newspaper headlines; she was not Sw

Even if they caught whoever had brutally slain her, murder would never result in anything more than media mention. But they had the name of her pimp And the man had a substantial record, including arrest for a New Orleans murder some ten years afor which he had done time at Louisiana's An State Penitentiary. He was now gracing this city with his presence; a policeman's lot was not a happy one.

Especially not at eight in the morning, when Carel and Hawes knocked on Jamal Stone's door and bullets came crashing through the wood even when they announced themselves.

"Gun!" Hawes shouted, but Carella had already hit the deck, and Hawes came tumbling immediately afterward. Both men lay side by side the hallway outside the door now, breathing sweating heavily despite the cold, heads close together, guns in their hands.

"Guy's a mind reader," Hawes whispered.

Carella was wondering when the next shots would come.

Hawes was wondering the same thing. The door opened, surprising them.

They almost shot him.

"Who the fuck are you?" Jamal asked.

What it was or so he explained in the secon interrogation room up at the old Eight-Seven he was expecting someone else, was what it was.

Instead, he got two policemen breaking down the door. Crack of dawn.

Two cops.

"You always shoot at people who knock on your door?" Hawes asked.

"Only when I expect them to shoot me," Jamal said. This was now beginning to get interesting. In fact, Bert Kling was almost happy they'd asked him and Meyer to sit in on the interrogation. It was still early enough on the shift to enjoy a cup of coffee with colleagues who'd been out in the freezing cold all night long. But aside from the camaraderie, and the bonhomie, and the promise of some entertainment from a man who'd been around the block once or twice and who felt completely at home in a police station, the doubling-up was a way of bringing them up to speed on one of the two squeals Carella and Hawes had caught during the night.

There used to be a sign on the squad room wall (before Detective Andy Parker tore it down in a fit of pique) that read: IT'S YOUR CASE! STICK WITH IT! The Dyalovich murder and the Marx murder did indeed belong to Carella and Hawes as the detectives who'd caught them. But they would not be on duty again until 11:45 tonight and meanwhile there were two long eight-hour shifts between now and then. In police work, things could become fast-breaking in the wink of an eye; briefing the oncoming team was a ritual these men observed more often than not.

Jamal figured the two new cops for the brains here. The ones asking the questions were the ones almost got themselves shot, so how smart could they be? But the big bald-headed guy his ID tag read DET/2ND GR MEYER MEYER, must've been a computer glitch looked smart as could be.

The tall blond guy

with the appearance of a farm boy, DET/3RD BERT KLING, was probably the one played Go, Cop to the bald guy's Bad Cop when they had some cheap thief. Right now, though, both of them were as still as coiled snakes, watching, listening.

"Who were you expecting to shoot you?" Carella asked.

This was all vamping till ready. They didn't actually care who wanted to shoot him, good riddance to bad rubbish, as Carella's mother was fond of saying. All they really wanted to know was whether Jamal was the one who'd put that freezer bag over Yolande's head. Toward that end, they would let him talk forever all his real or imagined enemies out there, make him feel comfortable, ply him with cigarettes and wait for him to reveal through word or gesture that they already knew why he was here being questioned by a pair of detectives, which no one had yet told him, which he hadn't yet asked about, either. Which might or might not have meant something.

felons, it was difficult to tell.

Jamal puffed on his cigarette.

Meyer and Kling watched him.

Their presence was a bit unsettling. He was beginning to wonder if they were cops headquarters or something. What kind of thing was this, two cops from headquarters here observing? he knew better than to ask why he was up here. Too easy to step into shit that way. So he puffed on his cigarette and sipped at his coffee and told them all about this Colombian crack dealer who thought he'd stole some shit from him, which he hadn't, but who let

the word out that he was looking for him and was going to kill him. So when he heard somebody banging on the door eight o' clock in the morning, the sun hardly up, he figured he'd better make the first move here because there might not be no second move. Which is why he'd pumped four through the door. Then, not hearing a sound out there, he figured he'd nailed whoever had done the knocking, and he opened the door expecting to find Manuel Diaz bleeding on the floor

"That's his name, Manuel Diaz, I just gave you something."

As if they didn't already know the names of all the dealers in most of the precincts up here.

"But instead it was you two guys, who I almost shot, by the way, before you yelled "Police." " Jamal shrugged. "So here we are," he said.

"Here we are," Hawes agreed.

Jamal still knew better than to ask what this was all about. The big bald guy and the tall blond guy were both looking very stern now, as if he'd said something wrong a minute ago. He wondered what it could have been. Fuck em, he thought. I can wait this out as long as you can. He lit another cigarette. Meyer nodded. So did Kling. Jamal wondered why they were nodding. These two guys were making him very nervous.

He felt relieved when Carella asked another question. "Who was the girl with you?" "Friend of mine," Jamal said.

Carlyle Yancy was one of the two girls he ran. Her real name was Sarah Rowland, which he'd changed for her the minute he put her on the street. Jamal

wasn't about to discuss either her profession or "Friend of mine"

covered a lot of territory.

"How old is she?" Hawes asked. This also covered a lot of territory.

Cops always asked how old was the girl figuring you'd wet your pants if she was underage. "Twenty," Jamal said. "No cigar." "What's she do?"

"What do you mean, what's she do?"

"Is she a prostitute?"

"Hey, come on. What kind of question is that?" "Well, Jamal, considering your record..." So that's how they'd got to him. But why?

calling a man by his first name was an old cop trick. Jamal knew quite well, thank you.

"I haven't been in that line of work for a long time he said.

Meyer raised an eyebrow. He was wondering if being a pimp qualified as work. So was Kling Carella And Hawes. Jamal read their faces and figured them for a bunch of cynics. "How about murder?" Carella asked.

"Have you been in that line of work recently?"

"I paid my debt to society," Jamal said with dignity

"So we understand. Released last April, is that right?"

"That's right. The slate is clean."

Still with dignity.

"What have you been doing since?"

"Different kinds of work."

"Different from pimping?" Hawes asked. "Different from murder?"

Carella asked. "Just different jobs here and there."

"Here and where?" "Here in the city." "Lucky us," Hawes said.

"What kind of different jobs?" Carella asked.

They were harassing him now. Trying to put him on edge. He knew it and they knew it. He remained unruffled. He'd been involved with cops ever since he was twelve. Wasn't a cop in the world could rattle him now.

"Drove a taxi, drove a delivery truck, worked as a waiter," he said.

"Odd jobs like that."