"Fuck word around the precinct house," said Kurtz. He finished his eggs and went at the last piece of toast.

"Yeah," said Rigby and the syllable sounded tired. "Word around the house this week is that Interpol says a certain Danish guy might be crossing into the States through Canada. Or maybe he already has."

Kurtz looked up. Had he missed something? Were there billboards up with this news? Had it been on the Channel 7 Action News or something? This assassin must have an advance team doing publicity for him.

"Got your attention, huh, Joe? Yeah, why do you think your pal Angelina would call for the Dane?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," said Kurtz. He sipped the last of his coffee. Big Daddy came by, refilled the coffee mug, set down another mug in front of Rigby, filled it with coffee, and went into the back room again.

"Why do you think, Joe?" repeated Rigby. She sounded suddenly sober.

He looked at her. His eyes gave up nothing.

"What if it isn't your female pal or her new friend Gonzaga who called for this particular European, Joe? Ever think of that?"

He was tempted to ask her what she was talking about, but didn't. Not yet.

"You have any enemies out there who want your scalp, Joe Kurtz? I mean, other than Big Bore Redhawk, of course." She sipped coffee, made a face, and put the mug down. "Funny about Big Bore, isn't it?"

"What do you mean?"

She looked surprised. "Oh, that's right, we haven't told you yet. The Pennsylvania Highway Patrol called us last night with the news that your Indian friend had been found in the woods behind a Howard Johnson's just off I-90 at the Erie exit. One bullet—nine millimeter—through his left temple. The Erie M.E. says that the shooting took place around ten A.M. yesterday. Ten A.M., Joe."

"What about it?"

"By great good coincidence, that's exactly when you had me meet you for that bullshit meeting at Broadway Market," said Rigby, her face flushing. Her brown eyes were angry.

"You saying that I used you for an alibi, Rigby?"

"I'm saying that you've always been mean, but you didn't used to be so fucking cute," snapped the cop. "I really hate cute felons. They really burn my tits."

"And lovely…" began Kurtz and stopped when he noted the look in her eyes and the hot coffee in her hand. "What were you going to say about the Danish guy?"

"I was going to ask who has the money and the motive to bring one of Europe's hired assassins into little old Western New York," said Rigby, her voice slurring only slightly from the booze and fatigue. "You want to answer that Joe?"

"I give up," said Kurtz.

"You should. You should." Rigby held the coffee mug as if for warmth, lowering her face over it and letting the steam touch her cheeks. "They say the Dane's assassinated more than a hundred prime targets, including that politician in Holland not long ago. Never been caught. Hell, never been identified."

"What's that got to do with me?" said Kurtz.

Rigby smiled at him. She had a beautiful smile, thought Kurtz, even when it was a mocking one. "Word at the precinct house has you at the Farino estate a year ago when the same Danish guy wasted sister Sophia, Papa Farino, their lawyer—whatever the fuck his name was—and half the old Farino bodyguards. Twenty goombahs protecting Old Man Farino, and the only ones still standing when it was over were the ones the Dane didn't want dead."

Kurtz said nothing. He had a sudden tactile memory of sitting very still, his palms on his thighs, while the tall man in the raincoat and Bavarian-style hat with the feather in it turned the muzzle of his semiautomatic pistol from one target in the room to another, killing each person with a single shot. Kurtz's name hadn't been on the list that day. It had been an oversight of sorts. Little Skag Farino, still in Attica, hadn't thought that Kurtz would be there when the assassin he'd hired came to deal with Little Skag's sister, father, and the others, and he'd been too cheap to pay for Kurtz on spec.

"Little Skag's still a player," whispered Rigby. "He survived the shanking in Attica after you and the Ferrara bitch leaked the word that Skag had raped a minor. Your pal Angelina had his lawyer whacked a few months ago, but Little Skag's still alive—wearing a colostomy bag these days, or so I hear—and safe in a federal country club where no one can get at him. But he has a new lawyer. And I think he has some unsettled business—with his little sister Angelina, the new, improved, gay Gonzaga, and some mook named Joe Kurtz."

"You're making this up as you go along," said Kurtz. "Bullshitting."

Rigby shrugged. "Can you take the chance to ignore me? Have you become that crazy a gambler, Joe?"

Kurtz rubbed the side of his head. The pain seemed to pulse through his skull, through his hand, and down his arm into his chest. "What do you want?"

"I said that I had an offer for you," she said. "My offer's this…" she sipped her coffee and took a breath. "Joe, you're fucking around trying to solve this O'Toole shooting. I know you know about Goba."

"Goba?" said Kurtz in the most innocent voice he could summon through the pain. Kemper hadn't given him the Yemeni's name over the phone last night.

"Fuck you, Joe." She drank her coffee but never took her luminous eyes off his face. "I don't know how you knew about Goba, but I think you were in his house yesterday before we were. I think you probably took some evidence with you. I think you're still acting under the delusion that you're a private detective, Joe Kurtz, ex-con, felon, parolee, and too-cute shithead."

"It was my shooting, too," Kurtz said softly.

"What?"

"You called it the O'Toole shooting," he said. "It was my shooting, too." He raised fingers to his torn scalp. The scab was tender. The wound felt hot and it pulsed under his fingertips.

Rigby shrugged. "She's on life support You're hanging out with Baby Doc and snarfing eggs. You want to hear my offer?"

"Sure." He conveyed his lack of enthusiasm through flat tone, but he wasn't happy to hear that they knew he'd met with Baby Doc. His parole could be revoked for just speaking to a known felon.

"You keep playing private cop," she said softly, glancing around to make sure that no one could hear. Ruby and Daddy were in the kitchen; Coe Pierce was noodling Miles Davis's little-known "Peace, Peace."

"If you insist on playing private cop," she repeated, "I'll give you the information you need to stay one step ahead of the Dane, solve your little shooting case, and maybe survive the Ferrara bitch's attentions."

"Why?" said Kurtz.

"I'll tell you later," said Rigby. "You agree now to help me on something later, and we have a deal. I'll risk my gold shield to feed you information."

Kurtz laughed softly. "Uh-huh. Sure. I sign a blank check to help you later on some unspecified crap and you risk your badge to help me now. This is bullshit, Rigby." He stood.

"It's the best deal you'll ever get, Joe." For a second, astoundingly, unbelievably, Rigby King looked as if she was going to cry. She looked away, mopped her nose with the back of her hand, and looked back at Kurtz. The only emotion visible in her eyes now was the anger he'd seen earlier.

"Tell me what I'd have to do," said Kurtz.

She looked up at him across the table. "I help you now," she said so softly that he had to lean forward to hear. "I help you stay alive now, and sometime… I don't know when, not soon… maybe next summer, maybe later, you help me find Farouz and Kevin Eftakar."

"Who the fuck are Farouz and Kevin Eftakar?" said Kurtz, still standing and leaning his weight on his arms.

"My ex-husband and my son," whispered Rigby.

"Your son?"

"My baby," said the cop. "He was one year old when Farouz stole him."

"Stole him?" said Kurtz. "You're talking about a custody case? If the judge said…"