THE REFS WERE in various states of undress and they were all looking at us. Fred calmly said, "Kenny, Lance, I need to see you both for a moment."

Kenny Owen was buttoning his black-and-white-striped shirt. He put his foot on a bench and tied a shoelace.

"Outside," Fred said. "I mean now."

Lance Richter's sunburned complexion paled, but he and Kenny Owen went through the door, and Fred closed it behind them.

We five formed a huddle a dozen yards away from the refs' locker room. Fred said, "There's no easy way. We can do this hard or we can do it harder."

"What are you talking about, Fred?" Owen asked, playing dumb and doing it rather well.

"We've got the whole revolting fix on tape, you pathetic assholes. Jack, show them the pictures you took at the Beverly Hills."

I had printed stills from the video of Owen and Richter's meeting with Anthony Marzullo, had them in an envelope inside my breast pocket.

I took out the pictures, sorted through them, and put the money shot right on top.

Richter saw the photo of him and Owen holding stacks of money, sitting across a coffee table from the boss of the Chicago Mob.

I smelled urine, saw the front of Richter's pants get wet. He blurted, "I had to go along with it. It was go along with Kenny or lose my job."

Owen snarled. "You pussy."

Fred went on, "Don't waste time giving me bull, Richter. I don't care why anyway."

"This was the first time," Owen said. "Have a heart, Fred. You can't make money working this job."

"Ken. Did you hear me say I had it on tape? Marzullo says, 'Here's twenty percent down. As per usual.' Listen to me. Newman and Dix are in my office. Dix would like to take you out to the desert and shoot you both. He'd do it too. Newman wants to run for Congress. He'd like to have you arrested right now, which would partially protect the NFL's reputation-and destroy the game.

"I see it differently, and my partners trust my instincts. If you've got any brains at all, these are your options. Now listen."

The two refs stared unblinkingly as Fred continued.

"Plan A. You go back into the locker room, say that you were seen having dinner with a couple of players, you can't say who. That's a league violation, with a termination penalty.

"Here's Plan B. I take our video of you accepting a payoff from Marzullo to the commissioner. The integrity of the game goes under the microscope. All the games you officiated in your depraved little lives will be examined.

"You'll be arrested and charged with criminal conspiracy, and the story will be news across the country overnight and for years to come.

"The Marzullos will be charged with racketeering, and your lives won't be worth a hangnail either in jail or out.

"Frankly, I wouldn't bet a buck on your lives right now. You've got three hours at the most to disappear. When the Marzullos don't see you on the field, the word's gonna go out. When the game doesn't go the way the Marzullos expect, you're marked men. I don't think your bodies will ever be found."

Kenny Owen's eyes were huge and wet. He paraphrased what Fred had fed him. "We had dinner with some players, but I can't say who because it wasn't their fault. It was stupid. We went for the free steak and broke the rules. Please accept our resignation."

Fred said, "Empty your lockers and get the hell out of here. Run."

Ten minutes later, Fred, Newman, and Dix marched the new refs into the officials' locker room. As predicted, the Titans hammered the Raiders, 52 to 21, beating the spread by 14.

I took the video back to Private and locked it in the vault where a lot of other secrets were kept. If Fred ever needed it, I'd have it for him.

But I kept the still shots of Spano, Marzullo, and the refs in my pocket. I had a clever idea. But I couldn't tell anyone about it yet.

IT WAS THREE FIFTY on that same Sunday afternoon.

Justine and Nora Cronin had been parked outside Rudolph Crocker's white stucco three-story apartment building on Via Marina since eight in the morning. The two of them weren't exactly friends yet, but no blows had been struck either.

Justine had clipped a "little ears" parabolic dish to the window of the car. She and Nora had listened to Crocker's morning bathroom noises and later Meet the Press, accompanied by Crocker's running, ranting commentary.

At a few minutes before two, Crocker had left the building in shorts and a T-shirt, and Nora and Justine got their first live view of the twenty-three-year-old who might have murdered more than a dozen girls.

"Doesn't look like much," Nora grumbled.

"He isn't. He's just scum, Nora."

Crocker went for a run up Admiralty Way, with Justine and Nora following behind him at a safe distance in one of Private's standard-issue gray Crown Victorias.

After returning home, Crocker took a shower, singing "Unbreak My Heart" off-key but with meaning. He watched CNN's Your Money, and then everything inside his front-facing apartment went quiet. Justine guessed that Crocker might have been working on his computer. Or maybe he'd gone back to sleep.

"Is he in for the frickin' night?" Nora fretted. "I thought this guy needed excitement."

"Lean back. Close your eyes," Justine said. "If he is, then so are we."

"I can't catnap in a car. You?"

"How do you like your coffee? There's a deli at the corner. I'm buying."

At just after five, Crocker emerged from his apartment building again, this time in a smart blue blazer over a pink shirt, gray slacks, and loafers that looked like they cost a lot.

He walked to a late-model blue Sienna minivan parked at the end of Bora Bora and got inside. He backed out smoothly, then turned up Via Marina.

Justine was a professional stalker and she was good at it. She followed Crocker's van, staying two to three car lengths behind him.

She almost lost him when a light changed, but Justine gunned the engine and blew through the light.

"Son of a bitch," Cronin murmured. "Did he make us?"

"Don't know," said Justine. "We'll find out soon."

They entered Westwood on Westwood Boulevard and cruised onto Hilgard. They saw Crocker pull into a driveway, leave his keys and van with a valet, then take the stairs into the lobby of the W Hotel.

The bar, located at the corner of the building, was visible through the plate glass windows on two sides.

"He's going to the Whiskey Blue," Justine said. "It's a pickup joint for richy singles. Perfect for our purposes, really."

Their agreed-upon mission was narrow and very precise. They weren't going to confront Rudolph Crocker. They weren't going to arrest him. They didn't even want to meet his eyes, though Justine wouldn't have minded scratching them out.

They just needed a smear of saliva, a microscopic sample of skin cells, a hair, or a flake of dandruff. That was all it would take.

Easier said than done, though.

"How do I look?" Nora asked Justine.

"Adorable. Use this."

Justine took a lipstick out of her bag and handed it to Nora while watching the door Rudolph Crocker had just entered. He was still in there.

"Let your hair down," Nora said. "Shake it out. Open a few buttons."

Justine did it and said, "Let's go. Let's meet the devil."

Nora slammed the door, showed her badge to the valet, and said, "Our car stays right here at the curb. Police business."

Justine gave the kid a ten, then followed Nora up the stairs.

"I get it," said the kid. "Good cop, bad cop."

Nora turned to him and laughed out loud. "No, this is fat cop, skinny cop!"