The living room was large and comfortable, with a vaulted beamed ceiling and peg-and-groove floors and Early American furniture across from a used brick fireplace with a mantel. Colonial. A white and orange cat was asleep on the couch.

Karen Shipley said, "You're wasting your time, Mr. Cole. My name is not Karen Shipley."

I said, "You're owned by the mob."

She went very still, and then her left foot moved as if her balance had abruptly and without warning shifted and she had to catch herself. Her mouth opened, then closed, and she wet her lips. She did not look away from me. Outside, Toby bounced the basketball. There was a faraway electric hum from something in the kitchen and something else behind me in the living room. Clocks. She said, "That's," and then she said, "Silly."

"Two hours after I saw you in the bank four days ago, three men came to the Howard Johnson's and told me to forget about you and get out of town. I didn't. This morning you met a man driving a black Lincoln Town Car at a secluded place off the road near Brunly. The man in the black Lincoln gave you a nylon duffel bag, then made advances on you which you refused. He struck you. The man left first and then you brought the duffel to the bank. The Lincoln Town Car is registered to the Lucerno Meat Company in lower Manhattan and was driven by a man I've identified as one Charlie DeLuca, son of Sal DeLuca, head of the DeLuca crime family. I went to the meat plant and observed one of the three men who had come to the Howard Johnson's. His name is Joseph Putata. That links Putata to Charlie DeLuca. I didn't see what was in the bag, but I'd bet it was money, and I'd bet you wash it for the DeLucas by running it through an account without reporting it to the IRS. I'd also bet that if I went to the cops with this, they'd be pleased as peaches to see me."

Karen Shipley's eyes got red and wet, and she sat down next to the cat with her hands in her lap. She said, "Oh, damn," over and over.

I went into the kitchen, turned off the Jenn-Air so that the sauce wouldn't burn, then drew a glass of water and brought it out to her. She sipped it.

I said, "The three guys gave you away. Where would you get three guys like that?"

"I'm sorry. I didn't think they would send anyone to do that. I didn't mean for them to threaten you."

"It's okay. I've been threatened before."

"I'm not a bad person. I don't like this."

"I know. I saw the way it was with DeLuca."

Karen Shipley wiped at her eyes, then got up and went to the big triple-glazed window and looked out at her son. Bounce. "What happens now?"

"I don't know. I'm trying to figure that out."

She looked back at me, surprised. "What do you mean? Haven't you told Peter?"

"No."

"And you haven't told the police?"

"No."

"But those men beat you up."

I said, "I knew something was wrong and I wanted to find out what it was. Cops deal with the law. The law isn't usually concerned with right and wrong. Ofttimes, there are very large differences."

She shook her head as if I'd spoken Esperanto.

I said, "All you do is launder their money?"

"Yes."

"Ever done any other crimes for them? Drugs, murder, stolen goods?"

Surprised again. "Of course not. What do you think I am?"

"An employee of the mafia."

She looked away and crossed her arms. Embarrassed. Back at the boy. Bounce, bounce. "When I met Charlie DeLuca all I knew about the mafia was Al Pacino. I was working as a waitress on Seventh Avenue in the Village and Charlie introduced me to his father and the old man said he could help me get a better job and I said sure. Nobody said anything about the mafia."

"They never do."

"I came out to Chelam and met with the woman who used to be the manager here and she hired me as a teller. I rented a little house. I started taking night classes at the college in Brunly. I didn't see Charlie again for months."

"Then he needed a favor."

She gave me the eyes.

I said, "It would've been Charlie's father, Sal. He would've said that he was in a bind with a couple of business partners and he needed a place to put some money and could you open an account for him that no one would know about and maybe transfer the money out of the country without reporting it to the IRS."

She shook her head and made the kind of smile you make when you feel stupid and used. "Is it so obvious?"

I made a little shrug. "You weren't thinking in terms of crime. You were helping a friend. It's the way they do it."

"He had gotten me the job. He had been so nice." She uncrossed the arms and walked back across the room to the hearth. Embarrassed again and angry because of it. The orange and white cat stretched, then sat up and stared at her. "Toby was in nursery, I was in school, I was studying for the real estate exam, I had a life. It was months before I heard from Sal again, and when he called I was surprised. I didn't think there would be a second time. The third time it was Charlie, and then the calls were every few weeks, and then every week, and then there it was. The New York Times runs an article on organized crime and they feature the DeLuca family. That's how I found out. I'm laundering money for the mafia. I'm taking the cash profits they're making from prostitution and gambling and whatever else they do and I'm cleaning it for them. I called Charlie. I said I can't do this anymore and Charlie comes to the bank and he says that I will keep doing it for as long as they want because I'm a stick of furniture and then he locks the door to my office and takes out his penis, and I thought, oh God, he's going to rape me, he's going to use me to show me what I am, but he doesn't. He urinates on the carpet and he says, you see, this is what I can do, and then he left."

She was trembling as she said it. The cat hopped down from the couch, walked over to her, and rubbed against her ankles. I don't think she felt it.

I said, "If you want out, go to the cops. You're in with Charlie and Sal. That's worth something. You could cut a deal."

She shook her head again and walked back to the window and looked at the boy. The cat followed her. He wasn't as big as the cat who lives with me, or as scarred, but he was okay. "No. Going to the police means witness protection. We'd have to give up everything we have."

"Looks like you're giving up a lot right now."

Her eyes hardened and an edge came to her voice. "All I had when I left Los Angeles was my son and a lot of bad memories. I wanted a job with a future. I wanted an education. I wanted to work and see the work pay dividends and be a worthwhile person. I am. I have a good home. I do a good job with my boy. He's not on drugs and he does all right in school. Witness protection means we change our name and our life and start over. I won't do that. I've already started over and I've built the thing I wanted to build and I don't want to lose it. I've come a long way from stupidville."

"Far enough to make it worth being owned by the mob?"

The eyes went back to the boy and turned red again. "I don't know what I can do, but I'll find a way out. It's been eight years, but I will find a way out I promise you." She wasn't saying it to me. She was saying it to the boy.

I looked around the house. I looked at the cat. I looked at the boy bouncing the ball. It was a good house, well put together and warm and filled with the things that a family home should be filled with. It couldn't have been easy. Peter, do I havta? I said, "I know what you can do."

She made a tired little laugh and looked back at me. "What shit. You're here, and Peter's here, and any chance I might've had to get away from these people is gone. There isn't anything else I can do."

"Sure there is. You can hire me to get you out of this mess."