The one saving constant in the office, Glitsky thought. Somebody's always got a dumb joke. And Batiste was on a roll. 'Okay, another chance for you: you know the difference between Mick Jagger and a Scotsman?'

Glitsky broke a small smile. 'I give up.'

'Mick Jagger says "Hey, you, get offa my cloud," and the Scotsman says "Hey, McCloud, get off my ewe.'"

'You gotta get an agent, Frank. The right agent could make you a star.'

'That's true, the downside being that it would leave a vacancy here,' Batiste said. He pulled himself up straighter, getting to business. 'Which is what this is about. I notice you aren't taking this year's Lieutenant's exam. You don't want to make more money?'

'More money would be good.'

'Then what?'

'Maybe I don't want to be a Lieutenant. Maybe I don't want to leave Homicide.' Typically, a promotion to Lieutenant meant a transfer out of the detail to which an officer had been assigned. There were exceptions to this rule. Batiste himself had been a Homicide Inspector before his promotion. That wasn't something to count on, but Batiste was hinting that it could happen again with Abe. But, of course, first he had to take the exam.

Batiste opened the side drawer of his desk and took out a giant handful of peanuts in the shell. He dumped them on the desk between them, then grabbed one and cracked it. The peanuts were a constant in the Homicide detail. No one remembered when or how they'd first arrived, but they were always there. 'That's fine if that's what you want. I just didn't want it to be an oversight. I know you've had a lot on your mind lately.'

Batiste chewed and cracked another peanut, busy with it. This was awkward ground. 'You want my opinion, you want to take the test, keep your options open.'

Glitsky gave it a minute, then nodded. 'Okay, I'll do that. Thanks for mentioning it.'

'Good.'

The sound of peanuts being cracked. Neither of the men moved. 'Hey, Frank.'

'Yeah?'

Another long moment. Batiste took another handful of nuts out of his drawer and Glitsky got up, dropped his shells into the waste basket, looked out through the open entrance of Batiste's office, then sat back down. 'Are you sure there isn't anything else? I could handle it, there was.'

'Like what?'

'Like I've got so much on my mind that I'm not doing my job?' Glitsky's voice remained matter-of-fact, but his eyes became distant. 'That I'd be better off pushing paper as a Lieutenant in the traffic division than as a lowly Inspector with a real job in Homicide.' The eyes rested on his Lieutenant. 'I'd like to know, Frank, I really would. If I'm an embarrassment…'

'Who's saying that?'

His shoulders sagged. 'I am, I guess. I'm asking. I couldn't close on Levon Copes. Then I get assigned this clown who shoots up the Tastee Burger when there is no investigation to conduct but it keeps me off the streets? This kind of stuff, it makes me wonder.'

Batiste had stopped with the peanuts. He shook his head. 'Nobody's saying anything like that, Abe. I don't even think it.'

Glitsky took a breath. A beat. Another one. Three.

Batiste. 'You all right?'

'I'm reading everything wrong, Frank. Sorry. I didn't mean to lay it on you. I'm just getting everything wrong.'

Batiste told Abe he didn't have to worry so much about what he might be doing wrong. So what if he wasted a few minutes? They worked in the city's last bastion where results – not hours – were what counted. If Glitsky felt he wasn't on all cylinders, enough were still firing to get the job done. So he should put aside the doubts about why he thought it was Dooher.

Sometimes professionals had hunches. You asked yourself every question you could think of, even if you didn't exactly know why you needed to ask it. Answering them all probably wouldn't take fifteen minutes.

Then he could go talk to Lily Martin again, or Felicia Diep. Or the Pope.

Which gave Glitsky an idea.

'By the way, I met your girlfriend again the other night. I think she likes you.'

Wes Farrell, leaning against the padded back wall, was sitting on the hardwood floor on the squash court, breathing hard. Dooher wasn't even winded. He was absently whacking the ball into the wall, hitting it back on the short hop. A machine.

'I've got so many, Wes, which one are we talking about?'

'The pretty one.'

Dooher inclined his racket slightly, the ball bounced, shot straight up off his racket, and arced into his waiting palm. 'They're all pretty,' he said, smiling.

They're not all as pretty as she is. The girl from Fior d'ltalia? Christina. Your summer clerk. Ring a bell?'

Dooher corrected him. 'One of my summer clerks, Wes. I think we're bringing on about ten. And I hate to ruin your fantasies, but we've remained platonic.'

'I thought I was talking about your fantasies.'

'I have no fantasies. I live an ordered and disciplined life, which is why I will beat you in this next game. Besides, Sheila and I are enjoying a little renaissance right at the moment.' Dooher gave his practiced shrug, minimizing personal complicity in all the good things, such as his wife's sexual favors, that constantly came his way, and bounced the ball off the floor. 'Double or nothing? I'm ready. Where'd you see her?'

Farrell slowly pulled himself to his feet. 'Actually, I'm having a little renaissance myself.'

'With Lydia?'

'Lydia who? Her name's Sam.' He was all the way on his feet now, half limping, holding his back. 'How did I get so decrepit, anyway? I eat right, I drink right. Am I not at this very moment exercising?'

Dooher was tossing the ball up and down, catching it without looking. 'Whose name is Sam?'

'My girlfriend, you fool. And Christina Carrera is a friend of hers. We were at a dinner party.'

'And my name came up?'

Wes shrugged. 'When we realized half the people there knew you. I said you weren't as bad as you appeared. I'm afraid I told them your Vietnam story.'

Dooher's face clouded for a moment. 'That story. I don't think it's come up once in the past ten years, and just the other day…' Dooher explained about Glitsky. 'So I showed him the picture. What was Christina's reaction to all this talk of me?'

'She didn't need your tragic background to think you were a hero. She's one of your fans. Obviously, someone has deluded her into thinking you are a sweet and gentle soul under that craggy exterior.'

'She's got a keen insight into human nature,' Dooher said. 'Maybe I'll give her a raise.'

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

It wasn't exactly the Pope, but Glitsky's Polish was pretty ragged anyway. He figured the Archbishop was close enough.

Flaherty's Appointments Secretary was initially inclined to be coldly officious, but after Glitsky had explained that he needed a personal appointment with His Excellency to talk about the murder of one of his flock, the man had first gotten interested, then had thawed. He checked. Flaherty had a two o'clock, but his lunch had broken up early – he was in the office right now. Would Glitsky wait a moment?

Okay, the secretary had told him, if he could get down to the Chancery Office, the Archbishop would give him between when he arrived and his appointment, say twenty minutes if he flew.

He flew.

The windows were open and the sound of children playing down below drifted up to them.

They sat kitty-corner in wingchairs. The spartan office was chilly. Glitsky kept his jacket zipped. The rest of the room reinforced the theme of minimal creature comfort – Berber rug, flat-top desk, computer, the chairs, some photos of Flaherty with unknowns and kids and sports figures, a crucifix, a wall of books. With no pretension or sign of earthly power, it was nothing that Glitsky had expected.