"And nobody saw anything?" the mayor said, unpleasantly.

"All we can do is guess," Wohl said.

"So guess."

"Somebody came in the front door during business hours, rode the elevator down to the garage, slashed the tires, etcetera-the car is parked right by the elevator, it wouldn't have taken more than thirty seconds, a minute, tops-got back on the elevator, rode back to the lobby floor and walked out."

"The rent-a-cop in the garage didn't see anything?"

"He can't see where the car is parked."

"I don't suppose anybody bothered to check the car for prints, call the lab people?"

"I did, Mr. Mayor," Wohl said. "They took some pictures, too. Should I have them send you a set?"

"No, Peter, thank you. They would just make me sick to my stomach. I don't like these people thumbing their noses at the cops."

They all knew Jerry Carlucci well enough to recognize the signals of an impending eruption, and they all waited for it to come. It was less violent, however, than any of them expected.

"Okay. Now I'll tell you what's going to happen," he said, and pointed his finger at Dennis V. Coughlin. "You, Denny-and this should in no way be construed as a suggestion that Wohl isn't doing the job right, but he's a Staff Inspector and you're a Chief-are going to go to Intelligence and Organized Crime and light a fire under them. I said before and I'm saying now that these clowns didn't wake up one morning and say, 'Okay, today we're the Islamic Liberation Army, we're going to go out and make fools of the police and incidentally stick up a furniture store.' They came from somewhere, and I want to know where, and I want to know who the other ones of them are, the ones issuing these goddamned press releases."

"Yes, sir," Coughlin said.

The mayor turned to Matt Lowenstein. "You're the Chief Inspector of Detectives. Get out there and detect. Whatever you're doing now isn't working."

Lowenstein's face flushed, but he didn't reply.

"And you, Peter: I won't start telling you how to run Special Operations. If you're comfortable having a guy who beats up on his wife and has paranoid ideas about Bob Holland in charge of protecting the only goddamned witness we have, okay. I'm sure you're smart enough to understand that it's your ass if this goes wrong."

"Yes, sir, I understand."

"And you will, all three of you, keep Commissioner Czernick up to date on what's going on. I'm sick and tired of calling him up and having him tell me, 'I don't know, Jerry. I haven't talked to Wohl, or Lowenstein or Coughlin today.' "

"Yes, sir," the three of them replied almost in unison.

The mayor ground out his cigar in the ashtray in front of him, stood up, and walked out of the room without another word.

"When the police department looks bad," Commissioner Czernick said, " it makes all of us, but especially the mayor, look bad. I think we should all keep that in mind."

"You're right, Tad," Matt Lowenstein said. "You're absolutely right."

He turned his face so Czernick couldn't see him and winked at Coughlin and Wohl.

At just about the same time, Officer Charles McFadden looked over Officer Matthew Payne's shoulder at what was being stirred in a small stainless steel pot and offered:

"I always wondered how they made that shit."

"I gather that creamed beef is not a regular part of your diet?"

"I eat in restaurants all the time, but I never had it in a house before."

"But then, until you met me, you never knew that people had indoor toilets, did you?"

"Fuck you."

"What's his name?" Matt asked, softly, nodding toward the living room, where a large, muscular young man with a crew cut sat facing the television.

"Hartzog," Charley furnished quietly.

"You sure you don't want some of this, Hartzog?" Matt called, raising his voice. "There's more than enough."

"It's okay. I ate just before I came over," Hartzog replied.

Matt began to swirl the boiling water in another stainless steel pot.

"What the hell are you doing now?"

"I am about to poach eggs. Eggs are these unborn chickens in the obloid white containers you see in my hand."

"In there?" Charley asked, genuinely surprised as Matt skillfully cracked eggs with one hand into the swirling water.

"As you see," Matt said.

"My mother uses a little pan. It's got little cups you put the eggs in."

"Is that so?"

"I'll be damned," Charley said, peering into the pan. "That works, don't it?"

"Just about every time," Matt said. "Now, if you will be so good as to take the English muffins from the toaster-"

Matt split the English muffins, laid a half on each of two plates, ladled creamed beef on top of them, and then added, using a pierced spoon, two poached eggs on top.

"Maybe you are good for something," Charley said, taking the plates and carrying them into the living room.

Matt, using a cane, hobbled after him. He lowered himself into the arm chair and Charley handed him his plate.

"Oh, good!" Matt said. "We're in time for today's episode of Mary Trueheart, Girl Nymphomaniac."

Officer Hartzog looked at him without comprehension.

"I got the Today Show on there. Is that all right?"

"Fine," Matt said.

"Is there really such a thing?" Charley asked.

"As what?"

"As a nymphomaniac."

"Yeah, sure."

"How come I never met one?"

"They only go after men whose dicks are longer than two inches," Matt said.

"Then I guess you never met one, either, huh?"

In point of fact, I have. Or at least it could be argued that Helene' s peculiar sexual appetites might, using the term loosely, qualify her as a nymphomaniac. But somehow, Charley, I don't think you would approve if I told you about her.

"One works downstairs," Matt said. "Brunette. Name of Jasmine."

"No shit?" Charley asked, fascinated, and then saw the look on Matt's face. "Bullshit."

"There was one when I was in junior high school," Officer Hartzog said. "They caught her fucking the janitor. They arrested him and sent her off to a girl's home someplace."

The door buzzer sounded.

"Who the hell can that be?" Charley wondered aloud.

Hartzog got up and went to get his shotgun, which he had leaned against the wall at the head of the stairs. Charley went to the intercom in the kitchen.

"Who's there?"

"My name is Young."

"What can we do for you?"

"I'd like to see Matt Payne."

"What for?"

"Am I speaking with a police officer?"

"What kind of a question is that?"

"This is Special Agent Frank F. Young of the FBI. Would you let us in please?"

"I know him, Charley," Matt called. "Let him in."

Hartzog went down the stairs, two at a time, carrying his shotgun.

There was the sound of multiple footsteps on the stairs, and then Young appeared, followed by another neatly dressed, hat wearing, clean-cut man who didn't look any older than Matt or Charley.

"Hello, Matt," Young said with a smile. "I see you're in good hands."

"How are you, Mr. Young?"

What the fuck do you want?

"I apologize for the hour, but we had to be in this neck of the woods, and I thought we'd take the opportunity to drop by."

"Can we offer you coffee?"

"Love a cup. It's bitter cold out there. This is Special Agent Matthews."

Matthews walked up to Matt, offered his hand, and said, "Jack Matthews. I've wanted to meet you."

"How are you?" Matt said. "The large one is Officer Charley McFadden. The other's Officer Hartzog."

They shook hands. Hartzog put the shotgun back and sat down where he had been sitting watching television.

"Charley, will you get the FBI some coffee?"

"Yeah, sure."

"You've wanted to meet him, too, Jack," Young said. "Officer McFadden is the man who located, and ran to earth, the individual who shot Captain Moffitt."