'So you'll let me go?' Buster wished that he'd never met, had never surrendered to Don Vincenzo.

'Afraid not,' the man said. 'Actions have consequences. But flames aren't always the best deterrent. Sometimes the punishment has to fit the crime. A different example is often required. Just a moment before I show you.'

The three men put on surgical facemasks, gowns, and rubber gloves.

'Jesus!' Buster said.

'If that's your preference. My companions will now hold you down.'

'No!'

'Don't resist. Your death will be more painful.'

As Buster squirmed and struggled and screamed, while two men held him down, the other man shoved a handkerchief into Buster's mouth to silence him. Then the man adjusted his rubber gloves and proceeded to unscrew various red plastic containers on the truck, pull out numerous contaminated hypodermic needles, and plunge each of them into various portions of Buster's body.

His arms.

His legs.

His throat.

His groin.

His eyes.

Wherever.

When the three men were finished, after they left the warehouse and the body was finally discovered, the newspapers described the corpse as a pincushion.

Inaccurate. Buster 'Right Hook' Buchanan was really a needle-cushion, and if the thousands of points shoved into every portion of his body hadn't killed him, at least one of the diseases from those many infected needles would have eventually led to his death, that is if his lung cancer from his years of smoking cigars hadn't killed him first.

TWO

Lieutenant Craig's apartment was a one-room efficiency in the cramped basement of a converted townhouse on Bleecker Street in lower Manhattan. Once he'd owned a house in Queens, or at least the bank had, but four years ago, his former wife had gained title to the property during their divorce agreement.

Craig dearly wished he was back there. Not because of the house. He'd never liked mowing the lawn, shoveling snow, or doing any of the other chores that a house required, although the truth was that his work had kept him so busy he'd seldom been home to do those chores – or to pay enough attention to his wife and two children.

That's what he really missed, not the damned house but his family. Some nights, his heart ached so fiercely that he couldn't sleep and he lay on his back on his fold-out bed, staring at the ceiling. How he wished to God that he'd tried harder.

But Craig had discovered that marriage and police work seldom mixed. Because being a cop was like having a second marriage, and a cop's wife could get as jealous about his work as she could about another woman. So many other guys in his department were divorced as well. The only good thing was that at least Craig's former wife had been generous about his visitation privileges. He did his best to spend time with his son and daughter on weekends, probably more time than when he'd been married, but the trouble was that his children were in their teens now, and being with their father didn't excite them as it had when they were toddlers.

I sure made a mess of things, Craig thought as he entered his shower, closed the door, and turned on the faucets. Hot water stung him. So what am I thinking! How come I want to get involved with a woman who's ten years younger than me? Am I nuts? The only reason Tess and I are connected is the trouble she's having. When that gets settled -

–  you mean, if -

–  no, when -

–  hey, don't get pessimistic -

–  she'll want nothing to do with me. She certainly didn't sound enthusiastic about the idea of a friendship, a close friendship, when I talked to her on the phone last night.

Craig increased the lancing pulse of hot water, rinsed shampoo from his hair, and shook his head. Hey, what do you expect? She's in mourning. Never mind that she met her friend, whoever Joseph Martin really was, only three times. There's a good chance somebody's following her. She's preoccupied, not to mention scared. Your timing was lousy.

He shut off the water, stepped from the narrow shower stall (there wasn't a bathtub), and toweled himself dry. With the meticulousness of a divorced man who'd come to realize the tremendous amount of maintenance that his former wife had done and he'd never noticed, he used a squeegee to wipe water off the shower stall so there wouldn't be lime stains. He'd already shaved. All he needed to do was comb his hair, slap on some aftershave, dab on a little deodorant (the maintenance never ended), get dressed, and make himself eat breakfast.

In his bedroom – which was also his living room and his kitchen – Craig started to boil water for coffee. By habit, he turned on his radio to catch the news, and on impulse, he picked up the phone. It might not be a smart idea. He'd probably be repeating his mistake. All the same, he felt a compulsion to talk to Tess, to explain that he was sorry for putting pressure on her. He read the note he'd made last night when she'd told him her mother's phone number, and as he pressed buttons on the phone, he vaguely heard the radio announcer describe a new round of mortar battles that had broken out between the Christians and Moslems in Beirut. Why don't they get their shit together? Craig thought and listened to the long-distance static.

He heard a buzz.

Another buzz.

And then a female voice, not Tess's, in fact not even a human voice but one of those robot-sounding computer simulations.

'The number you have called is not in service.'

Not in service? Craig frowned. I must have pressed the wrong buttons.

He studied the note he'd made, wondering if he'd written down the wrong numbers, and tried to phone again.

'The number you have called is not in service.'

Jesus, I did write down the wrong numbers.

Boiling water made the kettle shriek. Craig turned off the stove, frowned harder as he spooned instant coffee into a cup, then stiffened when the radio announcer said,

'… completely destroyed a mansion in an exclusive district of Alexandria, Virginia.'

Alexandria ?

A premonition made Craig lunge toward the radio to increase the volume.

'Three people trying to escape the blaze were shot and killed. Two servants and Melinda Drake,' the announcer said.

Craig's throat constricted.

'Widow of Remington Drake, former State Department envoy who was tortured to death by Moslem extremists six years ago in Beirut. Authorities have not been able to identify the assailants or determine their motive for the slayings, but fire investigators have concluded that the blaze was due to arson.'

Arson? Two servants? Tess's mother?

But what about-?

Craig grabbed the phone, jabbed the numbers for information, got other numbers, jabbed them, got through to Alexandria information, and finally reached the Alexandria…

'Police department,' a gruff man said.

'Homicide.' Craig struggled to control his breathing.

Click. Buzz. Silence.

Come on! Come…!

'Homicide,' a husky-throated woman said.

'My name is William Craig.' Another struggle to control his trembling voice. 'I'm a lieutenant in the Missing Persons division of the New York City police department. My badge number is… My superior's name is… His office phone number is… I'm calling from my home. If you want, I'll give you that number while you verify who I am.'

'Before we get complicated, Lieutenant, why don't you catch your breath and tell me what you need?'

'The arson at Melinda Drake's house. The gunshot victims. Did you find another victim? The daughter. Tess Drake.'

'No. Only the servants and the… What do you know about a daughter, Lieutenant? Why would you think she was at the house? What's your interest in this matter?'