"She doesn't have to be a cop just to conduct surveillance," I said. "She can testify under oath about whatever she sees, just like any other private citizen. And she's as good at surveillance as anybody we've got available, that's for sure."

  "She's not likely to go all Death Wish on Thorwald, is she?" McGuire said with a frown. "The absolute last thing we need is having some Fed burned down by a cop, on leave or not – especially a Fed against whom not a damn thing has been proven yet. Nothing admissible in court, anyway."

  "Lacey's got it under control," I said. "If she didn't cross the line with our prisoner, then she's not gonna cross it – period."

  "Here's hoping you're right," he said. "OK, put her on it, if she's willing. Surveillance only – be very clear about that."

  "I will, boss." I looked at my watch. "Well, I'm not on the clock right now, but if I were, it would be time to go home – or to the Radisson, anyway."

  "Yeah, take off," McGuire said. "You've given my ulcer enough to work on for one night."

  In the parking lot, I called Lacey – but all I got was her voicemail. Since I wasn't sure when I'd get to talk to her, I laid out as briefly as possible what I wanted her to do. I asked her to get started watching Thorwald as soon as she'd had some rest, and to call me if any problems arose.

  As I drove to my palatial accommodations, I was feeling cautiously optimistic about the case. With luck, we were gonna bust a lot of bad guys in less than forty-eight hours, and wouldn't that be sweet?

  Yeah, I felt pretty cheerful – that alone should have served as a warning.

I arrived at the Radisson just as the sky was lightening in the east. As soon as the door of my room closed behind me, I knew something was wrong. It took a second or two to realize that it was a smell – an odor both alien and familiar, which hadn't been present in the room when I'd left.

  I drew the Beretta and stood, listening. I couldn't hear anything except my pulse pounding in my ears. Then the heater came on automatically, and I almost put three bullets into it.

  I took a couple of slow, deliberate breaths, in an effort to tamp the adrenaline down a little. The rising sun had barely reached the window, and my room was still dimly lit. I reached behind me and clicked on the light. Squinting against the glare, I swept my gun across the room, but found nothing to shoot.

  The only thing that seemed out of place was on the bed.

  My pal Tim had agreed to instruct housekeeping to stay the hell out of my room for the duration of my stay. But someone had been in here, because in the center of the bed, under the blanket, was a lump about the size of a basketball, but irregular in shape.

  A bomb? Not too likely. You put a bomb in somebody's bed, the last thing you want is to make it conspicuous.

  So if it wasn't a bomb, then what? I approached the bed slowly, gun still in my right hand. I flashed on that scene from The Godfather when the Hollywood producer wakes up to find a very nasty surprise sharing the bed with him. Good thing I didn't own a horse.

  I slowly grasped the edge of the covers with one hand, then threw them back in one swift motion. I had my gun trained on the bed before I could register what I was seeing.

  His broad-brimmed hat had been knocked askew by my sudden removal of the bedding, but the sunglasses were still in place. The teeth were bared, so it seemed as if Sharkey's head was grinning at me.

  I gaped in shock – which is just what I was expected to do. Behind me, the bathroom door clicked open, but I registered the sound just a second too late. I tried to turn, but a strong hand grabbed my gun wrist and an instant later I felt the sting as a needle went into my neck. I struggled for a moment longer, but then I was falling, and the dope worked so fast I never even knew when I hit the floor.

The first thing I realized was that I was cold – not freezingto-death cold, but enough to be uncomfortable. The second thing I noticed was that my ass hurt.

  Eventually, I gathered enough of my wits about me to figure out that I was cold because I was in an unheated building with my sports coat off, and my ass hurt because I was sitting on a concrete floor, and probably had been for a while.

  Both of those things had to do with the fact that my back was against some kind of wooden pillar with my hands bound behind me. I could feel metal around my wrists, and realized I was handcuffed – probably with my own cuffs. Motherfuckers.

  My legs were tied together at the ankles with rope. I squinted for a closer look and saw that the rope was triple-strand nylon – not rare, but not the kind you buy at Sears, either. I've learned a lot about rope in my job.

  I thought about the ME's report on the second witch burning. I don't have a photographic memory, but sometimes stuff sticks in my head, whether I want it there or not.

  The deceased was secured to the tree in two places with ligatures consisting of triple-strand nylon rope.

  Funny, the things you remember – and at the oddest times, too.

  Having nothing else to do – unless you count panicking, which I figured I'd save until later – I checked out my surroundings.

  I could see because of the double fluorescent light in the ceiling, which flickered as if it was on its last legs. The room was about twelve feet square. My view through the single window was blocked by a dirty white Venetian blind, but a little sunlight leaked through, so I knew it was still daytime.

  The red brick walls were chipped and pitted, the mortar crumbling here and there. In one corner was a battered gray file cabinet. Ten feet or so in front of me was a severely functional desk, the kind you'd find in high school homerooms back when I was in school. It had seen better days, too, and so had the vinyl-covered desk chair behind it.

  Clearly, this was an office of some kind, or had been. It was what you might expect to find in an old auto repair shop – or maybe a warehouse. I shuddered, and it wasn't because of the cold. The word warehouse had some pretty bad associations for me these days.

  There was a plain wooden door to my left, and I happened to be looking in that direction when it opened. A young guy wearing a black turtleneck stuck his head in, looked at me and said, "Good."

  He stepped back out, but left the door ajar, so I had no trouble hearing him say, "Mister Wilson – he's awake, sir."