"Were Woody and Mark ever arrested?"

"Mark was picked up once,"Dizsi said.

"You know when those students at Kent State were shot and killed?

After that, there was a demonstration in Kennedy Square.

May ninth, 1970. I know, I was there. Mark was one of those taken in and then released, no charge filed."

"That's why his mother was at the Federal Building?"

"Oh, no," Dizsi said.

"No, what I started to tell you I have in my records? It shows that Mrs. Ricks, following the Black Panther fund-raising party, became an FBI informant. Told them things she learned right in her house."

"She snitched on her own kids?"

Dizsi was shaking his head.

"To save her kids. She gave information about the Black Panthers, nothing important.

No, but her biggest coup, she told the FBI where to find Robin and Skip."

"Jesus Christ," Chris said.

Now Dizsi was smiling a little.

"Why does that make you happy?"

The notebook with the red cover marked MAY AUGUST '70 was on Wendell Robinson's desk, the metal desk in the far corner of the squad room by the window with the air-conditioning unit that didn't work. Wendell, sitting behind the desk in a neat gray suit and rose-tinted necktie, watched Chris taking his time: looking around as if he'd never been here before, appraising the office full of old desks and file cabinets that made Barney Miller's TV squad room look swank. Mankowski taking his time 'cause he'd seen the notebook lying there and knew a search had been done. Wendell picked up his coffee mug with a "?" on it and took a sip. There-Chris finally turning this way, about to get to it.

"Where is everybody?"

"Out on the street, where they supposed to be."

"That's a good-looking suit. You don't seem to go with the decor around here."

"I have to say you do," Wendell said.

"Is that what you're trying to tell me, you want a job?"

"You're gonna want to give me one."

"Why's that?"

"First, tell me what you know."

"I don't know shit. We didn't find nothing."

"You got the notebook."

"I still don't know shit. It's full of how smart she is and how dumb everybody else is."

"You talked to her…"

"Yeah, I talked. That girl knows how to act with police.

Kept her mouth closed tight."

"Gave you dirty looks?"

"Gave me nothing. " "You want a motive?"

Wendell didn't answer, looking at this old-limey young cop comes in here in his worn-out sportcoat and some kind of angle, with that instinct of an old-limey cop, too.

"Mark and Woody's mom, now deceased, turned her in," Chris said.

"Told the shoes where to find Robin and her buddy Skip Gibbs. They picked them up in Los Angeles and brought them back for trial."

Wendell got comfortable in his chair, sat back with his coffee, raised his tasseled loafers to the desk, next to the notebook.

"So the mama's dead, Robin takes it out on the two boys?"

"Why not?"

"I'm not arguing with you, I like it. I'll take anything given to me free. But how good is it?"

"It's good," Chris said.

"It could even get better." He picked up Wendell's phone and dialed four numbers.

"Jerry?… Fine, I'm in the building, up at Seven…

No, I'm not talking to anybody higher than lieutenant," Chris said and looked at Wendell.

"I want to ask you something. When you were with that movie crew and they blew up the cars, you met all the special-effects guys, didn't you?… Was there a guy named Skip Gibbs?"

Chris listened for a moment.

"Well, it must be. How many Skips are there?… Can you check?..

. Call up the company and ask them… Out in Hollywood, the one that made the movie. Would you do that? I'm sure it's the guy, but let's nail it down… No, it only sounds like I'm working. Jerry, I'll talk to you. Thanks." Chris hung up and looked at Wendell again.

"Skip was here with the movie crew."

"Some Skip was."

"It's the guy. He's a dynamite man."

"Say he was here. We don't know he still is."

"I could find that out," Chris said, "and I'm not even an ace homicide dick."

"But you like to be one, huh? Win my respect," Wendell said, "and have me beg to get you. It could be done, Mankowski, you ever move back to town. But this motive now you telling me, is it good? Or you giving me some more theorizing shit like with the peanuts?"

"It's solid," Chris said.

"You want to know where to look it up quick, without going to the feds?

Save you valuable time, you can sit around drinking coffee?"

"Here comes the deal."

"I'll trade you the source for a Xerox of the notebook."

"There's nothing in it. Take it, long as you bring it back."

"And Donnell Lewis's file, just for fun. Something to read in bed."

Wendell said, "Now we coming to something. Slip that in about Donnell.

You been talking to him?"

"Once. Yesterday."

"How come he called here? Wants to know how to get in touch with you?"

"Donnell?"

"Was just before Maureen called me, about eleven thirty. He wouldn't tell me what he wanted. And you're acting surprised as hell, like you not gonna be any help."

"You give him my number?"

"How could I do that? I don't even know it."

Wendell watched Chris look up at the dirty window, getting a thoughtful squint in the afternoon glare.

"He know you're suspended?"

"He was the witness for the lawyer's complaint, I roughed up his boss."

"Maybe he wants to tell you he's sorry."

"The only thing I can think of, what it might be," Chris said, "Donnell has an idea I've been on the take now and then. Maybe he knows cops that were, back during his life of crime, and he thinks I can be had."

"Couldn't be you let him think it," Wendell said, "driving around in your maroon Cadillac."

"You never know what somebody might tell you," Chris said, "when they think you're somebody else."

"You're having fun being suspended, aren't you?"

"Except for the pay."

"Do one thing for me," Wendell said, "don't impersonate a cop. Make that two things, and don't tell me what you're doing."

"Unless I get something good."

"Well, that goes without saying."

Foody said, "I guess the place to start, put down I want to cross out Mark's name and anything in it that has to do with him. Say, "As he is no longer a successor co trustee of the estate." I'm pretty sure that's what he was. Put that down under his name, successor co-trustee. But you know something. It must say in there what happens if he dies. I mean before I do."

Donnell, sitting at the library desk with the green lamp on, said,

"Cross out Mark," as he wrote it on a legal pad, underlined it and stopped there.

"I got it, Mr. Woody. You understand the lawyer knows who comes out of the will. What we have to tell him is who you want to go in. Hmmm, let's think about that."

The man was pacing in his bathrobe, way over on the other side of the room now, looking at the TV set like he wanted to turn it on. He'd been on his way to the swimming pool for his late-afternoon dog-paddle when Donnell caught him in the sunroom, told him not to go in there. The man asked why not. Donnell said to him, Mr. Woody, the bomb. The man said, Oh yeah, he forgot. He looked in at the pool like a kid looking out the window at rain. What was he going to do now? Didn't know whether to cry or have a drink. So Donnell had lit his face up and said, Hey, I got an idea…

"You thinking, Mr. Woody?"

"The lawyer's also a co-trustee. But that doesn't mean he gets anything. I don't think he does."

"You have to watch those people, Mr. Woody. Who you want in there wasn't in there before?"

"Mark was my only brother."

"Doesn't have to be kin."

"Did I tell you? I decided I'm not gonna take singing lessons."

"I wouldn't."