked the door, went to the smaller of the filing cabinets and opened the drawer with Byers' file in it. The miniature spool of tape was in the folder. At Velda's desk I flipped open the recorder and slipped the spool in, then punched the play button.

Three brief messages came on before Velda's voice said, "Michael Hammer Investigations."

The man's tone was muffled, as though he held the phone a little away from him and spoke through a handkerchief. "Yes," he said. "Would it be possible for me to see Mr. Hammer today? Noon today would be best."

"I'm sorry, but Mr. Hammer doesn't come in on Saturday."

"Is it . . . is it possible to contact him?"

"Well, that all depends. Can you tell me who is calling and the nature of your business?"

There was a brief moment of thoughtful hesitancy before he said, "My name is Lewison, Bruce Lewison . . . and my business is extremely urgent."

Velda persisted with: "Who recommended this agency, sir?"

Politely, the other voice said, "I'm afraid my business is a little too confidential to discuss. However, if you would relay to Mr. Hammer the urgency I'm sure he would understand. And I can pay for his services in advance if need be."

I could almost hear Velda's mind working. "In that case, sir, I'm sure he'd be glad to see you. I'll have him here at noon."

"I appreciate that, madam. Thank you."

The conversation ended. The voice was nobody I could recognize, nor could anybody else, most likely, but in this age of electronic technology the experts could pull a voiceprint off that tape that would make identification as exact as if he had left his fingerprints behind. I rewound the tape, took it from the case, put it in a plastic holder and dropped it in my pocket. I got a fresh reel from the drawer and put it on the machine.

When I closed the top my fingers froze to the plastic. There was no way Velda would have left the answering machine without a tape in it. A fresh one would go on before she even filed the old one.

The son of a bitch had come back. He had figured out the remote possibility of having been recorded, did a highly skilled job of opening the door locks and searching the place, the way a real enterprising reporter might. But he had already gotten what he came for . . . the tape from the recorder.

Too bad, sucker, I thought, too bad.

He wasn't up on efficient office procedure at all. He never figured Velda would file his taped message and insert a new reel before he got there.

But then, he didn't know Velda's sensitivity level at all. Bruce Lewison my ass. She knew it was a phony name and red-flagged it for me in an off-file.

I got out of the cab at the rear of my apartment building and went down the garage ramp. I took the service elevator up to my floor, stepped out at the far end of the corridor where I had a good view of the whole area, then went to my door. The splinter I had inserted between the door and the jamb was still there, so nobody had tried to bust in.

The late news was on. I built a drink and sat in front of the TV watching everybody go through the motions of laying the city naked. Local politics was still a mess, but the mayor did his funny bit and made a joke of it. There was a street killing, a multicar accident on the East Side Highway and a tenement fire on One Hundred Twelfth Street. Almost the same as the news last night.

When I was putting some more ice in my drink the phone rang and I picked it up and said hello. A voice in an echo chamber with a British accent said, "Mr. Hammer, is that you?"

"Russell?"

"Yes, right. This is he. I have some news for you."

"Great."

"I must say, it was a bit of a go, y'know. Very difficult to get any information from the authorities except that the case was still under investigation. The people here knew that an American was killed, but didn't know why. The thing that was gruesome was the way he died. A knife in his throat was the murder weapon, but his fingers had been cut off his right hand."

"Did the press carry that?"

"Afraid not, old boy. The only one here who knew about it was the man who discovered the body. Getting him to talk wasn't easy at all. The constabulary had explicitly forbidden him to mention it to anyone."

"Then how'd you manage it?"

"Very simply, Mr. Hammer. I offered him twenty-five pounds and my vow of silence."

"Russell," I told him, "you did fine. I'll send you a check at the going rate of exchange."

"Don't forget my football tickets and the story."

"You got it, friend."

I hung up and sat back with my drink. Now Penta had an MO. He liked to chop off fingers. He took five off the agent in England and ten off the poor slob in my office. The numbers seemed to have a significance. And the chances were, Penta had left his trademark in other places as well. There was always a pattern to mutilations, always a reason for them. The big ones that hit the news generally had sexual overtones, breasts and bellies being targets for a deviate's knife, or male castration and on into animal and sometimes human sacrifices. Crazy. They were all crazy . . . but every one of them had a reason for happening.

Penta. Was there a reference to five? Five fingers? But there were ten cut from DiCica's hands.

It was crazy, all right, but that was what was going to trip up Penta. I finished my drink, took a shower and went to bed. I set the alarm for six and set the switch.

At seven thirty I parked two blocks away from Smiley's Automotive and walked back on the opposite side of the street. Outside the tire-recapping place a lone truck loaded with used casings was parked, the driver asleep behind the wheel. An old van rattled by and turned the corner up ahead, and that was the end of the traffic. Nobody seemed to be anxious enough about business to open early.

Smiley's Automotive was just another place on the block. It was there. Nothing was happening. Behind the dirty windows in the door was the dull glow of a night bulb. After ten minutes nothing had changed and I walked across the street, and only when I got up close I saw the quarter-inch gap in the personnel door where it hadn't been closed all the way.

When I nudged it with the tip of my toe it swung open, and I went in fast, the .45 in my hand, and flattened out against the wall long enough to get my bearings, then took four steps to the steel lift and crouched down behind it.

Nothing moved.

I inched my way to the other end of the lift and paused there, listening. The tiny scratching noises I heard were coming from the small office in the rear off to my left, minute hurried noises that stopped and started, then were joined by others, and when I heard the brief whistle sound I realized what I was hearing.

I got up, moved to the door quietly and the rats that were running all over the place saw me and dashed across the desk. When I flicked the light switch on with my elbow I saw all the tiny paw prints and tail streaks from the blood they had been gorging themselves on, a thickening deep red pool that oozed out of the balding head that had been smashed open with a two-foot-long Stilson wrench.

The body was still in the swivel chair, the head and arms flopped forward on the desk. Apparently that single blow had taken him out so fast he hadn't moved a muscle afterward. The eyes were still open, half a dead cigar was in the corner of his mouth, extinguished by the blood that puddled around it.

Under the right arm were two bills from a Las Vegas hotel and a used airline ticket. I could see the name on one bill and the ticket. It was Richard Smiley.

I draped a tissue around the phone, dialed 0, and when the operator came on told her I couldn't see without my glasses and gave her Pat's office number. He had just gotten in and I was about to ruin his whole day for him.

"Yeah, Mike. Now what's happened at this time of day?"

"Somebody's polished off Smiley."

"What?"

"I'm at the garage now."

"Shit. You stay right there and damn it, don't touch anything."

"Come off it, pal. All I've done was dial 0 on the phone."

"You alone?"

"Totally. Whoever did this had time to get away. The blood is congealing enough to make him dead for at least an hour. Consider that an unofficial opinion."

"You sure it's Smiley?"

"His papers indicate it." Before he could ask I said, "They were lying on the desk."

"Okay," he told me, "hang in there. We'll be right down."

I cradled the phone and looked around. I had probably five minutes before a squad car got there, and if there was anything to know I wanted it firsthand.

For a few seconds I studied the way the body was positioned, as if he had been doing something on the desk. The blow had come down at an angle, carefully placed and forcefully delivered. The killer had been in close, standing there until the right moment, then he came down with the weapon on Smiley's bald skull and demolished him with one terrible whack. The Stilson wrench was simply dropped beside the body and the killer walked out. He didn't even have to bring his own bludgeon. There were enough wrenches, crowbars and lengths of pipe in the office to handle the matter.

Whoever the killer was, Smiley had known him. Had a predawn meeting been set for a payoff? It sure looked that way. Smiley could have had the money in his hands, counting it, probably the way he had before. No reason to be apprehensive. It was a regular business deal and he was just making sure he got what was coming to him. And he got that, for sure. The killer simply retrieved the money and walked out into a lonely night that didn't even have street people to watch him go.

As professional kills go, it was a nice clean one. Just a big bang on the head and it was over. No fancy work, no revenge or bloody messages like the one in my office. Smiley still had all his fingers.

The first squad car got there in four minutes. I held up my ID for the two uniforms to see, but the driver recognized me and nodded. "You call this in?"

"Yeah. The body's in the back office. I left everything clean. All I touched was the phone under a Kleenex and the light switch with my elbow."

The officer took out his pad while the other one went inside. "Let's get the paperwork done first."

"Sure." I gave him all the personal information he needed, detailed my entry, the discovery of the body and subsequent events. As I was finishing, two more squad cars pulled in with an unmarked sedan right behind them. Pat was at the wheel, his face tight and drawn, and when Candace Amory and her boss got out, I could see why.

Pat told them to stay right there until the investigation was completed inside, spotted me and came right over. "Mike, what is this penchant you have for being around dead bodies? To hear the DA sound off you're a walking menace."

"I didn't kill anybody. Not yet, anyway."

"Given time, you will, you will. And that's from the mouth of our eminent district attorney. Now what happened?"

I gave it to him the same way I did to the first cop on the scene.

"And you came down here on a hunch?"

I shrugged.

"We had a surveillance unit on Smiley's house last night. He never went home."

"If he came in on the red-eye he could have come right here."

"Why?"

"Because he was one of those greedy bastards who wanted his money as fast as he could get it. The office was as good a place as any for a payoff and the time was right."

The police photographers arrived and went inside. Pat looked at his watch and said, "You stay put."

"Where can I go?"

"Go talk to the wheels over there," he said.

"Pat . . . how come the DA isn't giving you a hassle right now? He usually likes to be right underfoot."

"I think the Iceberg Lady has a leash on him," Pat said sourly.

No introductions were necessary. The district attorney and I had met before, and if ever there was an adversarial situation, it was the one between us. He had come up out of the ranks and was in his first term of office, and to him, people like me were legislative errors in licensing who had no business in police work. He was the type who disapproved of using informers or sting techniques or anything that might open a legal case to any type of defense.

I said, "Hell of a way to start the day."

"You seem to have a knack for this sort of thing," he told me. "Care to recite the details again?"

I said no and went through the routine.

He took it all in, filing away every detail mentally. "You have a strange position here."

"You'd better believe it, counselor. I'm a principal, a finder of bodies, an authorized investigator and if the reporters get here soon, source material for a good story."

Another car drove up and parked in the middle of the street. The medical examiner got out and walked past me. With an amused smile he said, "You again, eh?"

I nodded. "Some people have all the luck."

Candace was watching the exchange closely and waited until the ME had gone inside. "I think we have things to talk about, Mr. Hammer." She didn't use my first name this time.

"I'm sure we have."

Pat called to the pair of them and waved them inside. He pushed his hat back and wiped his face with his hand. "I guess you got the picture," he said to me.

"Unless your guys turn up something else."

"Smiley wouldn't keep records of anything like this going down, but someplace there's a paper trail."

I made sure nobody could overhear me and said, "There might be something better than that."

He watched me out of the corner of his eye. "Like what?"

"If the first killer, Penta, was the one who made the appointment to make sure I was in the office, then I may have his voice on tape."

"Where is it?"

I took the cassette out of my pocket and handed it to him.

"Who else knows about it?"

"Just Velda."

He stuck the tape in his jacket pocket. "I'm going to keep this in my own department for a while."

The way he said it, I knew something was irritating him. Before I could ask him what it was, I saw Jason McIntyre sidling past on the other side of the street, his eyes wide with curiosity, but his actions reflecting the nervousness he couldn't hide. I said, "There's a guy who can identify the body, Pat."

"Where?"

I pointed Jason out and Pat called a patrolman over and told him to pick him up. The old guy almost fainted with fright when the cop took his arm, but he went along, was taken inside and came out a minute later shaking, his face a ghastly white. But he had made the ID. It was Richard Smiley, all right, Jason went to the curb and puked.

Candace and her boss came out together. He seemed to be a little glassy-eyed, but she was taking it right in stride. For a moment she looked toward me, but two trucks, remote TV units from rival networks, were coming down the street, swerved in hard and disgorged their crews with military precision. In seconds they had targeted on Candace, switched to her boss, sought out other high-priority subjects while one cameraman was trying to edge inside the building.

"How are you going to call this shot when you're on camera, Pat?"

"Usual. The investigation continues, we have a suspect, we expect an arrest shortly."

"Motive?"

"Apparent robbery will do for now. His wallet was open, empty and lying on his lap. A crumpled ten-spot was on the floor as if the killer had dropped it pulling the money out of his wallet."

"Think it'll stick?" I asked him.

"No reason why not. He'd just come back from a good day at the track, he was alone, somebody knew he'd be loaded and jumped him. Smiley might have been squirrelly to come in at that hour of the morning but that's the way he always was."

"If they buy it," I said, "the heat'll come off for a couple more days."

"But what's your explanation, Mike?"

I grinned at him and he frowned. "All I have to do is make a statement to the police. Speculation isn't my game."

Without us seeing her, Candace had come around the back and said, "But if you speculated, Mr. Hammer, what would you say?"

Pat said, "Go ahead and tell her."

I reached out and straightened the lapels of her jacket. "I'd say somebody just didn't want old Smiley in a position to identify him or his pals." I paused for a second before adding, "And that's pure speculation."

"Captain?" she queried.

"Miss Amory, speculation is what no cop does out loud. When the statements are made, the reports are in and I've analyzed the lot, an official announcement will be made."

She gave both of us a very speculative look, nodded, then walked away.

"Mike, old buddy," Pat said, "that broad's got a look in her eye like she wants to clean your plow."

"That's a career woman's defense mechanism," I told him. "Balls."

"She'll get them too if you don't watch out," he said.

"You want me to stick around or not?"

"Where you going?"

"Don't worry," I said. "I won't leave town."

6

Every building seems to have a forgotten corner to it that isn't good for anything at all. They are places that just sit there, empty offices with no natural light, their walls always vibrating from the elevator next to them. They smell musty and look dismal so nobody wants to occupy them. Then somebody comes along and sees that spot and to that person it becomes prime territory because it means quiet solitude where the work is intensely mental and a domain is established.

I knocked on the door, opened it and said hello to Ray Wilson. "Do you know that nobody knows where you work in this building? They kept telling me it was downstairs somewhere."

He waved for me to come in. "My own personal dungeon." He kicked a chair over to me. "Have a seat. Be right with you."

I sat down, taking in the rows of filing cabinets around me. There was an odd hum in the room, then muted voices spoke and I saw the scanner on a table in the rear. Ray was monitoring the calls to the prowl cars. Next to his desk was a new-model computer, the viewer lined with figures. There were other machines farther down, not new, but evidently competent for the workload they handled.

Ray slammed a cabinet drawer shut and walked to his desk. He perched on the corner and fired up a cigarette. "I've been wondering when you'd show up. Pat said you'd be in sooner or later."

"Now why would he do that?"

"Because I have fairly immediate access to material it would take you a month to uncover."

"Like what?" He had me interested now.

"Like the finger mutilation in your office. What does it mean?" he asked.

"It's twice as many as he took off the US agent in England."

The cigarette stopped halfway to his mouth. "How the hell did you find out about that?"

"Intelligence," I said. "Who else lost their fingers?"

He slid off the desk, walked around and sat in the old wooden swivel chair. "You're treading on dangerous ground, Mike."

"Ray . . . you got curious too. You have all the machines going for you, all the authority you need and most likely a few good connections thrown in to make things go smoothly. You could get into Interpol, Scotland Yard or the French Surete and as long as it's criminal activity you're after and not political, you can tap their sources. So who else lost their fingers, Ray?"

This time he took a deep drag on the butt and held the smoke down while he thought about what I said. He breathed out a thin cloud and looked at me. "I located three before it became political."

"Damn."

"A French narcotics dealer, low level, but he was skimming from the organization. The fingers were lopped off an hour before a knife stroke killed him. The second was a strange one . . . a ten-year-old kid was kidnapped from his home near Rome. The parents were immensely wealthy. The police were ineffectual and they knew they were dealing with a well-organized group of criminals. The ransom was over a million bucks in US currency. Apparently the parents took matters into their own hands, although they never admitted it. But the child was returned to them unharmed, along with a note describing where to find the kidnapper. He was tied to a chair in a barn, five fingers cut off his hand and the pointed end of a pickax slammed through his chest. The rest of the band were located and died in a police shootout."

"This guy is a wild man," I said.

"Not really." He lit another butt from the end of the old one and gulped the smoke down again. "This is no nut case. Not so far. Six months after the kidnapping a major art theft took place in Belgium. Two paintings of one of the great masters were stolen from a gallery. They were like the Mona Lisa, no way you can put an accurate cash value on their worth. At any rate, a reward was offered for their return."

"No one demanded a ransom price?"

"Apparently this theft was arranged for a private owner. It never went through. Three weeks after the robbery one painting was delivered to the gallery with a letter telling how the money was to be transferred, then the other painting would be returned. No police were involved, the gallery accepted the terms and delivered the money. The painting was subsequently returned. This time a box accompanied the picture. There were five severed fingers in it. A couple weeks later the stench of a decaying body brought the police to where the corpse was, one hand finger-less, and all the direct evidence to point to him as the thief. Whether they got his sponsor, I don't know."

"And now he's here," I said. "But this time he went for ten."

"This time he thought it was your hand he was trimming."

I shook my head. "That, Ray, is the sticker. There is no way I have any connection with this guy. That note had to be a phony. He was after DiCica to start with and I got snarled in it by accident."

"Pat gave me the hypothesis your funny friends figured out. Given DiCica's background there could be a probability . . ."

"Hell, there's logic there too, Ray."

This time Ray said no. "I don't buy it. Here this Penta character pulls a kill-crazy murder in your office. What were those other kills like?"

"Pretty well oiled," I said. "He knew what he was doing."

"But he didn't instigate the crimes, did he? Somebody sent him out looking for the perps. With the paintings it was the reward that motivated him. The killing was his signature."

"Then this guy's a hit man?"

"He's a fucking marvel, that's what. Someplace along the line my inquiries got shut down like a slammed window. I've been waiting to see if there are any repercussions upstairs, but so far this thing just sits. It's going to take a lot more weight than I got to climb a political wall."

"You sure it's gone that far?"

"Mike, I'm almost due for forced retirement. This private little police enterprise I've built into the department is going to go absolutely flat when I leave unless it captures a little glory from the money people in city government. They don't even know what they got here. The age of computers has tied this place in with every country and industry in the world like a pair of naked lovers in bed."

"Crazy, man."

"I got a feeling about this."

"So have I, Ray, so have I. But where do we pick it up from?"

He had another drag on the cigarette and coughed for half a minute. When he stopped he said, "You killed Penta, Mike. He said so himself."

"Enough, Ray. You know how long it's been since I blew somebody away. I'm sick of that stupid note."

"You I believe. It's this Penta who's hard to follow." He sucked on the cigarette again and coughed again. "You're still the target," he said.

"Show me a motive, then I'll believe it."

"You realize that somewhere there is a motive. It may be crazy and it may be out in left field somewheres, but the motive is there. These kills don't come from somebody who's blown his top and is walking down the street with a knife in his hand."

"So what comes next?"

"The killer is a real stalker. Something motivates him and he gets the job done. He's efficient, silent and completely ruthless."

"You realize what you're profiling here, don't you?"

"Sure," Ray said, "a terrorist."

"How long ago were those three murders he pulled off?"

Ray finished the cigarette and stubbed it out in an ashtray. "I wondered if you'd figure that one out. The last one was twelve years ago."

"And you think there have been more since, right?"

"A killer like that who enjoys his work doesn't stop. You know what I think?"

I nodded. "Somebody realized his potential and utilized him for their own ends."

"Smart bastard," he laughed. "When we get into the political situation the shades get drawn. Communication gets cut off. I get the feeling that sooner or later somebody is going to be asking me in for a quiet talk."

"You still going to keep at it?"

He reached for his pack and shook out another butt. "In three weeks I turn in the badge and start on my pension. No way I can leave with a situation like this wide open." He chuckled and struck a match. "Funny, in a way. I got promoted down to the bottom of the line where I like it best and I want to see the expression on some faces if this opens out to the big glory bust." He held the match to the butt and sucked on the smoke again, then rattled out a cough.

"Who else gets this research?"

"This is departmental business. Pat gets it. How he disseminates it is up to him. With you it's off the record. I guess you know that."

"No sweat. What I heard here I leave here. Thanks for the information."

"You know somethin'? For a private cop you got the damnedest connections I've ever seen. You go in and outa the department like you really belonged there. You rub asses with the hot-shots, walk through the shitpile without stepping in it and come up smelling like a guy fresh outa the barber shop."

"You jealous?"

"Nope, just curious as hell." He started to cough again and stuck the cigarette pack in his pocket.

"Those things are going to kill you," I said.

He gave me a cold-blooded grin. "Right now I'd say my chances are 'bout the same as yours."

"Sure they are," I said sourly, shaking my head.

He waved the smoke away with his hand as I headed to the door. "Stay alive, Mike," he said to my back.

There was no way I could have avoided the three reporters on the main floor. They were waiting for anyone involved in the investigation of Smiley's killing, hoping to get Pat, and I walked right into them. They would have had the official version as far as it went, but they were all old-timers and smelled a story brewing that hadn't erupted into the news yet. Two of them remembered me from a couple other wild sorties and a major court case three years ago. I had always made good copy, and now with the kill in my office and me on the scene of another one, they were trying to make a chain out of something that was only a pile of loose links so far.

I didn't lie to them. They were too good at putting things together. I didn't tell them everything either, and they knew it. What they got, the cops already had, so I didn't leave myself open.

The one reporter who had just been jotting things down when the others put the questions to me finally said, "That guy really messed up your girl, didn't he?"

My hands locked up again and I could feel the muscles in my neck go tight. "I'd like to kill that fucker," I said. My voice was suddenly harsh and I spat on the floor.

"She your girl?" he asked quietly. I caught myself just in time. He was watching me carefully, mentally recording my reaction.

"Velda works for me," I said. "We're old friends." I didn't go any further and before he could press it, Pat came in the front doors with Candace Amory and two of the reporters half-ran to intercept them. The other took his time, a wry smile tugging at his mouth. I was glad when he joined the others.

Pat and Candace dealt with them in a fast and friendly manner, then turned them over to the PR cop who was standing by. Pat had spotted me the minute he came in and waved his thumb at the elevator. The door closed and we started up. "What're you doing here?" Pat said.

"I thought you wanted a statement."

Candace gave us both a sharp look. "Didn't you give one to the officer at the scene?" Her tone was like a reprimand.

I kept my face flat. "Not in superfine detail, lady."

"We've done this before," Pat told her brusquely. The door opened at his floor and we got off and went into his office. Pat went behind his desk, I eased into the comfortable chair by the window and Candace walked. It was an animal walk. It was a cat walk, an annoyed pissed-off strut that only a woman with a hair up her ass can do. When she stopped she stared straight at Pat and half hissed, "What's with you two?"

"Ask him." Pat didn't bother to look at her.

Her eyes reached for me next. "I don't believe this . . . this comfortable arrangement. You'd think you were a ranking officer in the department . . ."

"I'm licensed."

"Where did you ever learn-"

"I've been through the FBI school, sat through all the sessions at the New York Police Academy, went through the fire marshal's school here in the city . . . want more?"

Pat was really grinning now. "Ask him how he managed it. Sure makes a good story."

"And Pat and I were in the army together," I added. "But don't think I get extra privileges."

"Horseshit," she said, and started to smile. When she walked to a chair and sat down it was still a cat walk, but now it was loose and easy.

There were two eight-by-ten glossies on Pat's desk and he handed them to me. "This thing is starting to pull in tight. Take a look."

One photo showed four barely discernible shoe-prints and the other was an enlargement of one of them.

"What do you think?"

"They look like moccasins. The sole and heel are all one."

"Right, and they're different sizes . . . two people."

He had me puzzled. "So?"

"See the enlargement?"

This time I looked at it carefully. There were odd geometric patterns from the sole in the print. I took a minute before it hit me. "Those are boating shoes . . . nonskid soles. They come in all styles, from canvas to classics."

"That's right," Pat agreed. "Suggest anything?"

It was all going over Candace's head and the expression she wore was sheer bewilderment. I nodded. "They were pros, all right. They would be dress uppers and working lowers."

"That's not all." He picked up the phone, punched a number and told the listener to come to the office. In two minutes the cop who did the photography came in and handed Pat two more blowups, turned and left.

He studied them for a few seconds, then let me see them. There were those soles again.

"Whoever wore those shoes killed Smiley," he said. "This one's the same size as the one on the other shot, and you know where they came from, don't you?"

I handed the photos to Candace to look at. "Those were the ones who worked me over, weren't they?" Pat was looking smug. "Damn good police work, pal."

He appreciated the compliment. "We're pretty good pros too. The manufacturer of those shoes has been identified and is sending a list of outlets that sell them, though that may not be much help. But shoes are things people keep, so we have something else to look for."

"What leads do you have, Captain?"

He didn't mention the tape I had given him. Pat could work closely with the DA, but he didn't have to get in bed with him. "There are things we are processing right now," he told her. "We should have some results shortly."

I felt like I was in the middle of a dream. Pat was talking to her and I could hear but I wasn't listening. Their voices were a far-off drone and I was sitting in the darkened garage tied to a chair, my mind stupefied from an injected drug. I was being induced to remember someone called Penta, but there was no way I could remember anything except a dream of someone behind me gagging and muttering a curse then forcefully spitting out something ugly.

Pat said, "You with us, Mike?"

I jolted alert. "Sorry about that. I was trying to remember something."

"Did you?"

"Not quite." Apparently Candace had finished her conversation with Pat during my dream sequence and she was putting on touches of lipstick. My stomach was growling, telling me I hadn't eaten all day. "Anybody for an early supper?"

"Another time," Pat told me.

I held out an offering hand to Candace. She shook her head. "Thank you, no. I'm meeting with Bennett Bradley and Mr. Coleman in a little while." Her eyes caught mine over the top of her mirror. "But I'll join you for a drink when we're finished."

"Great. I'll pick you up where?"

"At my office. Sevenish sound all right?"

"Perfect," I said. "What'll we talk about?"

She ran her tongue over her mouth to wet the lipstick. She didn't look up. "I'm sure you'll think of something."

Pat didn't have to say a word. I knew what he was thinking.

* * *

A hot, soapy shower turned me new again. I turned the power head from a stinging needle spray to the thudding vibrating sequence, then back to normal for a final five minutes while I shaved my beard off under the running water.

When I dried off, I pulled my Jockey shorts on, made a tall CC and ginger with a twist and turned on the phone recorder. The first call was from the dry cleaners telling me my clothes were ready. The second was from Russell Graves in Manchester, England, who wanted me to return his call. He gave me the number and I put the phone on my shoulder and dialed it.

The British phone did its double burp, rang twice, and a heavily accented voice said, "Yes, can I help you?"

"Russell? This is Mike Hammer. What's happening?"

This time he didn't sound flippant at all. "Mr. Hammer . . . I think you had better know, well . . . this business with the mutilated fingers?"

"Yes?"

"Twice I have been called upon by persons I suspect are from the police. They wanted to know about my interest in the . . . the dead man."

"Did they identify themselves?"

I heard him swallow. "They didn't have to. They have a way about them, y'know."

"Russell, you are in England, buddy. The police don't work that way."

"These were . . . a different sort of police."

"What are you talking about?"

"British intelligence agents don't work under the same rules as our bobbies."

"They threaten you?"

"Let me say . . . they were threatening. Only when they determined I was a bona fide reporter did they leave. The implication I got was . . . that I was an unwelcome intruder."

"Did they say that?"

"It was what they didn't say, y'know. I'm afraid there's something very big in the wind. They were very frightening."

"Why the call then?"

"Because . . . one mentioned, well, rather out of turn, I doubt if he was aware of it . . . not to go looking for 'the others.' Now, he might have said 'any others,' but I'm quite sure he said 'the others.' In that case, there would be more."

"Beautiful, Russell, you did fine. Don't go out looking for any of them."

"Oh, you can be sure of that, Mike. I'm really not into violence. Those men were quite burly. Knew what they were about too. Thought you'd want to know, however."

I thanked him again and hung up.

I sure was in the middle of something.

They hadn't quite finished their meeting when I got to Candace Amory's office. Her door was open and I could hear their quietly argumentative voices down the hall. In a steely tone I heard Coleman say, "In all this time there has to be somebody able to identify him. This one-name 'Penta' business must have some significance."

"Well, we're coordinating all the information the embassy's gathered in. We really haven't all that many men in the field-"

I interrupted him from the doorway. "Why not, Mr. Bradley?"

The interplay of glances between the three of them was quick. Candace reacted with sudden surprise and I knew she had forgotten our date for a drink. Before she could answer, Bradley said, "Why should we? A couple of killings-"

"Cut the crap, Bradley. If this Penta demands State's being on the scene we're in a big-league ball game."

"Mr. Hammer . . ." He turned sharply, facing me, a big guy carrying a lot of federal authority. He was all set to read me right out of the picture, but he wasn't that big.

I walked into the room and said, "Which couple of killings are you referring to? I can name three more civilian jobs that carry Penta's trademark and a lot of others on the political scene without any fingers." I was lying about the last bunch, but he didn't know that and I saw him stiffen visibly. He looked at Coleman quickly, then back to me. "How do you know that?"

Now it was better. He wasn't challenging me at all. He knew that someplace I had gotten information I wasn't supposed to have, and he didn't know what I was going to do with it. I wasn't somebody he could put a hold on and he had to make up his mind fast.

I gave him a simple noncommittal shrug.

Coleman cleared his throat. It had caught him off guard too. "You seem to have some unusual sources, Mr. Hammer."

I still didn't say anything.

"Did Captain Chambers tell you this?"

Truthfully, I said, "I don't think Pat even knows about it." I was full of truth these days. Ray Wilson probably hadn't had time to tell him and he didn't know Russell Graves.

"And, of course, you aren't going to tell us where you got the information from."

"What difference does it make?" I asked him. "Now we all know what the facts are." Candace Amory's face seemed to be frozen, but her eyes were blazing. I added, "Too bad you didn't let the lady district attorney in on your show."

Ice was in her voice too. "Yes, that is too bad. I thought we were a team."

"We were going to, Miss Amory. For the moment we thought it best to ignore the background and concentrate on the current situation." Bradley was really trying now. "Perhaps if Mr. Hammer leaves, we can put our cards on the table-"

I didn't let him finish. "Why don't you tell her you're after a terrorist, Bradley?" I ignored him then and looked at Candace. "He's a hit man, kid. A coolly professional killer who can work in the big time and enjoys signing his work with finger mutilation. Somebody took him out of his grade and put him in the political arena. Now he's over here."

Candace walked to the door, closed it, then came back to the table. To Bradley she said, "I assume this is true?"

"Generally, yes."

While the static was still in the air I said, "Why don't you put the cards on the table, people? Whether you like it or not, I'm in. There's no way you can cut me out now."

Before Bradley could stop her, Candace looked directly at him, but was speaking to me. "Mr. Bradley is the State Department's expert on this Penta person. I though his assignment was fairly recent, but it looks like he's been at it for some time now. Is that right, Mr. Bradley? Or do I reach my associates in Washington to find out?"

There was no embarrassment in Bradley's face at all. They train the State guys well. When something sours, they go with the play and take the best way out.

He talked to me too, but his eyes were on hers. "Yes, it's quite true. I have led a specially selected team to locate and seize Penta for the past eleven years. We've gotten close several times, so have the British, but every time he has eluded us. There have been nine important political assassinations credited to him, but on these there were no mutilations. Instead, there was a simple slash across the backs of all four fingers and the thumb in each case. Rather than leaving a signature, he was initialing his work. When our agent apparently surprised him in England, he reverted to his previous method of total finger amputation to show his displeasure."

"Who's his boss?" I asked him.

"It would have to be an unfriendly. Somebody funds him well."

From the side, Coleman cut in with, "We suspect that he could be somebody in a low level of politics or a police organization. The way he moves, he seems to have a great deal of insight into our activities."

"And if you must know, Mr. Hammer, it was because of the death of our agent in England that I was removed from my post and brought back to the States."

"Then why are you here?"

"Because I'm the only one who has had any previous experience with this person's operation. When Victor Starson gets here, I'll be relieved and transferred to Washington."

"Meanwhile," I reminded him, "Penta is here."

"And so are you, Mr. Hammer. Please remember that it was you he came for."

"Now we're back to square one. I'm a political zero. I have no ties to government policy in any way. I'm the one big mistake in this scenario."

"This killer hasn't made a mistake yet," Bradley said softly. "As long as his identity is an absolute mystery, all the odds are on his side."

"Buddy, he's no ghost. He's been seen by a lot of people. Trouble is, they never knew who they were looking at." I paused and looked at all three of them. To Bradley I said, "But you are wrong about him never making a mistake."

They waited to hear the rest of it, but I looked at my watch, then at Candace. "We going to get that drink, Miss Amory?"

But Coleman wouldn't let it drop. "You were saying, Mr. Hammer . . ."

"I was saying that this is a police matter in the City of New York and you'll just have to wait for Captain Chambers to release any fresh information. You ready, Miss Amory?"

Everybody left. The good-byes were fuzzy. Candace and I got in a cab and I had the driver take us to the Old English Tavern. Petey Benson was at the bar talking baseball to a yuppie type and almost dropped his teeth when he saw me with Candace.

I nudged Candace's shoulder. "Care to meet a fan?"

"Does he vote?"

"What difference does it make? You were appointed."

"One day that will change."

"He votes," I told her.

She smiled pleasantly. "Then by all means, introduce us."

Petey was a little uncertain about taking the hand she held out, but grinned and gave her fingers a squeeze. He appreciated civilian authority from an objective viewpoint, not this close. "Petey's one of the good-guy reporters, Miss Amory. Got real hidden talents."

"Wonderful," she said.

Silently, Petey was kicking my tail.

I told him, "You feel like doing me a favor, pal?"

"Nope, I don't ever . . ."

"Get into your files and get me some information on DiCica. Not his record or any late stuff. Go back as far as you can."

"Why? The guy's dead."

"Just do it, okay?"

For a second I thought he was going to tell me to forget it, but he read my eyes a second and nodded slowly. "Sure," he told me. "Only because of one thing will I do it."

"What's that?"

"We got computers and fax machines now and I don't get tied up for a week scanning old copy."

I threw five bucks on the bar and ordered beers for Petey and his baseball buddy, then went back to a table with Candace. I answered her question before she could ask it. "The killer was after DiCica or me. Now, I know all about me, and I know something about DiCica. What I want is to know all about DiCica."

"We know all about DiCica."

"Hell, kid, not even DiCica knew that. He led two completely different lives."

She waited until the waiter brought the drinks, then toyed with her glass while she put her thoughts together. She knew I was watching her, feeling her with my eyes, reading the little bits of body language that she let slip, and let her mouth go firm.

"Don't do that," I said.

Her expression questioned me.

"You got a nice, sensual mouth, kid. Don't squeeze it shut like that."

"Please!" She glanced around quickly, afraid someone had heard me.

I grinned at her. "Now talk to me, pretty lady."

This time she shook her head and smiled back. "Why do I go from hot to cold with you?"

"Because you're playing the game too, doll."

"And what does the winner get?"

"I'm not sure what the prize is yet," I told her.

She let her teeth slide over her lower lip, folded her hands under her chin and gave me a studied gaze. "You're going to be a winner, aren't you?"

I didn't answer her.

"That's what's disturbing me. Disturbing everybody. You're the piece that doesn't belong, but has to be there. As my friends say, a lousy private cop in a position they can't shove around. Why is that, Mike?"

A slight shrug was the best I could do.

"My boss defers to Captain Chambers. He recognizes his professionalism and appreciates his opinion. Somewhere you have a niche in all this and nobody but you seems to know where it is." She paused dramatically. "Where is it?"

"Right in the middle of the shitpile," I said.

"Gross."

"Not really. You ever been shot at?"

Her head made a slight negative movement.

"When it happens," I told her seriously, "you'll know what I mean."

"But you'll still be a winner."

"Candace honey, whoever stays alive the longest wins. Right now something is happening and nobody wants to spell it out. We have federal agencies sniffing around, the State Department playing footsies in a murder case because they're afraid they might screw up the political scene. Right now all that's a lot of crap. We're working on a murder, a killing that comes under the jurisdiction of the New York Police Department."

"No murder is simple."

"And a kill isn't complicated," I reminded her. "Only the motives are complicated."

She took her hands down now, settling back in her chair. Her head tilted slightly and she gave me that odd stare again. "See . . . that's the other thing about you that's puzzling."

This time I waited.

"Someone wanted to kill you. Most likely he still wants to kill you and you don't seem to be scared a bit."

"Don't fool yourself."

"You're scared?"

"Not the way you'd count scared. I'm cautious. And you have to be alive to be scared."

"That's a thought."

"I'll give you another," I said. "Be scared, but don't let your hand shake."

"Later I'll ask you to explain that." She snapped her pocketbook open and pulled out a vanity, glanced at the mirror and put it back.

"Later?"

"After you take me home," she said impishly.

They forget sometimes, these beautiful women. There are times when they can lift their skirts up to their eyebrows and nobody will even blink because they did it in the dark, and right then my eyes were closed.

When the cab pulled up to her building and the doorman did his little sprint, I said, "When your hand shakes, you miss the target, kitten."

She glanced at me, frowning, and asked, "Is your hand shaking?"

"It doesn't matter, honey. I'm not aiming."

I kissed the tip of my finger and stuck it on the end of her nose.

This time she smiled and got out of the cab. It wasn't an impish smile at all.

7

The workout at Bing's Gym let me tear at something physical for a change. Weight machines were enemies I could push and shove at, my jaws clamped hard in the effort. I could pound at the heavy bag and rap the hell out of the light one, and even if it wasn't the real thing, there was something therapeutic about it that made me feel better.

I would have kept it up, but Bing reminded me that I was overdoing it for this session and ushered me into the steam room with a towel wrapped around my middle. Nobody else was there, so I sat and let my mind drift through the details of an old hardcase being mutilated and killed in my office.

One lousy murder and the whole world fell apart. The DA's office is in, the FBI is in, the CIA is in, the State Department is in, because a guy they call Penta took out a wacko hood. And that put me in too.

But there was one thing that only I knew for absolute certainty . . . I really wasn't in at all. There was no way at all that I could have any involvement with the killer. Even if he was the Penta everybody was after, he was after nobody else except DiCica. It sure as hell wasn't me.

Question. Which DiCica? The old hit man he was before he had memory smashed out of his skull? In that case, the motive was pure revenge. But why wait so long? DiCica hadn't been in hiding. Even the mob boys knew where he was. Right now Pat would have his inquiries in the works and Petey would be working from another end. Something could show up here . . . possibly.

DiCica with his memory back could be something else. The mob didn't care about him as a person. All they wanted was what he had that could bring pressure on their organization. They could kill him, but that left his information liable to a possible discovery. Their misconception that he had contacted me for assistance meant that they didn't order the kill.

So . . . another part of the organization, an upstart group or person wanting to get control or possibly another family entirely, knew DiCica had flashes of memory recall and went after him.

In that case, did the torture session get it out of him?

Who set up the appointment to meet me in my office? Could that have been legitimate and the guy scared off by the action that day? Logical and possible.

The screwy thing was the trademark mutilation by somebody named Penta our government and the British government seemed to know all about, and it sure wasn't likely that someone in the mob circles was able to contact anybody working on Penta's level.

I let it run through my mind again and the only answer I could come up with was that somebody had picked up some stray facts about Penta and did a duplicate, but more elaborate job of mutilation on the DiCica kill to throw in the most beautiful red herring I ever saw.

And I still was in the middle of it.

After a shower I got dressed and grabbed a cab to the hospital. This time the overnight parkers had left cleared space and there was no Mercedes parked with wheels turned away from the curb. Oddly, I wondered what my muggers' options would have been if I had grabbed a cab at the entrance that night.

Downstairs I picked up a vase of flowers, took the elevator up to Velda's floor and walked to the desk. For one second I almost dropped the flowers. Pat was there talking to Burke Reedey and all I could think of was something had happened to Velda. When he half turned, saw me and nodded agreeably, I knew there was no trouble.

"What're you doing here?" I asked him.

"Same as you, pal, bringing flowers to a friend." But he knew what I had been thinking and added, "She's okay."

I glanced at Burke for confirmation and he grinned. "It's a good recovery, Mike. We had her for some other tests this morning and the prognosis looks fine."

"Can I see her?"

"Sure, but she's asleep. Leave your flowers and we'll tell her you were here."

Even though the cop on the door saw me talking to Pat, he waited for him to nod okay before he let me in. I put the flowers down quietly, then stood beside the bed watching her. The swelling had gone down some and the discoloration had taken on a different hue, but the improvement was noticeable. Her breathing was strong and regular, and I said, "Sleep well, kitten," in a barely audible whisper.

Pat and I found the visitor's lounge, got some coffee and a table away from the main crowd. "You look like something's bugging you," I said.

"I spoke to Ray Wilson this morning."

"And now I'm in deep shit, I suppose."

"No more than usual."

"What's the beef then?"

"Just cool the use of departmental facilities, Mike. The word has come in loud and clear. This Penta business is being taken out of our hands."

"The hell it is," I told him. "The DiCica murder comes under NYPD jurisdiction."

"Not when Uncle Sammy thinks otherwise."

"So why tell me about it?"

"Because you're still the fly in the ointment. You're a principal in the case and even though you're licensed under the state laws, you're still a civilian, a US citizen, and there's nobody harder to keep quiet than one of our own."

"You can do better than that, Pat."

"Okay, our CIA pal, Lewis Ferguson, has asked for an audience in" -- he looked at his watch -- "forty-five minutes."

"Where?"

"In one of those cute little places the State Department reserves for quiet conferences. Take your time. Finish your coffee."

Pat had an unmarked car and we drove up Sixth Avenue to the Fifties, parked in a public garage and went into the side entrance of the half-block-wide building. The elevator took us up to the ninth floor and we turned left to the frosted glass doors marked SUTTERLIN ASSOCIATES, ARCHITECTS.

Inside, a glass booth surrounded the receptionist, and when Pat spoke to her through the cutout in the window, she told us to wait, spoke into the phone, and a minute later a young guy in a business suit with the body language of the State Department came out, ushered us down the hallway and knocked on an unlabeled door, waited for the buzzer to click it open and waved us in.

Bennett Bradley and Ferguson were there already, Bradley behind his desk and Ferguson pacing beside him, ignoring three chairs already positioned. There was no handshaking, just perfunctory nods, and we all sat down at once.

Bradley didn't waste any time. He leaned forward on his desk, his fingers clasped together, the expression on his face as if his shorts were too tight. "Gentlemen," he started, "before we begin, I want it understood that this meeting, and what is said here, is strictly confidential. Three of us represent government agencies and understand that position, so to you, Mr. Hammer, I want to make myself clear. Is that understood?"

I said, "I hear you."

"Good. I believe Mr. Ferguson has something to say."

The CIA agent shifted in his chair to face Pat. He reached in his pocket and took out an envelope I recognized right away. "Captain Chambers, I have an item here that was routed through our office for identification."

He dumped the tooth I had found into the palm of his hand.

Pat's face hardened and he said tightly, "I was supposed to get a report in my office."

"Let's simplify things," Ferguson said. This time he looked at me. "I understand you found this."

I hedged a little. "I came by it, yes."

"How?"

"Let's say I'm in the business of looking for clues. I was a victim of a crime of aggravated nature and made it my business to look for my assailants. That is what is called a clue."

"I don't need sarcasm, Mr. Hammer."

"None intended," I said soberly. The hardness eased out of Pat's face.

"You assumed this came from the mouth of an assailant?"

"Something did. This was the only thing that could have."

"And you took it right to Captain Chambers."

"Correct." I knew what was coming and got there first. "The mugging on me wasn't any street crime, so don't let's beat that dead horse. This went down as a very knowledgeable venture by people who knew all the ropes. They had teamwork, knew drug handling, didn't bother to confiscate my money or weapon . . . hell, they even wore spook shoes that could handle any surface efficiently and quietly."

"You are referring, of course, to the CIA?"

Pat spoke up and said, "That's where the identification finally came from then, didn't it?"

Ferguson took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "Yes." When he had gathered his thoughts, he went on: "The recipient of that partial had the work done at a government facility after he lost it on a CIA operation. It was listed in his file and recorded on the computers."

"Who was he?" Pat asked.

When Ferguson didn't answer immediately, I said, "Want me to leave the room?"

A touch of scorn was in Ferguson's voice. "I don't think that would make any difference at this point, would it, Captain Chambers?"

"You said it in the beginning, pal. He's in this pretty damn deep and if he wants to make anything public he can do it. Just remember that he's still a good guy."

"Well put. All right, the partial belonged to an agent named Harry Bern. He was an old hand who came into the agency in 1961. He had a military background, was well rated but considered a little reckless out on assignments. When there was all that fury about extremes in our covert operations, certain agents considered touchy were released. He was one of them."

Pat said, "I suppose you checked his passport?"

Ferguson seemed surprised at that. To him cops weren't expected to think that far ahead. "He made numerous trips abroad. Apparently he's in this country now."

"Apparently," I muttered. "And he's not alone."

This time Ferguson squirmed in his chair again. "Another one we released was his partner, Gary Fells. They came in together and they went out together. They had almost identical background and personality profiles."

For the first time Bradley let out a hrumph to get our attention and when he had it, said, "Their quizzing you, Mr. Hammer, as to the whereabouts of Penta is what brings the State Department's interest into the picture."

"You can't locate either of these guys?" I asked.

"Remaining invisible if they have to is one of their specialties."

"Good training."

"Should be. They were in the first cadre General Rudy Skubal commanded."

Neither Pat nor I showed any change of expression, but we both knew what the other was thinking. General Skubal wasn't new to me at all. A long time ago he had tried to recruit me into his organization, even going to the trouble of having Pat put some pressure on me. Old Skubie, I was thinking, who took himself and the other tigers, as he called them, deep behind enemy lines for twenty-two months, a wild bunch of trained fighters fluent in Slavic languages, who raised complete hell with enemy communications until they rejoined with American units after the Normandy landing.

Most of those tigers went into frontline field work with the CIA in its early days and became shadow legends with government spooks.

"Where do we go from here?" Pat asked.

Bradley unclasped his fingers and made a steeple of them. "Nowhere. That is, you don't. As of now, the police department is being removed from the case. Of course, Captain Chambers, you know what that entails, don't you?"

Pat nodded, saying nothing.

"As for you, Mr. Hammer, your total silence is required. Not requested, but demanded. There will be no more investigating the Penta affair or your assailants since this all will be in the hands of federal agencies. The nature of this case is so sensitive that the fewer involved the easier it will be to process. Now, are there any further questions?"

I said, "Is looking into the murder of Anthony DiCica any part of the Penta business?"

Bradley unsteepled his fingers and gave a shrug. "I can't see what DiCica has to do with it, Mr. Hammer. Penta was after you."

"Thanks a bunch," I said. "Since I'm to be the quiet target then, do I get any cover?"

"I may sound callous, Mr. Hammer," Bradley told me, "but you've already made your sentiments very clear. You prefer to remain unguarded. Now, just to make sure we all understand your position, do you or do you not prefer a guard? I ask this because in your way, you too are a professional and licensed to carry firearms."

"Just let me take my chances, Mr. Bradley. I get nervous when people are watching me."

"So be it," he said and stood up. The meeting was over.

When Pat and I got to the street, he said, "You got to go anywhere?"

"No, but I'll walk you to the garage."

"Sure, then maybe you can tell me about that bit with DiCica."

"Come on, Pat, we're both thinking the same thing. It could have been DiCica he was really after and anything else was a sham. What have you got on the guy?"

We had stopped on the corner and Pat checked his watch. "I'm going off duty. How about a beer?"

"How can you go off duty? It's afternoon."

"I'm the boss, that's how."

"Fine, a beer sounds great and Ernie's Little Place is right here. You ever been in Ernie's?"

"No."

"Good. Neither have I."

Over the beer Pat told me about Anthony DiCica. He had a listing of all his arrests, convictions that were a laugh, and the victims he was suspected of killing. Every dead guy was involved in the mob scene and two of them were really big time. Those two were hit simultaneously while they ate in a small Italian restaurant. It was suspected by the police that it was more than a social dinner. It was a business affair and the killer, after shooting both parties in the head twice, made off with an envelope that had been seen on the table by a waiter. Following the hit there had been an ominous quiet in the city for a week, then several more persons in the organization either died or were mysteriously missing before a truce seemed to be declared. It was two weeks later that Anthony DiCica's head collided with a pipe in a street brawl.