'I don't care.' Mary heard her voice waver and knew her emotion came only partly from the injustice of the situation. 'We have momentum now. We're making progress.'

Lou looked doubtful. 'I wouldn't say that. All we're doin' is messin' around in people's private lives.' He looked at Mary. 'I think you should think about withdrawin' from this case, Mare. It's out of control, and Rosato pays the bills around here.'

'We can't file withdrawal papers today anyway. Court closed a long time ago.' Mary checked her watch. Seven o'clock. 'Hey, it's about the time the murder was committed. It's the best time to visit a crime scene.'

The crime scene? You hate crime scenes!' Judy said, but Mary grabbed her coat and bag.

'That was the old me. The new me loves crime scenes.' She slipped back into her coat, which still felt cold, and looked at Judy with hope. Their eyes locked, and Judy surrendered first in their game of emotional chicken.

'Tell you what, Mare,' she said. I'll go with you on

this, but just for tonight. If we find nothing, we're out. We withdraw tomorrow and refer the case.'

Mary considered it, then nodded. 'Deal. Let's go. If I have one night, I'm using it.'

Lou didn't budge. 'Hold on there, ladies. What about Bennie?'

Mary headed for the conference room door. 'You don't have to come, Lou. We'll understand. Won't we, Jude?'

'Of course.' Judy got her puffy white coat from a chair. 'Stay here. Show common sense, unlike me. I could get fired twice by the same person.' Judy looked at Mary. 'One thing. We have to go home and walk Bear. Remember, I'm dog-sitting.'

'Bennie's dog?' Mary headed for the conference room door. 'Okay. She might not fire us if we show the dog a good time.'

Judy snorted. 'Oh she'll fire us, all right. She just won't kill us.'

'Sure she will,' Lou said, and reached for his windbreaker.

31

It had taken all day for Jack to be transferred and processed into county jail with a busload of other inmates; he'd been showered, shaved, sprayed prophylactically with lice treatment, and issued laundered and steam-pressed blues. By nightfall he found himself in a plastic bucket chair against the back wall of the TV room of Housing Unit C. A caged television blared from its wall mount in the corner and thirty-odd inmates ignored Access Hollywood, clogging a space that was smaller than most living rooms. The room was in constant motion, the noise deafening, and the air rank with body odor.

The inmates were large, muscular, pockmarked, and pierced. They had long hair, dreads, and Willie Nelson braids; one bald inmate had tattooed his skull with bright flames. Another huge inmate, a wiry blond ponytail snaking down his broad back, looked like a deranged Norse god. Jack didn't break eye contact when it was made by the inmates or the guards. He knew he was a novelty here; his photo was splashed across the tabloid on the bolted-down table, and the inmate who had piled mashed potatoes on his dinner plate that night had stopped serving to shake his hand.

'Why?' Jack had asked, astonished.

'I never met no millionaire before,' the inmate had answered.

He had been thwarted in reaching Trevor. There was an 'approved list' for calls from county jail, which contained only the inmate's attorney and one contact in the immediate family. He mulled over calling Mary and coming clean with his doubts about Trevor, but he couldn't sacrifice Paige. A commercial for Listerine came on TV, and in

time Jack realized that his thoughts had stopped with Mary, which both worried and comforted him. At the same time.

32

THE DEVIL'S INN, read the boxy white sign. It was illuminated from within and lightweight enough to be blown around by the wind, which set its old-fashioned drawing of the devil, wiry and red with a spiked tail and trident, whipping back and forth. The Devil's Inn was like every other run-down tavern that dotted Philadelphia's street corners, concentrated in the working-class residential neighborhoods, and Brinkley had been a cop long enough to disapprove not only of the bars but of the liquor billboards that popped up around them like mushrooms. That he disapproved didn't stop him from hanging in the Devil's Inn, sipping the whiskey they advertised on every block.

It was his favorite bar, in West Philly, on the corner and down the block from where he had grown up. He didn't go to Liberties, the bar in Fairmount where all the detectives went. He hated a bar like in Cheers, that TV bar where everybody knows your name. He went to the Devil's Inn because nobody knew his name there and he liked it that way. That was its only attraction for him, because it certainly wasn't a nice joint. It was small, dim, and smelled like dust and dirt. Stale cigarette smoke clung to the cocktail napkins and grit lay on the tile floor. The mirror behind the bar was too greasy to reflect anything, dust coated the few bottles of top-shelf, and a garland of dull tinsel festooned the cash register. It was leftover from Christmas, five years ago. Brinkley doubted it would ever come down.

He hunched over his shot and squinted down the knotty bar at the other patrons. Aging black men, they all looked

like him without a tie, and no one acknowledged him. He guessed they didn't like Cheers either, and none of them were his old neighbors. Those were long gone, surrendering what used to be a decent black neighborhood to gangbangers, pipers, and crack whores, emptying his old block. Sheets of plywood covered the windows that used to have sheer curtains and Venetian blinds; the city boarded up vacant rowhouses to keep trouble out, but the cops knew it only hid the bad guys. Brinkley's childhood home didn't even have plywood over the windows; the place lay exposed to the elements as a nude woman. He didn't drive by the house when he came to the Devil's Inn. He always took the other way around.

He sipped his booze and cupped his shot glass, which leeched the warmth from his palm and then returned the favor. Brinkley's hand never left his glass the times he came drinking at the Devil's Inn and he wondered what that was about. He was in deep shit if all he had in the world to hold on to was a shot glass. He downed the last of his drink and when he looked up Kovich was sitting on the barstool next to him. 'Boo/ Kovich said. 'I'm Casper the Friendly Ghost.'

Brinkley didn't know what to say, it was so unexpected. He had never brought Kovich here, never even mentioned it to him. But there he was, with no coat on. Brinkley could smell the cold night on him.

Kovich looked around the bar, layered with a visible haze of cigarette smoke. 'Is this a bad dream?'

Brinkley smiled crookedly. 'How'd you know I was here?'

'I followed you.'

'For real?' s

'Only twice.'

'Stalker.' Brinkley smiled again. It was the whiskey that let him.

'How else am I gonna find out stuff I need to know? You don't tell me squat.' Kovich waved to the old bartender,

who had his back turned, and called for a Miller Lite. Brinkley didn't tell him it would be a long wait. 'I checked it out when you started getting cranky. I figured it was trouble between you and Sheree.'

'How?'

'I'm a detective, remember? I detected.' Kovich gestured again to the bartender, who was washing a glass in the grimy sink. 'Hey, buddy, a Miller Lite for me and another shot for my lawyer.' The bartender didn't turn around, and Kovich's heavy lips curled into an unhappy line. 'What is this, Denny's? I'm too white to get a drink?'

'He's hard of hearing.' Brinkley leaned over. 'James!' he fairly shouted, and the bartender turned. 'A Miller and another!'

'Lite!' Kovich added, loudly. When he looked over Brinkley was staring at him. 'Portion size is key.'