Malone examined himself in the none-too-clear mirror on the chest of drawers. He did not especially like what he saw. Gone was the trim young cop, replaced by a lieutenant who looked like a lieutenant.

Chubby, Malone thought. Hairline retreating. A little pouchy under the eyes. Is that the beginning of a jowl?

He left his suite and walked down the narrow, dimly lit corridor to the elevator, which, after he pushed the button, announced its arrival with an alarming combination of screeches and groans.

He stopped by the desk, which was manned by a cadaverous white male in a soiled maroon sports coat. "There's no hot water."

"I know, they're working on it," the desk clerk said, without raising his eyes from the PhiladelphiaDaily News.

"If it's not fixed by the time I get home from work, I'll blow up the building," Malone said.

The desk clerk raised his eyes from theDaily News.

"I didn't know you were a cop," he said.

"Now you do. Get the hot water fixed."

Malone found his car, on the roof of which someone had left two beer cans and the remains of a slice of pizza. It was a seven-year-old Ford Mustang. There had once been two cars registered in his name, the other a 1972 Ford station wagon. Ellen now had that.

I should have the station wagon. And I should have the house. She was the one fucking around. She should be living in that goddamned hotel and driving this piece of shit.

Look on the bright side. No alimony. And, what the hell, she needed something to carry Little Jack around in.

He knocked the beer cans and pizza off the roof and got in. He went east to North Broad Street, and then out North Broad to Roosevelt Boulevard. Eight blocks down Roosevelt Boulevard he made a lane change that did not meet the standards of a brother police officer.

There was the growl of a siren, and when he looked in the mirror, he saw a cop waving him over.

A Highway Patrol car. Only Highway RPCs had two cops in them.

He nodded his head to show that he understood the order, and as soon as he could safely do so pulled to the side.

The Highway Patrolman swaggered over to the Mustang, only at the last moment noticing that there was a gold bar on the epaulets of Malone's blue jacket.

"Good morning, sir," the Highway Patrolman said.

"Good morning."

"Lieutenant, your turn signal's inoperative. I thought you'd like to know."

"Yes. Thank you very much. I'll have it checked."

The Highway Patrolman saluted and walked back to his car.

Malone moved the turn signal lever.

The goddamn thing really is broken. Did I use the sonofabitch, and it didn't work, or was I just weaving through traffic in this rusty piece of shit, and he stopped me for that?

Moot point, Lieutenant. Either today, or tomorrow, or the day after that, one of those two guys is going to see me at Bustleton and Bowler, and I will become universally known as the New Lieutenant Who Drives Not Only Recklessly But in a Real Piece of Shit of an Ancient Mustang.

Malone hadn't been to Highway Patrol Headquarters, at Bustleton and Bowler Streets, not far from the North Philadelphia Airport, in a long time. It had been busy then, he remembered, because it shared the building with the headquarters of the 7^th District, but it had been nothing like it was now.

There were the cars and vans of the 7^th District; the cars and motorcycles of Highway Patrol; a flock of cars, marked and unmarked, that obviously belonged to Special Operations; and even a stakeout van. His hope of finding a parking space reserved for LIEUTENANTS or even OFFICIAL VISITORS had been wishful thinking. He had trouble just driving through the parking lot. The only empty space he saw was marked RESERVED FOR COMMISSIONER.

He drove around the block and tried again. This time a turnkey (an officer assigned to make himself useful in the parking lot) waved him down and pointed out a parking spot reserved for a sergeant.

It was crowded inside too, but finally he managed to give his name to a sergeant at a desk just inside a door marked HEADQUARTERS, SPECIAL

OPERATIONS.

"Welcome to the circus, Lieutenant," the sergeant said. "I saw the teletype. The inspector's office is through that door."

On the other side of the door was a small room, barely large enough for the two desks it held back-to-back. One of them was not occupied. There was a sign on it, CAPTAIN MICHAEL J. SABARA.

There was a young plainclothes cop at the other one. When he saw Malone he stood up.

"Lieutenant Malone?"

"Right."

"The inspector's expecting you, sir. I'll see if he's free."

"Thank you."

The plainclothes cop stuck his head in an interior door, and Malone heard his name spoken.

Then the door opened and Staff Inspector Peter Wohl came out. Malone had seen him around before, but now he was surprised to see how young he was.

He's no older than I am. And not only a staff inspector, but a division commander. Is he really that good? Or is it pull?

"I'm Inspector Wohl, Lieutenant," Wohl said. "Now that I see you, I know we've met, but I can't remember where."

"Yes, sir."

"I hate to make you cool your heels, but I've got something that really won't wait. Officer Payne will get you a cup of coffee. Be careful he doesn't pour it in your lap."

"Yes, sir."

Payne? Oh, hell, yes! This is the kid who blew the brains out of the Northwest serial rapist.

Wohl disappeared behind his door again.

"How do you take your coffee, Lieutenant?"

"In a cup, please, if that's convenient," Malone said.

"Yes, sir," Payne said, chuckling.

"I don't know why I said that," Malone said. "I wasn't trying to be a smart-ass."

"I think you'll be right at home around here, Lieutenant," Payne said.

Payne went to a coffee machine sitting on top of a file cabinet and a moment later handed Malone a steaming china cup.

"There's sugar and what is euphemistically known as non-dairy creamer," he said.

"Black's fine," Malone said. "Thank you."

He remembered a story that had gone around the Department about the time Captain Dutch Moffitt had been shot, and Special Operations had been formed and given to Peter Wohl.

Dutch Moffitt's deputy had been a well-liked lieutenant named Mike Sabara. It was presumed that, after the scumbag killed Dutch, Mike Sabara would take over as Highway commander. Instead, the job went to newly promoted Captain Dave Pekach. Sabara was named Wohl's deputy commander of Special Operations. It quickly went around Highway that Wohl had told Sabara he could either wear plainclothes or a regular uniform, but he didn't want to see him in Highway breeches and boots. And then Wohl had announced a new recruiting policy for Highway, outstanding young cops who didn't have four, five years on the job. The first two "probationary" Highway Patrolmen were the two Narcs who got the critter who killed Captain Moffitt.

The idea that just anybody could get into Highway had enraged most Highway Patrolmen.

Well, maybe the two guys who caught the scumbag who shot down Captain Dutch Moffitt were entitled to a little special treatment, but letting just about anybody in Highway A delegation, someone had told Malone, three Highway sergeants and two long-time Highway Patrolmen, went to see Captain Sabara: Couldn't Sabara have a word with Wohl and tell him how what he was doing was really going to fuck Highway up? Nothing against the inspector personally; it's just that he just doesn'tknow aboutHighway.

Captain Sabara, a phlegmatic man, announced he would think about it.

Two days later one of the sergeants who had gone to Captain Sabara to ask him if he could have a word with Staff Inspector Wohl had to go see Captain Sabara again. His emotional state was mingled fury and gross embarrassment.