“What day is it?”

“Sunday.”

Landsman cranks open the window all the way and hooks his left buttock over the sill. Rain falls on his aching head. He lights his papiros and takes a long drag and tries to decide if he’s disturbed by this information. “Long time since I did that,” he says. “Slept through a whole day.”

“You must have needed it,” Berko observes blandly. A sideways look in Landsman’s direction. “Ester-Malke’s the one who took your pants off, by the way. Just so you know.”

Landsman flicks ash out of the window. “I was shot.”

“Grazed. They said it’s more like a kind of burn. They didn’t need to stitch it.”

“There were three of them. Rafael Zilberblat. A pisher I made for his brother. And some chicken. The brother took my car, my wallet. My badge and my sholem. Left me there.”

“So it was reconstructed.”

“I wanted to call for help, but the little ratface Jew took my Shoyfer, too.”

The mention of Landsman’s phone makes Berko smile. “What?” Landsman says.

“So, your pisher’s tooling along. North on the Ickes, headed for Yakovy, Fairbanks, Irkutsk.”

“Dh-huh.”

“Your phone rings. Your pisher answers it.”

“And it’s you?”

“Bina.”

“I like it.”

“Two minutes on the phone with the Zilberblat, she has his whereabouts, his description, the name of his dog when he was eleven. A couple of latkes pick him up five minutes later outside Krestov. Your car is fine. Your wallet still had cash in it.”

Landsman affects to take an interest in the way that fire turns cured tobacco to flakes of ash. “And my badge and gun?” he says.

“Ah.”

“Ah.”

“Your badge and your gun are now in the hands of your commanding officer.”

“Does she intend to return them?”

Berko reaches over and smooths the indentation that Landsman left in the surface of his bed.

“It was strictly line of duty,” Landsman says, his tone sounding whiny even to his own ear. “I got a tip on Rafi Zilberblat.” He shrugs and runs his fingers along the bandage at the back of his head. “I just wanted to talk to the yid.”

“You should have called me first.”

“I didn’t want to bother you on a Saturday.”

It’s no excuse, and it comes out even lamer than Landsman hoped.

“Nu, I’m an idiot,” Landsman admits. “And a bad policeman, too.”

“Rule number one.”

“I know. I just felt like doing something right then. I didn’t think it was going to go the way that it went.”

“In any case,” Berko says. “The pisher. The little brother. Calls himself Willy Zilberblat. He confessed on his late brother’s behalf. Says indeed Rafi killed Viktor. With half a pair of scissors.”

“How about that.”

“All other things being equal, I would say Bina has reason to be happy with you on that one. You resolved it very effectively.”

“Half a pair of scissors.”

“How’s that for resourceful?”

“Frugal, even.”

“And the chicken you handled so roughly — that was you, too?”

“It was me.”

“Nicely done, Meyer.” There is no sarcasm in Berko’s tone or face. “You put a pill in Yacheved Flederman.”

“I did not.”

“You had yourself quite a day.”

“The nurse?”

“Our colleagues on the B Squad are delighted with you.”

“That killed that old geezer, what’s his name, Herman Pozner?”

“It was their only open case from last year. They thought she was in Mexico.”

“Fuck me,” Landsman says in American.

“Tabatchnik and Karpas already put in a good word for you with Bina, as I understand.”

Landsman grinds the papiros out against the side of the building, then flicks the butt into the rain. Tabatchnik and Karpas are really kicking the asses of Landsman and Shemets; it’s not even close.

“Even when I have good luck,” he says, “it’s bad luck.” He sighs. “Has there been anything out of Verbov Island?”

“Not a peep.”

“Nothing in the papers?”

“Not in the Licht or the Rut.” These are the leading black-hat dailies. “No rumors that I’ve heard. Nobody’s talking about it. Nothing. Total silence.”

Landsman gets up off the windowsill and goes to the phone on the table beside the bed. He dials a number he memorized years ago, asks a question, gets an answer, hangs up. “The Verbovers picked up Mendel Shpilman’s body late last night.”

The telephone in Landsman’s hand startles, chirping like a robot bird. He passes it to Berko.

“He seems fine,” Berko says after a moment. “Yes, I imagine that he will need some rest. All right.” He lowers the handset and stares at it, covering the mouth piece with the pad of his thumb. “Your ex-wife.”

“I hear you’re fine,” Bina tells Landsman when he gets on the phone.

“So they tell me,” Landsman says.

“Take some time,” she suggests. “Give yourself a break.”

The import takes a second to register, her tone is so gentle and unruff1ed.

“You would not,” he says. “Bina, please tell me this is not true.”

“Two dead people. By your gun. No witnesses but a kid who didn’t see what happened. It’s automatic. Sus pension with pay, pending a review by the board.”

“They were shooting guns at me. I had a reliable tip, I approached with my gun in my holster, I was polite as a mouse. And they started shooting at me.”

“And of course you’ll get the chance to tell your story. In the meantime, I’m going to keep your shield and your gun in this nice pink plastic Hello Kitty zipper bag that Willy Zilberblat was carrying them around in, okay? And you just try to get yourself all nice and better, all right?”

“This thing could take weeks to sort out,” Landsman says. “By the time I’m back on duty, there might not be a Sitka Central. There are no grounds for a suspension here, and you know it. Under the circumstances, you can keep me on active duty while the review goes forward, and still be running this case totally by the book.”

“There are books,” Bina says. “And there are books.”

“Don’t be cryptic,” he says, and then in American, “What the fuck?”

For a long couple of seconds, Bina doesn’t reply.

“I had a call from Chief Inspector Vayngartner. Last night. Not long,” she says, “after dark.”

“I see.”

“He tells me he just had a call. On his home phone, this is. And I guess the esteemed gentleman on the other end of the line was maybe a little upset about certain behaviors that Detective Meyer Landsman might have been exhibiting in this gentleman’s neighborhood on Friday afternoon. Creating public disturbances. Showing grave disrespect for the locals. Operating without authority or approval.”

“And Vayngartner replied?”

“He said you were a good detective, but you were known to have certain problems.”

And there, Landsman, is the line for your head stone.

“So what did you tell Vayngartner?” he says. “When he called to ruin your Saturday night.”

“My Saturday night. My Saturday night is like a microwave burrito. Very tough to ruin something that starts out so bad to begin with. As it happens, I told Chief Inspector Vayngartner how you had just been shot.”

“And he said?”

“He said that in light of this fresh evidence, he might have to reconsider long-held atheistic beliefs. And that I should do whatever I could to make sure you were comfortable, and that for the next little time, you got plenty of rest. So that’s what I’m doing. You’re suspended, with full pay, until further notice.”

“Bina. Bina, please. You know how I am.”

“I do.”

“If I can’t work — You can’t—”

“I have to.” The temperature of her voice drops so quickly that ice crystals tinkle on the line. “You know how much of a choice I have in a situation like this.”

“You mean when gangsters pull strings to keep a murder investigation from going forward? That the kind of situation you mean?”

“I answer to the chief inspector,” Bina explains, as if she’s talking to a donkey. She knows perfectly well that there is nothing Landsman hates more than being treated like he’s stupid. “And you answer to me.”