“Yes, Mr. Mayor,” Mrs. Cossino said.

“Henry,” Lowenstein said into the telephone. “When they bring in the critter from the Thirty-ninth, handcuff him to a chair in an interview room and leave him there until Washington shows up. Wohl’s putting the arm out for him now. I think that’s the way to handle the interview, and the Mayor agrees.”

He hung the phone up and turned to face Carlucci.

“Are you pissed at me, Matt?” Carlucci, sounding genuinely concerned, asked.

“When am I not pissed at you?” Lowenstein said. “It goes with the territory.”

“You don’t think it was a good idea?”

“That’s the trouble. I think it was a very good idea,” Lowenstein said.

“Sergeant Washington is en route to the Roundhouse, Mr. Mayor,” Wohl repeated.

“Great!” Carlucci said enthusiastically. Then he smiled broadly. “Let’s do this all over.”

“What?” Lowenstein asked in confusion.

“Well, Chief Lowenstein,” Carlucci said, and grabbed Lowenstein’s hand and pumped it. “And Inspector Wohl! How good of you both to come see me! It’s always a pleasure to see two of the most valuable members of the Police Department here in my office. Come in and have a cup of coffee and tell me how I may be of assistance!”

Lowenstein shook his head in resignation.

“Jesus Christ!”

“What can I do for you, Chief?”

“Stop the bullshit, Jerry,” Lowenstein said, chuckling.

“OK,” Carlucci said agreeably. “What’s up?”

“Last night, a couple of South detectives saw one John Francis Foley pass a package to one Gerald North Atchison. Shortly thereafter, Detective Payne of Special Operations saw Mr. Atchison throw said package off a pier in Chester-”

“How did South detectives get involved in this?” Carlucci asked, and Wohl saw that he had slipped back into being a cop.

“Payne was surveilling Atchison. He ran into the South detectives and asked for their assistance.”

“OK,” Carlucci said thoughtfully. “Go on.”

“The package was retrieved early this morning by a police diver. The lab just came up with a positive ballistics match to the murder weapons.”

“Fingerprints?”

Lowenstein shook his head. “Weapons were cleaned. I thought I’d show it to you before I sent someone over to Tom Callis’s office with it.”

“Let me see,” Carlucci said, holding out his hand.

Lowenstein handed the Mayor an envelope. Carlucci made a “come in” gesture with his hand, walked ahead of them into his office, sat down at his desk, and opened the envelope.

Carlucci carefully stuffed the report back into its envelope, then looked at Lowenstein.

“It may be enough,” Carlucci said. “It is for an arrest, anyway.”

“I thought so,” Lowenstein said. “I’ll have it sent to Callis within the hour.”

“What the hell, Matt,” Carlucci said. “I mean, you’re right here in the neighborhood, right’? Why don’t you, both of you, take this to Tom? See if he has any problems with it? Give him my very best regards when you do.”

James Howard Leslie had been sitting in the steel captain’s chair in the Homicide Unit interview room, handcuffed to its seat, for almost an hour when the door opened and a very large, important-looking black man walked in.

No one had spoken to him during that time, nor had anyone so much as opened the door to look at him. He suspected that he was being watched through the somewhat fuzzy mirror on the wall, but he couldn’t be sure.

“James Howard Leslie?” the black man asked.

Leslie didn’t reply.

“Good afternoon,” Jason Washington said. “If you’d like, I can remove the handcuff.”

“I don’t give a fuck one way or the other.”

Washington unlocked the handcuff and stood back. Leslie rubbed his wrist.

“I don’t even know what the fuck’s going on,” Leslie said.

“You’ve been in here some time, I understand.” Washington said. “Is there anything I can get for you’? Would you like a Coca-Cola, a cup of coffee, a sandwich?”

“What I would like is to know what the hell is going on. All I did was try to burn some garbage.”

“I understand. That’s why I’m here, to explain to you what’s going on. And while we’re talking, would you like a Coca-Cola, or a cigarette?”

“I could drink a Coke.”

Washington opened the door. “Sergeant,” he ordered sternly, “would you please get a Coca-Cola for Mr. Leslie?”

Leslie heard someone reply.

“Fuck him! Let the fucking cop killer drink water!”

“I said get him a Coca-Cola.”

“Whose side are you on, anyway?” the voice said.

“That wasn’t a suggestion, it was an order,” Washington said sharply.

Two minutes later, a slight, dapper man with a pencil-thin mustache entered the interview room with a Coca-Cola, thrust it into Leslie’s hand with such violence that liquid erupted from the neck of the bottle and spilled on Leslie’s shirt and trousers.

The slight, dapper man then left the interview room. Just before the door slammed shut, Leslie heard the man say, “Fuck Special Operations, too.”

Washington handed Leslie a crisp white handkerchief to clean his shirt and trousers.

“He and Officer Kellog were friends,” Washington said, in explanation.

“What?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Washington said. He leaned on the wall by the door, waited until Leslie had finished mopping at himself and started to return the handkerchief.

“Keep it,” Washington said. “You may need it again.”

“Thanks,” Leslie said.

“As I understand what’s happened here,” Washington said conversationally, “Officer Bailey of the Thirty-ninth District extinguished a fire in your backyard. In doing so, he found a photograph of Officer Kellog on his wedding day.”

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. Officer who?”

“The finding of the photograph was, in the opinion of the Honorable Francis X. McGrory, Judge of the Superior Court, sufficient cause for him to issue a search warrant for your home.”

“I told you, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“A search of your home was then conducted by detectives of the Homicide Bureau. A silver frame was discovered. It has since been positively identified by Mrs. Helene Kellog as her property. Mrs. Kellog previously reported the framed photograph to have been stolen from her home.”

“So what?”

“Mrs. Kellog’s husband, Police Officer Jerome H. Kellog, was found dead in his home. Shot to death. Inasmuch as his silver-framed wedding photograph was known to be present in his home prior to the robbery, and missing from his home immediately after the robbery, it is presumed that the framed photograph was stolen during the robbery.”

“So what?”

“During the search authorized by Judge McGrory, Homicide detectives found other items among those things you were attempting to burn known to be the property of Police Officer Kellog. Specifically, thirteen recording tapes. And some other items.”

“I keep telling you, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“Mr. Leslie, you are presently being held for setting an unlawful fire,” Washington said. “And, I believe, for maintaining an unsanitary nuisance.”

“Then what the fuck am I doing here?”

“Very shortly, I think you can count on a Homicide detective coming in here and arresting you for the murder of Officer Kellog. I came here to see if I could explain your situation to you.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“If you are arrested for the murder of Officer Kellog, you will receive the required Miranda warning. I understand you have been arrested before, and know what that means. You will be advised of your rights, and provided with an attorney.”

“Who the hell are you’?”

“I’m a police officer, an investigator for the Special Operations Division. We are sometimes asked, in cases like this, to see if we can’t get through a situation like this as smoothly as possible To save everyone concerned time and money.”