Wolfe looked at me thoughtfully. "You've been at this quite a while."

"I do a lot of work-you get bits and pieces here and there-you put it together."

"Okay. But this woman doesn't work like that. Her product is special. She guarantees all her stuff is so-called collector's items. No reproduction-every picture is one of a kind."

"What's to stop some freak from copying the pictures?"

"She puts some kind of mark on every picture she takes-like this." Wolfe showed me a tiny drawing of a standing man, his hand on the shoulder of a little boy. It looked like it was hand-drawn with one of those needlepoint pens architects use. Only it was in a soft blue color. "The mark won't survive a copy-she uses something called chroma-blue ink. She puts every mark on herself-by hand."

"What's the point?"

"There's two points, Mr. Burke. The first is that she gets a minimum of five thousand dollars a picture, so she can achieve huge profits without a lot of volume."

I took a drag on my cigarette, waiting.

"The other point is more significant. She produces pictures to order."

"You mean some freak calls her and says he wants to see a certain thing go down?"

"Yes. If you want a blond boy wearing a snowsuit, you got it."

"You going to drop her?" I asked.

"We are going to drop her-but not soon. We're just beginning to trace pictures back to her. We don't have a prayer of getting a search warrant now."

"And if you ask for one, it might get back to her?"

Wolfe raised her eyebrows. "You are a cynical man, Mr. Burke."

"Those black robes the judges wear," I told her, "they don't change you inside."

Wolfe didn't say anything for a minute, fingering her pearls. "Do you know anything about search warrants?" she finally asked.

Now I knew why she wanted to make sure I wasn't wired. "I know if a citizen breaks in a house and finds dope or whatever, the evidence won't be suppressed unless the citizen is an agent of law enforcement."

"Um…" Wolfe said, encouraging me. I hadn't told her what she wanted. Yet.

"I also know that if the police are called to a location…say because there's a burglary in progress and they find something bad, they can take it."

"And use it in court."

"And use it in court," I agreed.

Wolfe's face was flat and hard. "This woman wouldn't report a burglary," she said.

I lit a last cigarette. "You have her house under surveillance?"

"We might-starting tomorrow."

"Round the clock?"

"Yes."

I took a drag of my smoke.

"Any citizen has an obligation to rescue people when there's a fire," I said.

Wolfe held her hand across the desk. I brought it quickly to my lips before she could do anything and walked out of her office.

90

I TOOK a couple of days to sort things out, telling myself that I didn't want to hit the filth factory in Little Neck the very first night Wolfe's people were on the job. The truth was that I wanted to get back to myself-get cautious, work the angles, find some way to get the job done with the least possible risk.

But it all jammed together in my head. I'd start to work out some scam-maybe have the Mole take out the phones in the house, walk in dressed up like a repairman, look around. Or maybe just a gentle breaking-and-entering while the two of them were out of the house in their little schoolbus. No matter what I tried on, it wouldn't fit. You can't scam humans who produce custom-tailored kiddie porn.

I thought about how out of control the whole lousy thing was. I could never have a woman like Wolfe. Flood wasn't coming back. I could live with not having the woman I wanted; I had a lot of practice at not having choices. But I couldn't live with Strega. I had to burn the bruja -woman out of my life before she took me down with her.

The Prof reported in. He had made a couple of runs past the target. Then he'd knocked on the door, asking if they wanted any yard work done. The woman answered the door herself-told him to get lost. No sign of security people.

I got the blueprints of the house from the city. Checked through the back files-the house was jointly owned by the woman and her husband. Purchased for $345,000 about four years ago. Conventional bank mortgage. Fifty bucks got me a look at the papers-she put down a little more than a hundred grand. Listed her occupation as "private investor." Declared an income of almost $250,000 a year.

The phone-company employees who sell information charge more-they still think of themselves as a monopoly. Two phones in the house- both numbers unlisted. Their combined bill ran about five hundred dollars a month, most of it toll calls. Just for the hell of it, I checked the numbers against the ones I'd copied from the pimp's address book I gave to Wolfe. None of them matched-they were in a different league.

It was time to be myself again.

91

I ROUNDED up most of the crew with no problems, but I couldn't find Michelle at any of her usual spots. Finally, I dropped in to The Very Idea, a transsexual bar where she hangs out when she isn't working.

"She's getting her hair cut, darling," her friend Kathy told me.

I made a face-her favorite "salon" reminded me of a parakeet's cage, feathers flying, shrill shrieking, and shit all over the floor.

"Oh, Burke, don't look like that. Nobody goes there anymore. Daniel has opened a fabulous new place on Fifth-here's a card."

"Thanks, Kathy," I said, throwing a twenty on the bar to cover her tab.

"See you around, handsome," she replied. I don't think it was the twenty bucks-transsexuals just have more empathy.

La Dolce Vita was a couple of flights up. It had a tiny little elevator but I took the stairs. I wasn't worried about running into anything, but if I was going to get back to myself, it was time to get started.

The joint was all pastel colors and mirrors. The waiting room was decorated with people reading the Italian edition of Vogue and drinking coffee from glass cups. The receptionist was inside a little island in the middle, watching the fun.

"Can I help you, sir?" she asked.

"Is Daniel here?"

"He's with a customer."

"It's the customer I want-which way?"

She pointed straight ahead. I followed her finger into a room overlooking Fifth Avenue -the windows sloped at an angle, flowers covering the broad base. Michelle was getting combed out by a slim man wearing a white sweater over blue jeans-white running shoes on his feet. She was in the middle of a heated exchange with the woman in the next chair.

"Honey, please don't go on about the Holy Coast. The only thing Los Angeles ever contributed to culture is the drive-by homicide!"

I stepped between them before it got bloody.

"Burke!" she called out. "You're just in time."

"For what?" I asked her.

"For Daniel," she said, like I was from another planet. "He just got a cancellation-and you need a haircut."

Daniel and I shook hands-he had a strong grip, an ironic smile on his face.

"Burke," he said. "What's your first name?"

"I'm not paying by check," I told him.

"Will you stop it?" Michelle snapped, turning in her chair to slap at my arm. This isn't a poolroom."

"Can I talk to you for a minute?" I said.

"Talk."

"Not here."

Michelle sighed. "Oh, really-it's always such a big deal. Just give me a few minutes-sit down," she said, pointing to the chair next to her.

"This has to stay a few minutes anyway, Michelle," Daniel told her, patting her hairdo.

"Don't rush yourself, baby. Anyway, you have to cut my friend's hair too."

Daniel looked a question at me. I shrugged-what the hell.