Much to Glitsky's surprise, the door was open. He entered and turned into the administrative office that had been drywalled into the semblance of a planned room. A dozen or so gray metal desks squatted in the bullpen behind the counter. The tops of each of them were bare except for a computer terminal, a telephone, a blotter and a two-tiered metallic in/out basket. He saw no one, but heard a radio somewhere, and walked by the counter, then behind it, following the sound. Within the larger office, a smaller unit sulked in one corner, and here Glitsky found two slightly beyond-middle-aged men playing cards-it looked like gin rummy-on another desktop, this one completely bare.

"Who's winning?" he asked.

The fat man facing him raised his eyes and showed no surprise at the sight of a large uniformed black police officer filling his doorway. "Glen," he said, his breath rasping with the exertion. "But not for long."

"Ha!" Glen didn't even turn around to look.

Glitsky stepped into the room. "I'm trying to locate a car."

"Got a license for it?"

"Yes."

"Welp." The fat man put a "p" on the end of his "well," punctuating it further with a little pop of breath, as though the syllable had nearly exhausted him. He placed his cards facedown in front of him. Wheezing, he lifted himself out of his chair, squeezed his way out from behind the desk. He extended a hand as he passed, said, "Horace" and kept going into the outer office. "Stay here, you don't mind. Watch him he don't cheat," he said.

"Ha!" Glen said again.

Horace got himself situated behind one of the outer desks, fiddled with the mouse, waited for the screen to brighten. "What's the number?"

Glitsky gave it to him. 4MDC433.

Horace's fingers moved. He waited, staring at the screen, each labored breath the sigh of a bellows. After a bit, he nodded. "Yep. Mercedes C-130?"

"That's it."

"Your lucky day," he said. "They took it here. Space N-49. Your car?"

"No. A crime victim's."

Horace made a sympathetic clucking sound through the rasping. He leaned in closer and squinted at the screen. "Mitchell Damien? He okay?"

"She," Glitsky said. "And she's dead."

From the other room. "Hey, Horace! You playing or what?"

"I'm what is what. Keep your pants on." He shook his head in displeasure at his opponent's impatience, then came back to Glitsky. "Welp"-a deep breath-"so what do you want with the car?"

"I just want to look at it. See if she left anything in it that might identify her killer." He left the doorway of the smaller room and got close enough to Horace where he could see the screen. "Does it say where you picked it up?"

"Sure. Two hundred block of Eleventh Avenue." "That's where she lived."

"There you go." Horace leaned back, ran a hand around his florid face. "There's nothing in it-that don't mean nobody stole nothin'. Means there wasn't nothing in it when it got here."

"Okay," Glitsky said. "Could I trouble you to print out a copy of the record for me?"

"Sure. Take two seconds."

For whatever good it would do, Glitsky thought. Already today, he had added sixty-some pages of Bank of America records to the D'Amiens folder he'd been developing. Just being thorough. But it would be foolish to abandon the practice now.

Horace pulled the page from the printer by the counter and handed it over. Taking Glitsky's measure one last time and seemingly satisfied, he walked with great effort all the way back across the outer office, to a large white panel, about six feet on a side, that swung out to reveal a numbered grid of eye-hooks, most of which held sets of keys. He picked the one off of N-49, walked back and handed it to Glitsky.

"You've got the keys?" Glitsky asked. "She left her keys in the car?"

"No. Car sits in the lot this long unclaimed, generally it's going to auction, so we need keys. We used to have a couple of locksmiths on staff, even, but those days are gone now. Still"-he pointed-"those ought to open the thing up. It's inside, about two-thirds of the way back. They're numbered. You can't miss it. I'll flick on the lights for you. Bring the key back when you're done. I'm off at five thirty, so before then. Or come back tomorrow."

Glitsky looked at his watch. He had forty-five minutes. "Today ought to do it," he said. "Thanks."

"What if he doesn't call her as a witness?" Glitsky, referring to Theresa Hanover, was in Hardy's office throwing his darts. Hardy, weary but still rushing with adrenaline and elation-he thought he'd basically kicked ass with all of the eyewitnesses-sat crossways on the love seat perpendicular to his desk.

"He's got to call her. She's the motive. The jury's got to hear how badly Catherine wanted the money, and from her own sweet reluctant mother-in-law. It ought to break hearts."

"And then what?"

"And then I introduce our alternate theory on cross. Theresa's own motive, every bit as good as Catherine's, her own lack of alibi, her attendance at the fire itself, the ring and paying the cash for the car, plus whatever Wes might be finding out even as we speak."

"And the judge will let you do all that?"

"Maybe not the cash for the car. But the rest, maybe, at least the beginning of it. I'll be subtle. Besides, I think her honor is beginning to thaw. The eyewitness testimony was Rosen's case and, if I do say so myself, it took a pretty good hit today. I'd hate to jinx my good fortune, but if I'm Rosen, I'm a worried man about now."

"And Theresa's his last witness?"

"She might be. Close to it, anyway. Which is why I'm going to need you around. You're next up after I call Catherine."

"For the defense. I love it." Glitsky threw the last dart in his round and was walking to the board. Halfway there, he stopped and faced his friend, his expression black. "Starting tomorrow? All day?"

Hardy nodded. "Most of it, anyway. But look at the bright side, like you always do. I ask you questions and the answers eviscerate Cuneo."

But Glitsky was shaking his head. "I don't like him any more than you do. More than that, between you and me, this whole conspiracy thing he's on about terrifies me. He's too close, and maybe he's got other people thinking. I go up on the stand against him, it's going to look personal, and he's going to itch to pay us both back personally if he can. Tell me you haven't considered this."

"Of course. As things now stand, he's a threat, I grant you."

"A big threat. And I'm not just talking careers."

"I get it, Abe, really. But what's the option? I've already creamed him on cross. He can't hate me worse than he already does. Or you, probably."

"But above all, he's a cop, Diz. Cops don't testify against cops, maybe you've heard. So you think Theresa's a reluctant witness? Wait'll you get me up there."

"You really don't want to go on? Get the son of a bitch?"

"I'd rather get the murderer." "And that's not Catherine."

Glitsky wasn't going to fight him on that. "All right," he said, "but I hope you're real aware that my friends in uniform are not going to double their love for me after I snitch out a cop on sexual harassment." Glitsky got to the dartboard and slowly, pensively, pulled his round from it.

Reading the body language, Hardy came around square on the love seat, sitting up. He spoke quietly, with some urgency. "All you'll be talking about is what Catherine said to you, Abe. That's not you accusing Cuneo of anything. Catherine will say what happened. You'll simply say she reported it before she got arrested."

Glitsky barked a bitter little laugh. "That distinction might not sing to the troops."

"It'll have to. I need the testimony."

"I know. I know. I just wish…"

"You'd found something else?"

A nod. "Almost anything. God knows I looked. I thought between the banking and the car something would have popped, but nothing."