"You better believe it," DelRaye said.

"What can you tell me about Nelson and the TV lady?" Mickey asked. " On the record, Ed."

"Well, she came home from work, half in the bag, and walked in and found him," DelRaye said.

"She was his girl friend?"

DelRaye snorted derisively.

"I take it that's a no?"

"That's neither a no or anything else, if we're still on the record," DelRaye said.

"I could, I suppose, call you an 'unnamed senior police Officer involved in the investigation,' " Mickey offered.

"I wouldn't want you quoting me as saying Nelson was a faggot," DelRaye said. "Because I didn't say that."

"Jesus Christ, was he?"

"If we're still on the record, no comment," DelRaye said. "We're still on the record?"

"Yeah. Sorry," Mickey O'Hara said, and then went for the jugular. "If I asked you, on the record, but as an 'unnamed senior police officer involved in the investigation' if you are looking for a Negro homosexual for questioning in the Nelson murder investigation, what would you say?"

"You're not going to use my name?"

"Scout's honor."

"Then I would say 'that's true.' "

"And if I asked you how come you can't find him, what would you say?"

"There are a number of suspects, and we believe that the name we have, Pierre St. Maury-"

"Who's he?"

"He's the one we want to question most. He lived with Nelson. We don' t think that's his real name."

"Colored guy?"

"Big black guy. That description fits a lot of people in Philadelphia. It fits a lot of people who call themselves 'gay.' But we'll get him."

"But he's not the only one you're looking for?"

"There are others who meet the same description. The rent-a-cops on Stockton Place told us that Nelson had a lot of large black men friends."

"And you think one of them did it?"

"When people like that do each other in, they usually do it with a vengeance," DelRaye said.

"The way Nelson was done in, you mean?"

DelRaye did not reply. He suspected that he had gone too far.

"Mickey," he said, "I'm getting a little uncomfortable with this. Let's get off it, huh?"

"Sure," Mickey O'Hara said. "I got to get out of here anyway."

Ten minutes later, Mickey O'Hara walked back into the city room, walked with elaborate erectness to his desk, where he sat down at his computer terminal, belched, and pushed the COMPOSE button.

SLUG: Fairy Axman?

By Michael J. O'Hara

According to a senior police officer involved in the investigation of the brutal murder of Jerome Nelson, a "large black male," in his twenties, going by the name of Pierre St.Maury, and who reportedly shared the luxurious apartment at 6 Stockton Place, is being sought for questioning.

The police official, who spoke with this reporter only on condition of anonymity, said that it was believed the name Pierre St.Maury was assumed, and suggested this was common practice among what he described as Philadelphia's "large 'gay' black community."

Mickey stopped typing, found a cigarette and lit it, and then read what he had written.

Then he typed, "Do you have the balls to run this, or am I wasting my time?"

Then he moved the cursor to the top of the story and enteredFLASH FLASH. This would cause a red light to blink on the city editor's monitor, informing him there was a story, either from the wire services, or from a reporter in the newsroom, that he considered important enough to demand the city editor's immediate attention. Then he pushed the SEND key.

Less than a minute later, the city editor crossed the city room to Mickey's desk.

"Jesus, Mickey," he said.

"Yes, or no?"

"I don't suppose you want to tell me who the cop who gave you this is?"

"I always protect my sources," Mickey said, and burped.

"It's for real?"

"The gentleman in question is a horse's ass, but he knows what he's talking about."

"The cops will know who talked to you," the city editor said.

"That thought had run through my mind," Mickey O'Hara said.

"You're going to put his ass in a crack," the city editor said.

"I have the strength of ten because in my heart, I'm pure," Mickey O' Hara said. "I made it perfectly clear that we were on the record."

"It will be tough on Mr. Nelson," the city editor said.

"Would we give a shit if he didn't own theLedger?" Mickey countered.

The city editor exhaled audibly.

"This'll give you two by-lines on the front page," he said.

"Modesty is not my strong suit," Mickey said. "Yes, or no?"

"Go ahead, O'Hara," the city editor said.

FIFTEEN

It had been the intention of Lieutenant Robert McGrory, commanding officer of Troop G (Atlantic City) of the New Jersey State Police, to take off early, say a little after eight, which would have put him in Philly a little after nine-thirty, in plenty of time to go by the Marshutz amp; Sons Funeral Home for Dutch Moffitt's wake.

But that hadn't proved possible. One of his troopers, in pursuit of a speeder on U.S. 9, had blown a tire and slammed into a culvert. It wasn't as bad as it could have been; he could have killed himself, and the way the car looked it was really surprising he hadn't. But all he had was a broken arm, a dislocated shoulder, and some bad cuts on his face. But by the time he had that all sorted out (the trooper's wife was eight-and-a-half months gone, and had gotten hysterical when he went by the house to tell her and to take her to the hospital, and he had been afraid that she was going to have the kid right there and then) it was almost nine.

By then, the other senior officers going to Captain Dutch Moffitt's funeral had not elected to wait for him; a major and two captains could not be expected to wait for a lieutenant. Major Bill Knotts left word at the barracks for Lieutenant McGrory that Sergeant Alfred Mant (who was coming from Troop D, in Toms River, bringing people from there and further north) had been directed to swing by Atlantic City and wait at the Troop G Barracks for McGrory, however long it took for him to get free.

The senior state police officers in Knotts's car were all large men. They all had small suitcases; and they were, of course, in uniform, with all the regalia. The trunk of Knotts's Ford carried the usual assortment of special equipment, and there was no room in it for two of the three suitcases; they had to be carried in the backseat. When they were all finally in it, the Ford was crowded and sat low on its springs.

"I think you'd probably make better time on Three Twenty-two," Knotts said, as he settled into the front seat, beside Captain Gerry Kozniski, who was driving.

"Whatever you say, Major," Captain Kozniski said, aware that he had just been given authority, within reason, to "make good time" between Atlantic City and Philadelphia. There were two major routes, 322 and 30, between the two cities. U.S. 30 was four-laned nearly all the way, from Atlantic City to Interstate 295, just outside Camden. Only some sections of U.S. 322 were four-laned. Consequently, 30 got most of the traffic; there would be little traffic on 322 and it would be safer to drive faster on that road.

Captain Kozniski hit sixty-five, and then seventy, and then seventyfive. The Ford seemed to find its cruising speed just under eighty. They would still be late, but unless something happened, they could still at least put in an appearance at the wake.

"Word is," Captain Kozniski said, "that Bob McGrory's going to be a pallbearer."

"Yeah. Mrs. Moffitt asked for him," Knotts said.

"Dutch Moffitt and he went way back. They went to the FBI National Academy together."