"Me too. I did too," Charley McFadden said.

"What Officer McFadden is suggesting is that Matthews, the FBI guy, reported our interest to his superiors," Matt explained.

"'Our interest'?" Carlucci snapped. "Just what is 'our interest'?"

"We think Mr. Holland is involved in at least the sale of stolen automobiles," Matt said.

" 'We'? Who's 'we'?"

"Officer McFadden and myself," Matt said.

"On one hand, coming from two rookies with an exaggerated opinion of themselves, that's probably bullshit," the mayor said. "But on the other hand, the FBI wouldn't be trying to tell us to butt out unless they were onto something. Peter, you sure you don't know anything about this?"

The door buzzer went off, sparing Wohl having to reply.

"Who's there?"

"Lowenstein."

"Be right there."

"Peter," the mayor said. "I think it would be very embarrassing to the Police Department if the FBI came up with a case against Bob Holland that we didn't know anything about. You take my meaning?"

"No, sir."

"I mean I want you to find out what these two hotshots of yours think they know."

"And give it to Major Crime?

"No. Give it to me," Carlucci said, "either these two are imagining things, or Major Crime isn't doing their job."

He then turned his attention to the stairwell, in which a moment later Chief Inspector Matt Lowenstein's head and shoulders appeared.

"Matt," the mayor greeted him, "There better be a goddamn good reason for all this goddamn mystery."

Thirty minutes later, the mayor said, in quiet fury, "What you're telling me is that both the guy who killed Monahan with the stun gun, and two guys with him,and the miserable sonofabitch out of Bustleton and Bowler are going to get away with it? Everything?"

"We can't go to court with this, Jerry," Lowenstein said. "You can see that."

"On the bright side," Chief Inspector Dennis V. Coughlin said, "the Grand Jury will return a true bill against the doers of the Goldblatt job. And Tom Callis is convinced that he can get convictions."

"On thedim side, there isnothing lower than a cop who would do something like this, and the sonofabitch is going to get away with it!"

He glowered, in turn, at Chief Inspectors Lowenstein and Coughlin and Staff Inspector Wohl, all of whom, in turn, shrugged.

"JesusChrist!" the mayor said in frustration.

"Or," Peter Wohl said. "We could just leave him where he is and watch him."

The mayor considered that a moment before replying. "No. Go ahead with this. I'll clear it with Czernick."

"Yes, sir," Wohl said.

"Maybe that's not smart, but I can't stand the thought of this bastard walking around in a Highway uniform," the mayor said. "Highway means something to me."

"It means something to me too," Peter Wohl heard himself say.

Jesus,he realized with genuine surprise,I really meant that.

Sergeant Jason Washington sat slouched behind the wheel of his car until he saw Sergeant Wilson Carter pull into the parking lot. Then he sat up and watched as Carter parked his car. He got out of his car and walked toward the side entrance of the building, timing himself so that he arrived there a few seconds before Carter.

"I was hoping to run into you," he said to Carter.

"Well, hey, Brother. How they hanging? What's on your mind?"

"Let's have a beer," Washington said.

"One,"Carter said, after a just perceptible hesitation. "I have plans."

"Sure. I understand. But there's a couple of questions I'd like to ask you."

"What kind of questions?"

"More like advice questions, about what I should do about something."

"Well, then, hell, yes."

"I thought Hellman's? They have booths in the back."

"Give me thirty minutes to check out and I'll meet you there."

"Thanks, Carter, I appreciate it," Washington said, touched Carter's arm, and walked back to his car.

When Sergeant Carter walked into the back room of Hellman's Restaurant, he found Sergeant Jason Washington already there, sitting alone in a booth, his massive hand wrapped around a glass of whiskey.

"You must have a problem," Carter said as he slipped into the bench across from Washington. "Beer, little problem, whiskey, big problem."

"Big problem," Washington agreed.

Carter glanced around the room, looking for a waitress. He couldn't see one, but he saw a familiar face in another booth.

"Richard Kallanan's over there," he said, waving.

Kallanan took his hand from his glass of whiskey long enough to wave back.

A waitress appeared from the barroom. Carter waved to catch her attention.

"Cutty Sark, on the rocks," Carter ordered. "You ready, Jason?"

"Might as well."

"I thought Kallanan was one of those straight home to the wife and kiddies types," Carter said. "I don't think I've ever seen him in here before."

"I don't think he comes in here often," Washington said. "Tonight's sort of special."

"What?"

"You want to know what Kallanan's thinking right now, Carter?"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"He's thinking, 'Christ, why didn't I recognize Carter in that car?'

"

"What car would that be, Washington?"

"The car normally driven by Foster Lewis's boy, the kid we call ' Tiny,'" Washington said. "The one you drove to Monahan's house."

"That sounds like an accusation, Washington."

"Statement of fact. We picked your prints off the plastic behind the front seat. You know where I mean? Where it's flat on top? You must have touched it when you got in. Or maybe when you reached for the seat belt. We got a match on your pinky, ring and index fingers."

"I don't know what the fuck you're up to, but you could probably find my prints on half the unmarked cars in the parking lot."

"We also got your prints, heel of the hand and four fingers, on the hood of Matt Payne's pretty little Porsche."

"I must have rested my hand on it when I looked down at the tire."

"More likely when you stabbed the tires," Washington said.

"You don't really believe that?"

"Yes, I do."

"You're out of your fucking mind, Washington!"

"Kallanan is a very interesting man," Washington said. "Did you know that he's a lay reader in the Episcopal Church?"

"So what?"

"So he told me that he has to be very careful about not bearing false witness."

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning he's worried about the power of suggestion. In other words, he's afraid that when I asked him if it could have been you driving that car, and he said,'Oh, yes. That's who it was,' he's afraid that the reason he now recognizes youis because I asked him if it could have been you."

"What the hell is going on here? Are you that fucking desperate? You come up with a couple of matched prints-How many other prints matched?"

"Four sets," Washington said. "And there were prints from two people in that car that don't match any of anybody in Special Operations. We' re now running them against every cop in the Department. That'll take a long time, there's six thousand odd cops. I frankly will be surprised if we get a match, but you never know."

"I think I've had enough of this bullshit conversation," Carter said, and stood up and took a wad of money from his pocket.

"How do you think you're going to like it in the 6^th District?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You're being transferred, tomorrow, to the 6^th District. Where you will work for Lieutenant Foster H. Lewis, Sr."

"I don't know what the fuck you think you're doing, or who the hell you think you are, Washington, but I will not take a transfer to the 6^th Division or anywhere else."