"It'll be over soon," I said. "I'm getting close."

"To the picture?"

"To the person who took the picture. I can't be sure the picture is still around-like I told you. But I think I can get some answers soon."

"You want me to do something?"

"I just want an answer to something. I have a couple of more things to do-then I'm going to the people who took the picture, okay? But the picture may be with a whole bunch of other pictures. I may not have time to look through them all-you understand?"

"So?"

"So what if I just destroy all the pictures? Make sure there aren't any pictures left. Of anybody."

Another drag on the joint, red tip blazing, sharp intake of breath, hiss when it came out. "I want to see the picture," she said.

"I'll do my best. But I'm not hanging around if things go bad, see? Scotty wasn't the only one-I'm sure of that now. The people who took the picture, they're in the business, understand?"

"Yes."

"I don't know how much time I'll have once I get inside."

She took a last drag and the joint went out; maybe she just pinched off the tip-I couldn't tell.

"You want to get inside now?" Strega said, coming off the couch toward me.

"No," I told her.

"Yes, you do," she said, standing next to me. She dropped to her knees, the black gauze fluttering behind me. Bat's wings. Her face was in my lap, her hands at my belt. My hand dropped onto her back, feeling the fabric-and the chill.

"Don't touch me," she whispered.

I watched my hands grip the arms of the chair; the veins stood out. A picture formed on the back of my hands-below the waist I was somewhere else-the picture formed and I could see my passport into the woman's house.

I felt myself go off, but her mouth stayed locked to me for a long time. She reached back one hand, pulled off the gauzy wrapper-her body was a gleam of white.

Strega took her mouth from me, wrapping the gauze around me, cleaning me off, tossing the fabric to the floor.

"You didn't even have to ask-I know what to do," she whispered against my chest.

I stroked her back. It felt too smooth to be a person.

"I'm a good girl," she said, her voice certain and sure of itself, the way a kid gets sometimes.

I kept stroking her.

"Yes?" she whispered. "Yeah," I said. We stayed like that for a long time.

"I'LL be right back," she said, her voice strong and hard again. "I have to get something for you." She got to her feet and padded away.

The downstairs bathroom had two matching sinks; a telephone was built into a niche near the tub. I caught my reflection in the mirror-it looked like a mug shot.

When she came back downstairs, I was standing next to the wall-size window in the living room, watching the lights in the yard. She was wearing a white terrycloth robe; her hair was wet, copper-colored in the soft light.

"This is for you," she said, opening her hand for me to see.

It was a thick gold chain the size of my wrist-each link must have weighed a couple of ounces. I held it in my hand, feeling the weight. It was solid enough to be a collar for Pansy.

"It's beautiful," I said, slipping it into my pocket.

"Put it on," Strega said, reaching into my pocket to pull it out again.

I thought of the tattoos on B.T.'s wrists. "I don't wear chains," I told her.

"You'll wear mine," she said, fire-points in her eyes.

"No, I won't," I told her, my voice quiet.

She stood on her toes, reached behind me to pull at my neck-she was so close I couldn't focus on her eyes. "I'll keep this for you-I'll sleep with it next to my body. When you come back to me-when you come back with the picture-you'll put it on."

I put my lips against her-she pulled her face away.

"Bring me that picture," she said, turning her face to the window.

I left her standing there, looking like a little girl waiting for her father to come home from work.

87

THE PLYMOUTH took itself back to the office. I had to call Wolfe in a couple of hours; no point in trying to sleep.

I kicked my feet up on my desk, a yellow pad in my hand, and jotted down notes of what I knew, telling myself I was putting it together. When I opened my eyes, it was almost eight in the morning. Somebody had written Bruja on the pad and crossed it out-I could read the word through the scratches.

I took a shower, waiting for Pansy to come down from the roof. Checked the phone-clear to call. The number Lily gave me for Wolfe rang a couple of times.

"City-Wide."

"Ms. Wolfe, please."

"This is she."

"It's Burke. I'd like to talk to you about something."

"Yes?"

"In your office-if that's okay."

I could feel her hesitate.

"I have something to give you-something that will be of value in your work."

"What?" she asked.

"I'd prefer to show you." Another silence. Then:

"You know where my office is?"

"Yes."

"Make it nine o'clock. Give your name to the desk man."

"There isn't much time," I told her. "I live all the way up in Westchester County -the traffic and all…"

"Nine o'clock tonight, Mr. Burke."

She hung up. I went back to sleep.

88

THE DAY came up bleak-dirty skies, a cold wind hovering over the city, waiting its turn. I blocked it all out, walking through the case inside my head, looking for a handle to grip. I didn't walk around while I was thinking-one of the first things you learn in prison is not to pace, it just underlines that you're in a cage. If you stay inside your head, you can go over the walls.

I'd been playing this all wrong-not paying attention to all the tuition payments I'd made in jails and hospitals over the years. Something about this case was making me afraid, but that wasn't so strange. I'm scared most of the time-it keeps me from getting stupid. But I'm used to being scared of the usual things-like being shot or doing more timenot this bruja nonsense Pablo told me about. You ever watch a fighter who slugged his way into a championship bout decide he's a fucking boxer and blow his big chance? You have to go with what got you there. I smoked a couple of cigarettes, thinking it over. Crime had never made me rich, but it kept me free. And it was what I knew best.

I didn't get started until late afternoon, taking my time about getting ready. I picked over my clothes, looking for something that wouldn't make the people in Wolfe's building nervous. I found a black wool suit with a faint chalk stripe hanging in the closet. It was brand-new, but a bit rumpled from storage-car trunks do that. I matched it with a white shirt-genuine Hong Kong silk, which is like saying "virgin vinyl." And a plain black tie. I washed my hair and combed it the best I could. Shaved carefully. Polished the black half-boots. I checked myself out in the mirror. Clothes do make the man-instead of looking like a thug who worked the docks, I looked like a pilot fish for a loan shark.

I folded some money into one pocket, took a couple of other things I needed out of the desk, and shut the place down. Pansy raised one eyebrow, still near comatose from the cubic ton of Chinese food. I told her I'd be back late and took the back stairs to the garage.

I checked my watch. A little past six. Plenty of time to have something to eat, get my mind right for the meeting.

When I first rolled past the restaurant, the blue dragon tapestry was in the window. Cops inside. I kept going all the way down to Division Street to the warehouse. Nobody was around. I checked the desk in the back room to see if any mail had circled around the loops I set up and come in for a landing. Flood knew how to work the loop, but she'd never written. The desk was empty.