He was surprised at how reasonable she sounded. 'Look, what do you want?'

'You, Mr Barry, that's what I want. Dead, of course.'

She rang off. Barry went to the cupboard, got a bottle of Paddy Whiskey, and poured one. It scalded the back of his mouth. When he lit another cigarette, his hand was shaking. She wasn't going to go away, that was obvious, so he phoned the Connection.

'Look, I didn't tell you everything about the Cohan business.'

Thornton said, 'Well, you'd better do it now.' Which Barry did. When he was finished, Thornton said, 'Tell me again what she said about her son.'

Barry thought for a moment. 'She said I butchered her son in Ulster three years ago, and executed his friends, four others, including a woman.'

'Does that strike a chord with you?'

'For God's sake, I've been at war for years. You want to know how many people I've killed?'

'Okay, okay. Just leave it with me. There may be a link here. I'll check it out.'

Blake had his car drop him in front of Cohan's house on Park Avenue, but on the other side of the street. He sat there reading the scene-of-crime reports. It was all pretty straightforward. It had been after midnight, heavy rain clearing the streets.

He tried to imagine the scene, as he looked across at Cohan's place: dark, wet, not much of a struggle because the pathologist's report indicated instant death in both cases, and then he frowned. There was an anomaly here. He turned to the pathology report and examined it quickly. Victim One, blood group O. Victim Two, blood group A. The only trouble was that there were traces of another blood group on Victim Two's shirt, this time B.

So, there was a third party involvement, some sort of a struggle. Could that have been the killer? Blake frowned. For some reason, he didn't buy that. The way the two guys had been shot had been so instantly effective, so ruthless. Why would there have been a struggle? He frowned again. Unless there had been another person. Four persons, not three.

He decided to try and get the perspective from the pavement, a different viewpoint. 'Go back to police headquarters and wait for me there,' he told his driver. 'I'll get a cab. Just hand me the umbrella.'

The driver did as he was told and drove away, as Blake opened the umbrella. So, it was night and she was waiting for Cohan to return home from some function or other. Where would you wait? This side of the street, not the other, because from here you got a clear view, from here a halfway decent shot was possible.

He turned and looked behind. Plenty of doorways to stand in concealed by the shadows. So what happened? What went wrong? To hell with it, Blake thought, took out a pack of Marlboros and lit one. This wasn't a time to give up smoking. He inhaled deeply and that damn March rain dripped from the umbrella.

The two victims were in the alley, probably sheltering from the rain. They shouldn't have been there, not at such a time and in such an area. So, I'm the killer, Blake thought, and I'm waiting here for Cohan, so what went wrong? He looked across at Cohan's house, and at that moment, a young couple came around the corner further along Park Avenue, huddled under an umbrella. Blake watched them go, move past the alley, walk to the next corner and disappear.

'That's it,' he said softly. 'Just as I thought. Someone walked into something. The wrong place at the wrong time.'

So, the individual with the B blood group had left the scene, God knows in what condition, and to where?

Blake crossed the street and paused at the alley. So, say someone was running, which way would they go? Right or left? What the hell, he would go to the left first, for no better reason than that's the way the young couple had gone.

He lit another cigarette and walked steadily along the sidewalk in the rain, turned the corner and carried on for another block, passing offices, the occasional boutique, all of which would have been closed after midnight.

'But not that place,' he said softly, looking across the intersection. 'They never close.'

The sign said St Mary's Hospital. It was private and a large painted board offered a range of services including ambulance, accident, and emergency.

'So here we are,' Blake said. 'It's the early hours of the morning, it's raining and you're bleeding. Now where would you go?'

He moved into a doorway, got his mobile phone out and called Harry Parker. 'Harry, I need you.'

'Have you got something?'

'Let's say my nose is twitching, and if I'm right, I need a police presence.'

'So where are you?' Blake told him. 'Fine, I'll see you soon.'

When Parker and Blake went into the emergency room of St Mary's, they found it surprisingly luxurious; fitted carpets, comfortable chairs, calming music. The duty nurse at reception wore a uniform which could have been designed by Armani, and probably had been.

'Gentlemen?' She was slightly wary. 'Can I help you?'

Harry flashed his gold badge. 'Captain Parker, N YPD. I need some information. It's tied to a murder investigation.'

'Then I'd better get our Chief Administrator, Mr Schofield.'

'You do that, honey,' Harry said.

Schofield wore a blue chalk-striped suit, and looked tanned and fit. They sat in his rather sumptuous office and Blake told him all he needed to know. That there had been a double shooting not too far away, and that there was a possibility of a third person injured to some degree or another.

'Sounds important,' Schofield said.

'Yes, well, my friend here is FBI, that's how important it is,' Harry Parker told him.

'So what do you want from me?'

Blake reached for a memo pad and scribbled a date. 'The early morning of that day. Did you get anyone coming into the ER sometime after midnight, bleeding?'

'There's a question of patient confidentiality here, gentlemen.'

'And there's the question of a presidential warrant here.' Blake produced the document and presented it.

Schofield said, 'Jesus. Okay, let's take a look.'

At the desk, he looked through the admissions book, then nodded. 'There was a patient noted here. Name of Jean Wiley. Booked in at one-fifteen a.m. on the indicated date. Her face was cut. The night intern handled it, Dr Bryant.'

The lady receptionist said, 'Dr Bryant is on duty today, Mr Schofield. I saw him going down to the cafeteria.'

'Fine,' Parker said. 'Just point the way, Mr Schofield.'

Bryant was around thirty, slightly overweight, with glasses, dark curling hair and a beard. He was sitting at a corner table eating French bread and soup.

He looked up. 'Schofield, my man, what are you trying to sell me?'

'These gentlemen would like a word with you.' He turned to them. 'Dr Bryant graduated top of his class from Harvard Medical School. We're lucky to have him. Do bear that in mind, won't you?'

'Oh, Clarence,' Bryant said. 'Stop stroking me. Now what is this?'

So Parker introduced himself and Blake, got rid of Schofield, and told him. Parker said to Bryant, 'You know something about this, I know you do.'

'Okay, I'm thinking about it.'

Blake said, 'I'll get you some coffee.'

'Tea, man, tea. I spent three years at Guy's Hospital in London, got a taste for it. English Breakfast.'

Blake got the tea, and returned to find Bryant crumpling an empty cigarette pack. Blake took out his Marlboros. 'I thought you doctors were against tobacco?'

'Are you denying me my rights?'

'So let's get to those really lousy early morning shifts and someone called Jean Wiley coming in off the street. What was that problem?'

'Her face had been cut, not too badly, but by a knife unmistakably.'

'Did you ask for details?' Parker said.

'Of course. She said she'd slipped and cut her face in the kitchen.'

'Balls, would you say?' Blake asked.