"That'sabducting," McFadden said.

"What?"

"What you said was kidnapping was abducting," McFadden said. " Kidnapping is when there's ransom."

"Screw you," Hay-zus said, in a friendly manner, and then, "Hey, look at them wheels!"

A silver Porsche was coming out of the parking lot, apparently after having made the same fruitless search for a place to park they had.

"I'd hate to have to pay insurance on a car like that," McFadden said.

"You got enough money to buy a car like that, you don't have to worry about how much insurance costs," Hay-zus said.

Both of them followed the car as it drove down Bowler Street past them.

"I know that guy," Charley McFadden said. "I seen him someplace."

"Really? Where?"

"I don't know, but I know that face." Jesus Martinez looked at his watch, a gold-cased Hamilton with a gold bracelet and diamond chips on the face instead of numbers, and on which he owed eighteen (of twentyfour) payments at Zale's Credit Jewelers.

"Let's go in," he said. "It's ten of."

McFadden, not without effort, worked himself out from under the Volkswagen's steering wheel, then broke into a slow shuffle to catch up with Martinez.

They went into the building through a door off the parking lot, through which they could see Highway Patrolmen entering.

They looked for and found the to-be-expected window counter opening on the squad room. A Corporal was leaning on the counter, filling out a form. They waited until he was through, and looked at them curiously.

"We were told to report to the Commanding Officer of Highway at eight," Hay-zus said.

"You're a police officer?" the Corporal asked, doubtfully.

"Yeah, we're cops," Charley McFadden said.

"I know you," the Corporal said. "You're the guy who ran down the shit who was the doer in Captain Moffitt's shooting."

McFadden almost blushed.

"Wewere," he said, nodding at Martinez. "This is my partner, Hay-zus Martinez."

"What do you want to see the Captain about? The reason I ask is that he's busy as hell right now; I don't know when he'll be free."

"Beats me," McFadden said. "We was told to report to him at eight."

"Well, have a seat. When he's free, I'll tell him you're here. There' s a coffee machine and a garbage machine around the corner." He pointed.

"Thanks," Charley said, and walked around the corner to the machines, not asking Hay-zus if he wanted anything. Hay-zus was a food freak; he didn't eat anything that had preservatives in it, or drink anything with chemical stimulants in it, like coffee, which had caffeine, or Coke, which had sugar and God only knows what other poison for the body.

When Charley returned, a minute or two later, holding a Mounds bar in one hand and a can of Coke in the other, Hay-zus nodded his head toward the counter. The guy they had seen in the Porsche, the one Charley said he knew from someplace, was talking to the Corporal. As Charley watched, he turned and headed for where Hay-zus was sitting on one of the row of battered folding metal chairs.

Charley walked over and sat down, and then leaned over Hay-zus.

"Don't I know you from somewheres?"

"Is your name McFadden?" Matt Payne asked.

"Yeah."

"I was at your house the night you got Gerald Vincent Gallagher."

"You were?" Charley asked. "I don't remember that."

"I was there with Chief Coughlin," Matt said. "And Sergeant Lenihan."

"Oh, yeah, I remember now," Charley said, although he did not. "How are you?"

"Fine," Matt said. "Yourself?"

There was a sort of stir as someone else came through the door from the parking lot. Matt recognized Peter Wohl; he wondered if Wohl would recognize him.

Wohl recognized all three of the young men on the folding metal chairs. He gave them a nod, and kept walking toward his office.

God damn it, you 're a commanding officer now. Act like one.

He turned and walked to the three of them, his hand extended first to Martinez.

"How are you, Martinez?" he said, and turned before Martinez, who wasn't quite sure of Wohl's identity, could reply. "And McFadden. How' s it going? And you're Payne, right?"

"Yes, sir."

"I'll be with you as soon as I'm free," Wohl said. "The way things are going, that may be a while."

"Yes, sir," McFadden and Martinez said, having found their voices.

Wohl then walked across the room and through the door to his outer office. Three people were in it: a Highway Sergeant, who had been Dutch Moffitt's Sergeant, then Mike Sabara's, and wasnot Dave Pekach' s; Sergeant Eddy Frizell, in uniform, and looking a little sloppy compared to the Highway Sergeant; and Michael J. O'Hara, of theBulletin.

The Highway Sergeant got to his feet when he saw Wohl, and after a moment, Frizell followed suit.

"Good morning, Inspector," the Highway Sergeant said.

"Good morning," Wohl said. "What do you say, Mickey? You waiting to see somebody?"

"You," O'Hara said.

"Well, then, come on in," Wohl said. "You can watch me drink a cup of coffee." He turned to look at the Highway Sergeant. "Thereis coffee?"

"Yes, sir," the Sergeant said. "Sir, Chief Coughlin wants you to phone as soon as you get in."

"Get me and Mickey a cup of coffee, and then get the Chief on the line," Wohl ordered.

Captains Sabara and Pekach were in what until yesterday had been the office of the Commanding Officer of Highway Patrol, and what was now, until maybe other accommodations could be found, the office of the Commanding Officer of Special Operations Division. Sabara, who was wearing black trousers and plain shoes, and not the motorcyclist's boots of Highway, was sitting in an armchair. Pekach, who was wearing Highway boots, and a Sam Browne belt, was sitting across from him on a matching couch.

They both started to get up when they saw Wohl. He waved them back into their seats.

"Good morning," Wohl said.

"Good morning, Inspector," they both said. Wohl wondered if that was, at least on Mike Sabara's part, intended to show him that he was pissed, or whether it was in deference to the presence of Mickey O' Hara.

"Chief Coughlin wants you to call him as soon as you get in," Sabara said.

"The sergeant told me," Wohl said. "Well, anything new?"

"No van and no woman," Sabara said.

"Damn!" Peter said.

"I called the hospital just a moment ago," Pekach said. "We have two still on the critical list, one of ours and the wife. The other two, the husband and our guy, are 'stabilized' and apparently out of the woods."

The Highway Sergeant came in and handed first Wohl and then Mickey O' Hara a china mug of coffee.

"Nothing on the woman? Or the van?Nothing?" Wohl asked.

"All we have for a description is a dark van, either a Ford or a Chevy," Sabara said. "That's not much."

One of the two telephones on Wohl's desk buzzed. He looked at it to see which button was illuminated, punched it, and picked up the handset.

"Inspector Wohl," he said.

"Dennis Coughlin, Peter," Chief Coughlin said.

"Good morning, sir."

"You got anything?"

"Nothing on the van or the woman," Peter said. "Pekach just talked to the hospital. We have one civilian, the wife, and one police officer on the critical list. The husband and the other cop are apparently out of danger."

"Have you seen the paper? TheLedger, especially?"

"No, sir."

"You should have a look at it. You'll probably find it interesting," Coughlin said. "Keep me up to date, up to the moment, Peter."

"Yes, sir," Peter said.

He heard Coughlin hang the phone up.

"Has anybody seen theLedger!" Peter asked.

Pekach picked up a folded newspaper from beside him on the couch, walked across the room to Wohl's desk and laid it out for him.

There was a three-column headline, halfway down the front page, above a photograph of the wrecked cars.