SEVENTEEN

Karen's phone rang at half-past eight. As soon as she heard "Karen, it's Marcie Nolan" she knew how her picture got in the paper, on the back page of the food section under "Names amp; Faces."

In the two-column photo Karen, in a tailored black suit, straight skirt, black bag hanging from her left shoulder, is holding a Remington pump-action shotgun, the butt of the stock resting on her cocked hip, the barrel extending above her on an angle, her right hand gripping the gun just above the trigger guard. Karen wears dark glasses and is looking past the camera, her lips slightly parted. The cut line reads:

U.S. Marshal Karen Sisco guards the entrance to the federal courthouse in Miami during recent drug trials of Colombian nationals. Other assignments involve transporting offenders to prison and defendants to court for trial. Investigative work means tracking criminal offenders.

Assigned to the Miami office of the Marshals Service, Karen was in town yesterday to meet with Detroit Police personnel on a special assignment.

"It was a mistake," Marcie said.

"I mean they jumped the gun, they were supposed to wait till I interviewed you, see if there was a story."

"How'd you know I was here?"

"I saw you going into 1300 yesterday. I didn't know who you were seeing, but I thought I'd catch up with you sooner or later, so to save time…"

"That picture," Karen said, "was in the Herald."

"Yeah, I asked my editor to get it. Both papers are Knight Ridder-tell them what you need and a few minutes later it's on your computer. I mentioned to my editor, if there isn't a story it might work in "Names amp; Faces' and he put a note on it to that effect. But then when I couldn't find you, I got on another story and didn't get back to my editor. What happened then, the "Names amp; Faces' guy saw the note, revised the caption in kind of a generic way and ran with it. Karen, I'm awfully sorry I wasn't able to talk to you first."

"It's okay. Don't worry about it."

"I was afraid you might be furious."

"I get pissed off sometimes," Karen said, "but I'm rarely furious. The FBI office and the marshal's might wonder what I'm doing here."

Marcie said, "They don't know?"

"I mean they might think I'm a publicity nut, that I called you. But I can't see them making an issue out of it."

"You didn't want them to know you're here," Marcie said, "and I blew your cover. I'm sorry, Karen, really." She paused.

"Can you tell me what you're on?"

"

"Meeting with Detroit Police personnel on a special assignment." What's wrong with that?"

"It doesn't say anything, though, really."

"I think more than enough," Karen said, wanting to get off the phone, but had to ask, "How did you know I'm at the Westin?"

"Inspector Cruz. I asked around till I found out he's the one you saw.

Can't you tell me anyhing? Even off the record?"

"Let's see what happens," Karen said.

"How do you like Detroit?"

"Compared to what, the North Pole?"

"It's not as cold as I thought it would be."

"Just wait. I'd kill to get back to Miami."

"Well, if you do, I'll take you," Karen said.

"And if I have any free time I'll call you. Okay?"

She phoned Raymond Cruz and had to wait almost two hours for him to get back to her, to learn that he was awfully sorry but would be tied up most of the day. She said, "Raymond, are you trying to avoid me?" And he got a little flustered because he was a nice guy, telling her no, never, he really wanted to see her, but… It made her feel a little better, even though now she had nothing to do all day. She could call Marcie Nolan back, make a lunch date or meet her for a drink after five. Or, she could forget about waiting for Raymond. She could quit wasting any more time and check out Maurice Snoopy Miller's last known address.

Foley read the sports and entertainment pages, glanced through the food section and came to the back page… After he read the caption and stared at the photo for a while he called Buddy's room.

"You have the paper?"

"I saw it. What do you think?"

"It's a terrific shot of her."

"Outside of that."

"I don't know," Foley said, staring at the photo.

"But I don't think her being here has anything to do with us."

"She came up here on her vacation," Buddy said, " 'cause she likes shitty weather."

"I think she's after Glenn."

"How'd she find out he's here?"

"You know Glenn, he probably told her he was coming. Can you think of a way she'd know we're here?"

There was a silence before Buddy said, "No, but if they're on his ass and we're seen with him… She wouldn't be up here by herself, working alone."

"The girl still with you?"

"They don't stay the night, Jack, 'less you pay for it."

"Let me give it some thought," Foley said, still looking at Karen Sisco holding die shotgun.

"I'll call you back."

Even if Karen suspected they were here and checked the hotels… They had registered as George R. Kelly and Charles A. Floyd-making the names up on the spot-and paid cash for a week in advance, telling the reception clerk they'd just as soon not have a hotel showing on credit card bills that came to the house.

"If you get my drift," Foley said to the clerk and almost winked, but the guy's bored expression stopped him.

He called Buddy's room and Buddy said right away, "If they got a tail on Glenn we're fucked. Tomorrow night at the fights we all get picked up."

"I understand that," Foley said.

"I'm thinking maybe we can finesse around it, find out if they're on him or not before we go in."

"How do we do that?"

"I don't know yet. Let's drive by where they have the fights and look it over, the State Theater."

"That's what it is, a theater, a movie house."

"Yeah, but what's around it? We'd check it out anyway. How about later on we go for a ride. You can show me where you used to work."

"Did you see in the paper," Buddy said, and paused.

"Here it is.

"Fight over tuna casserole may have spurred slaying." This woman's live-in boyfriend, seventy years old, complained about her tuna noodle casserole and she shot him in the face with a twelve-gauge."

"I never cared for it either," Foley said.

"Or macaroni and cheese. Jesus."

"It says police found noodles in the woman's hair and beV lie ve the guy dumped the casserole dish on her. They'd been together ten years."

"Love is funny," Foley said.

He hung up, looked at the photo as he thought about what he was going to do now and rang the hotel operator.

"Ms. Sisco's room, please." He waited. The operator came back on to tell him there was no one by that name registered. Foley got out the Yellow Pages and opened the book to Hotels. He tried the Atheneum, a couple of Best Westerns, the Pontchartrain, skipped to a couple of Hiltons, looked at a list of five Holiday Inns, said "Shit," looked out the window at those giant glass tubes across the street and had to think for a minute.

The Westin, that was it.

He found the number and called it.

"Ms. Karen Sisco, please."

After a moment the operator said, "I'm ringing."

Foley waited. He had no idea what he would say, but he stayed on the line.

The operator's voice came on again. She said, "I'm sorry, but Ms.

Sisco's room doesn't answer. Would you care to leave a message?"

Karen rang the doorbell and waited, hands shoved into the pockets of her dark-navy coat, a long one, double-breasted with a belt in back.

The house on Parkside was in the first block off McNichols, a street the Westin doorman said everybody called Six Mile Road 'cause it was six miles from the river and the next roads after were named Seven Mile, Eight Mile and so on. Take the Lodge, get off at Livernois, go on up past the U of D and Parkside was a few blocks over to the right. Big homes in there, old but they're nice.