Smart fish. Strong fish.

But I was smarter and that made me stronger.

She pictured Ferguson again. Hooked before, she thought.

The airplane droned and bumped to a halt. She gathered her things together and headed for the exit.

The liaison captain at the Newark Police Department arranged for a pair of uniformed officers to accompany her to Ferguson's apartment. After a few brief introductions and modest small talk, the pair drove her through the city toward the address she'd given them.

Shaeffer stared out at streets she thought cut from a subdivision of hell. The buildings were all dirty brick and dark concrete, rimmed with grime and helplessness. Even the sunlight that caught the street seemed gray. There was a never-ceasing procession of small businesses, clothing stores, bodegas, cut-rate loan offices, appliance centers, and furniture rental showrooms, each clinging with decrepit energy to the edges of the littered sidewalks. There were black steel bars everywhere; inner-urban necessities. A different cluster of idle men, teenage gangs, or gaudy hookers seemed to occupy each corner. Even the fast-food outlets, with their uniform codes of cleanliness and order, seemed frayed and tattered, a far cry from their suburban counterparts. The city was like a has-been fighter, hanging on in the latter rounds of one too many fights, staggering but still inexplicably standing on its feet because it was too old or stupid or stubborn to fall.

'You said this dude is in school, Detective? No way. Not down here,' said one of the officers, a taciturn black man with gray hair touching his temples.

'That's what his attorney told me,' she replied.

'There's only one school down here. Where you learn whoring and pimping and dealing and how to do a B and E. I don't know what you'd call that school.'

'Well, maybe,' said his partner driving the car, a younger man with sandy blond hair and a drooping mustache. That's not altogether true. There's plenty of decent folks down here…'

'Yeah,' interrupted the older policeman. 'Hiding behind steel grates and bars.'

'Don't pay any attention to him,' the partner said. 'He's a burnt-out case. He's also not mentioning the fact that he started out down here and worked his way through night school. So it ain't impossible. Maybe your man's riding the commuter train out to New Brunswick and attending classes at Rutgers. Or grabbing evening classes at St. Pete's.'

'Don't make any sense. Why live in this rathole unless you have to?' the older policeman answered. 'If he's got some money, he could live out there. Only reason to live down here is if you ain't got a chance of being someplace else.'

I can think of another reason,' said the younger cop.

'What's that?' Shaeffer asked.

The policeman gestured with his arm. 'You want to hide. You want maybe to get swallowed up a bit. Best place in the world.'

He pointed at an abandoned building, pivoted in his seat and looked back at her. 'Parts of these cities, they're like the jungle or a swamp. We pass a building like that, been hit by fire, abandoned, whatever, there's no way to know what's really inside. People live in there without electricity, heat, water. Gangs hang out, hide weapons. Hell, there could be a hundred dead bodies in one of those buildings and we'd never find 'em. Never n know they were there.'

He paused for a moment. 'Perfect place to get lost.: Who the hell'd ever come down here looking for someone unless they really needed 'em?' he asked.

1 guess I would,' she said quietly.

'What d'you need this man for?' asked the driver.

'He may have some information about a double homicide I'm working.'

'You think he's gonna give us some trouble? Maybe we ought to have some backup. This drug-related?'

'No. More like a contract killing.'

'You promise us? I mean, I don't want to go walking in on some beady-eyed guy holding a Uzi and a pound of crack.'.

'No. Not at all.'

'Is he a suspect?'

She hesitated. What was he? 'Not exactly. Just someone we need to talk to. Could go either way.'

'Okay. We're gonna take your word for it,' said the younger man. 'But I'm not wild about it. What you got on this guy, anyway?'

'Not much.'

'So you're just hoping he'll say something that you can take to the bank, right?'

'That's the idea.'

'Fishing expedition, huh?'

She smiled at the irony. 'Right.'

She could see him look over at his partner for an instant. The officers humphed and drove on. They swept past a cluster of men hanging in front of a small grocery store. She could see the eyes of the inhabitants of the inner-city world following them. No doubts about who we are, she thought. They made us in a microsecond. She tried to focus on the faces on the street, but they blurred together.

'Down here,' said the policeman driving. 'Middle of the block.'

He steered the car into an empty space between a four-year-old cherry-red Cadillac with balloon whitewalls and velour upholstery, and a wreck, stripped of anything worthwhile. A small boy was sitting on the curb next to the Caddy.

'Home sweet home,' said the younger officer. 'How're you gonna play this, Detective?'

'Nice and easy,' she replied. 'Talk to the super first, if there is one. Maybe a neighbor. Then just knock on his door.'

The older policeman shrugged. 'Okay. We'll just stay a step behind you. But when you get inside, you're pretty much on your own.'

Ferguson's building was tired red brick, a half-dozen stories high. Shaeffer took a step toward it, then turned and faced the boy sitting on the curb. He was wearing a glistening white, expensive pair of hightop basketball shoes beneath tattered sweatpants.

'How you doing?' she asked.

The boy shrugged. 'Okay.'

'What're you up to?'

The boy gestured. 'I watch the wheels. You police?'

'You got it.'

'Not from 'round here.'

'No. You know a man named Robert Earl Ferguson?'

'Florida man. You looking for him?'

'Yes. He inside?'

'Don't know. No one sees him much.'

'Why not?'

The boy turned away. 'Guess he's got something. going.'

Shaeffer nodded and walked up the steps to the entranceway, trailed by the two uniformed officers. She checked a bank of mailboxes, finding Ferguson's name scratched on one. She took down the names of some neighbors as well and found a name with the abbreviation 'Supt' written after it. She rang that buzzer and stood next to an intercom. There was no reply.

'It don't work,' said the older officer.

'Nothing like that works down here,' added the younger.

She reached out and pushed on the apartment-house door. It swung open. She felt a momentary embarrassment.

I guess things like locks and buzzers still work down in Florida,' said the older policeman.

The interior of the apartment house was cavelike and dark. The hallways were narrow, scratched with graffiti and smelling vaguely of refuse tinged with urine. The younger policeman must have seen her nose wrinkle in distaste, because he said, 'Hey, this one's a helluva lot better than most.' He gestured. 'You don't see any drunks living in the hallway, do you? That's a big deal, right there.'

She found the super's apartment beneath the stairwell, knocked hard three times and after a moment heard noises from inside. Then a voice. 'Whatcha want?'

She held her badge up to the peephole. 'Police, sir,' she replied.

There was a series of clocking as three or four different locks were unfastened. Finally the door swung open, revealing a thin, middle-aged black man, barefoot beneath work clothes.

'You Mr. Washington? The superintendent?'

He nodded. 'Whatcha want?' he repeated.

'I want to come in out of the hallway,' she said briskly.

He opened the door and let the three of them inside. 'I ain't done nothing.'