“Adelaide Starr,” Beam said.

Da Vinci made a face like a kid who’d expected chocolate and gotten broccoli. “Hey, I’m open to any ideas on that one.”

“Send her another jury summons. Make her serve. She says she wants you to change your mind, so change it.”

“We’ve been there,” da Vinci said.

“I bet she doesn’t want to go back,” Beam said.

“She won’t serve.”

“Then arrest her. Put her in custody. Make an example of her. She’s been shooting off her mouth on talk shows, asking for equal treatment. So give it to her. It’s exactly what she doesn’t want.”

Da Vinci did his chin rubbing thing again. “I’m not saying it wouldn’t be fun.”

“That’s not what we’re talking about.”

“I like it, Beam. I tell you what, I’ll run it past the chief.” Or the commissioner.

“Fine,” Beam said, but didn’t leave. “That one gonna be your idea, too?”

“Depends on the reaction.”

Beam had to smile. “You’re an honest man.”

“Honest cop, anyway.”

“One more thing,” Beam said.

Da Vinci had started to sit, but straightened up. “My, my, we are fruitful.”

“I want a court order,” Beam said. “Soon as possible.”

“For what?”

“We need to exhume a body.”

Beam double-parked the Lincoln beside the unmarked, across the street from where Carl Dudman had been shot. He climbed out of the cool air from the dashboard vents into heat, humidity, exhaust fumes, and traffic noise.

A cable TV truck was parked down the block. Closer to Dudman’s building, a guy in a sharp suit was standing in front of a shoulder-held TV camera, taping a spot for one of the local news programs.

When there was a break in traffic, Beam jogged across the street. The leg that had been shot ached with every other stride, but only slightly. Old man can still run.

The area in front of Dudman’s building was guarded by a single uniform, standing with his back against the wall to one side of the entrance. He was a paunchy, graying guy, but he had the kind of heavy-lidded pale eyes that seemed to notice everything. Where Dudman had fallen, a small square of new looking sidewalk and curb was cordoned off with yellow crime scene tape. It looked more like a Con Ed work site than a murder scene.

Beam flashed his shield at the uniform, who nodded but didn’t move other than raising one arm a few inches to the side and rapping his nightstick on the glass door. The door immediately opened and was held for Beam by a uniformed doorman who’d been invisible behind the dark, reflecting tinting. It seemed to be a routine the cop and doorman had down pat.

Nell and Looper were waiting for Beam where they’d said they’d be, seated in a grouping of furniture near the center of the cool, spacious lobby. Light poured in from high windows and reflected off rich paneling and gray marble flooring. The marble had a brownish vein running through it that matched exactly the color of the leather chairs and a long sofa arranged around a rectangular glass coffee table. Magazines and newspapers were neatly fanned out on the table like an oversized hand of cards.

The two detectives stood up when they saw Beam. After hellos, all three sat down, Nell and Looper in chairs, Beam in a corner of the brown leather sofa. In the hushed lobby, the furniture hissed like punctured tires beneath their settling weight.

“Got anything?” Beam asked, not expecting much.

Looper gave a low chuckle. “About what you’d expect from witnesses to any drive-by shooting.”

“The killer kept it simple,” Nell said, “but I doubt if it was haphazard. More like the result of careful planning. We went over Dudman’s daily routine with his security. Those few seconds outside the building, when he was getting into his limo, represented about the only time in his busy days when he was vulnerable.”

“Witnesses giving up anything at all?” Beam asked.

“What you’d expect,” Nell said. “They saw a red car, a white van, a blue car, a cab, drive past about the time Dudman was shot by a blond man, a bald man, a dark-haired man with a Jesus cut. They heard a shot, two shots, no shots. Heard a shout, heard a laugh, heard a car backfire. The other witnesses saw and heard nothing.”

“Those are the ones telling the truth,” Nell said. “Being factual, anyway.”

“Guy was a pro,” Looper said. “He left us zilch. Dudman was alive. Killer drove past. Dudman was dead. We got a corpse, a thirty-two slug, and a slip of paper with a letter on it. That’s all, and that’s what it adds up to—nada.”

There was a tone of admiration in his voice that annoyed Beam. “You starting to see the killer as a hero, Loop?”

“You know better,” Looper said. He glanced around, licking his lips. “I wish it was legal to smoke in this expensive mausoleum.”

“You quit,” Nell reminded him..

“I wasn’t thinking just of myself, Nell.”

“What we all need to be thinking about,” Beam said, “is running this sick freak to ground and bringing him in.”

“We’ll do that,” Looper said. “It’ll be the bullet or the needle. His choice.”

Not ours, Beam thought. We don’t get to choose. Not unless it’s close.

He told them about what had happened at the antique shop with Nola, then about his meeting with da Vinci.

“So we’re soon gonna be spending our time studying security tapes?

Nell asked.

“Eventually, maybe. If we can get camcorders set up where we want them.”

She’d been studying him as he’d told them about his day so far. “Mind if I ask a question, Beam?”

“Probably.”

“This woman, Nola Lima, do you and her have a history?”

“I told you about our history, how her husband was one of my snitches and got killed.”

“Wanna tell us more?”

“No. You know enough.”

Nobody spoke for a few minutes. They all watched a woman in a fur boa, despite the heat, enter the lobby, cross to the elevators, and ascend.

“When do you think we’ll get the court order for the exhumation?” Nell asked.

“I hope tomorrow. Da Vinci’s working on rushing it through. He’s got some judges by the balls. Meantime, you keep everything going here, talking to people who don’t know anything, looking good for the media.”

“It’s bullshit,” Nell said.

“It’s part of the job.”

“Still bullshit.”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t.”

“I wish to Christ I had a cigarette,” Looper said.

Nell said, “You might as well go ahead and smoke one as die sooner at my hands for continuing to harp on it.”

“The bullet, the needle, or the filter tip,” Beam said, and stood up and left them.

Outside, as the tinted glass door swung closed, he caught sight of the reflection of a man standing across the street staring at him. Beam wouldn’t have noticed him except that he jogged his memory. He was sure he’d seen the man somewhere before, and recently. Not necessarily his face, which he couldn’t make out, but his proportions and posture, the set of his head, neck, and shoulders.

When he turned around, the man wasn’t there.

No matter. Silhouette and profile registered strongly in an old cop’s mind.

Beam was sure he was being followed.

Terry Adams reached over from where he lay on his back on Nell’s bed, felt around, then found his cold can of Budweiser and took a swig. It was difficult to drink lying down, and he felt a trickle of cold beer run down his cheek and neck toward the pillow. “So they’re gonna dig up this guy’s grave and see if he’s still wearing his ring?”

“That’s the idea,” Nell said. She knew she probably shouldn’t be talking to Terry about this, but it wasn’t exactly an integral part of the Justice Killer case. That was what kind of bothered her. Beam seemed to want it to be part of the case. She wondered why. What was there between Beam and this woman, Nola?

“Sounds like something out of a play,” Terry said. “Maybe a movie. Make a great scene.”