"Maybe we'll get lucky," Olsen said.

"I have the feeling this will happen tonight," Olsen said.

"Then get Sergeant Whatsisname off the job."

"Framm. He's gone. I have a suggestion, or maybe I'm asking for a favor…"

"Either way, what?"

"Sergeant O'Dowd. Can I have him?"

"Sure," Wohl replied after a just perceptible hesitation. "Can I make a suggestion?"

"Of course."

"Have somebody, preferably two men, on both Lanza's house and the girlfriend's apartment, from right now until whatever happens with the fruit basket happens."

"That may take two or three days, longer."

"So what? I don't want this to go wrong. Maybe wecan catch Rosselli or Baltazari too."

"I don't suppose there's anybody else you could let me have?"

"Not until we catch this fruitcake who wants to disintegrate the Vice President."

"How's that going?"

"At eight o'clock, we may or may not take a couple of doors behind which he may or may not be hiding. Not well, in other words."

"I'll handle the Lanza thing myself if it comes down to that. If I haven't forgotten how to surveil somebody."

"I'll send Tony Harris down to you. I'll have him call you. You tell him when and where. I really would like to put one of these Mafiosos in the slam with our dirty cop."

"Thank you," Olsen said.

"I didn't hear anything you said about an illegal tap, Swede. The bacon was burning or something."

"Thank you, Peter."

TWENTY-EIGHT

At 7:25 a.m., as they sat in a nearly new Ford sedan in the 1100 block of Farragut Street, a very large, expensively tailored police officer turned to a somewhat smaller, but equally expensively tailored police officer and smiled.

"You are really quite dapper this morning, Matthew, my boy," Sergeant Jason Washington said approvingly. "I like that suit. Tripler?"

"Brooks Brothers. Just following orders. Sergeant: You told me to dress like a lawyer."

"And so you have. But despite looking like one of the more successful legal counsel to the Mafioso, somehow I suspect that all is not perfect in your world. Is there anything I can do?"

"Things are not, as a matter of fact, getting better and better, every day, in every way," Matt said.

"My question, Matthew, my boy, was, 'Is there anything I can do?'"

"I wish there were," Matt said.

"Try me," Washington said. "What is the precise nature of your problem? Anaffaire de coeur, perhaps?"

"A couple of undercover guys from Narcotics arrested Penny Detweiler last night, as she was cruising in the vicinity of Susquehanna and Bouvier."

The joking tone was gone from Washington's voice when he replied, replaced with genuine concern.

"Damn! I'm sorry to hear that. I'd hoped that-what was that place they sent her? In Nevada?-would help her."

"The Lindens. Apparently the fix didn't take."

"What have they charged her with?"

"Nothing. They picked her up for drunk driving before she was able to make her connection. She gave them my name. They couldn't find me, but they knew that Charley McFadden and I are close, so they took her to Northwest Detectives, and he got them to turn her loose to me."

"Aside from trying to make a buy, there is no other reason I can think of that she would be in that area," Washington said.

"No, there's not. She was trying to make a buy. And according to McFadden, if the undercover guys hadn't taken her in, she'd probably have had her throat cut."

"If she was lucky," Washington said. "I'm sorry, Matt. That slipped out. But McFadden is right. Where is she now?"

"I took her to my sister. My sister the shrink."

"Iadmire your sister," Washington said. "That was the thing to do."

"William Seven," the radio went off. "William One."

Matt grabbed the microphone.

"Seven," he said.

"It's that time," Wohl's voice metallically announced.

Matt looked at Washington, who nodded.

"On our way," Matt said into the microphone.

They got out of the Ford. Washington opened the trunk and took out a briefcase, and then a second, and handed one to Matt.

They walked up Farragut Street, hoping they looked like two successful real estate salesmen beginning their day early, crossed the intersection, and walked halfway down the block.

There they climbed the stairs of a house, crossed the porch, and rang the doorbell.

They could hear footsteps inside but it was a long minute before the door was finally opened to them by a woman of maybe thirty-five, obviously caught three quarters of the way through getting dressed for work.

"Yes, what is it?" she asked, somewhat shy of graciously, looking with curiosity between them.

Washington held out his identification.

"Madam, I'm Sergeant Washington of the Police Department and this is Detective Payne. We would very much like a moment of your time. May we please come in?"

The woman turned and raised her voice.

"Bernie, it's the cops!"

"The cops?" an incredulous voice replied.

A moment later Bernie, a very thin, stylishly dressed, or halfdressed, man appeared.

"Sir, I'm Sergeant Washington of the Police Department and this is Detective Payne. We would very much like a moment of your time. May we please come in?"

"Yeah, sure. Come on in. Is something the matter?"

"Thank you very much," Jason Washington said. "You're Mr. and Mrs. Crowne, is that right?"

"I'm Bernie Crowne," Bernie said.

The woman colored slightly.

You are not, I deduce brilliantly, Matt thought, Mrs. Crowne.

"Say, my wife's not behind this is she? My ex-wife?" Bernie Crowne asked.

"No, sir. This inquiry has to do with your neighbor, Mr. Wheatley."

"Marion?" Bernie asked. "What about him?"

"We've been trying to get in touch with Mr. Wheatley for several days now, Mr. Crowne, and we can't seem to catch him at home."

"What did he do? Rob a bank?"

"Oh, no. Nothing like that. Actually, we're not even sure we have the right Mr. Wheatley. There has been a fire in New Jersey, at a summer place, in what they call the Pine Barrens. The New Jersey State Police are trying to locate the owner. And they don't have a first name."

"Bullshit," Mr. Crowne said. "They don't send sergeants and detectives out to do that. My brother is a lieutenant in the 9^th District, Sergeant. So you tell me what this is all about, or I'll call him, and he'll find out."

"Call him," Washington said flatly. "If he has any questions about what I'm doing here, tell him to call Chief Inspector Lowenstein."

Bernie looked at Washington for a moment.

"Okay. So go on. Marion's got a house in Jersey that burned down?"

"Do you have any idea where we could find Mr. Wheatley?"

"He works somewhere downtown. In a bank, I think."

"And Mrs. Wheatley?"

"There is no Mrs. Wheatley," the woman said.

Bernie held his hand at the level of his neck and made a waving motion with it, and then let his wrist fall limp.

"You don'tknow that, Bernie," the woman said.

"If it walks like a duck, quacks like a duck, right, Sergeant?"

"Most of the time," Washington agreed.

"Say," the woman said suddenly, triumphantly, pointing at Matt. "I thought you looked familiar. I know who you are! You're the detective who shot the Liberation Army,Islamic Liberation Army guy in the alley, aren't you?"

"Actually," Matt said, "the ILA guy shot me."

"Yeah," Bernie said. "Butthen you shothim, and killed the bastard. My brother, the lieutenant, thinks you're all right. You know Lieutenant Harry Crowne?"

"I'm afraid not," Matt said.

"Harry and I are old pals," Jason Washington said. "But can we talk about Mr. Wheatley now?"

"Well, I'll tell you this," the woman said. "The one thing Marion isn't is some Islamic nut. He's Mr. Goody Two Shoes. I don't know if he's what Bernie thinks he is, but he's not some revolutionary. He wouldn't hurt a fly."