"And there still ain't no sheets on the bed," Flaherty said.

"Looks like somebody really tossed the place," Flanagan said, observing the clothes strewn everywhere, the open dresser drawers and kitchen cabinets, the overturned trash basket.

"Maybe it was an interrupted crib job," Sloat suggested.

"Jamal's a fuckin pimp," Ollie said. "What does he know about burglaries?"

"Which one is Jamal?"

"The one with his tonsils showing."

"Maybe he was the one being burglarized, Maybe he walked in and found the other guy..."

"No, the mailbox says Cooper. Who don't like to be called Richie. You gonna take all day with that fuckin clutch bag?" Ollie yelled to the technician.

"You can have it now," the technician said, handing it to him.

"What'd you get?"

"Some good ones. Patent's a good surface." "What do they look like?"

"Smaller ones may be female. The others, who knows."?"

"When can I have something?"

"Later today?"

"How much later? I go home at midnight." "A quarter to midnight,"

Sloat amended. "Soon as we process them," the technician said.

"Run them through Records at the same time,

okay?" Ollie said. "See if we come up roses." "Sure."

"So what timeT"

"What's the rush? They're not going anywhere," he said, and glanced toward the open bathroom door, where the police photographer was taking his Polaroids.

"I'm just wonderin what really happened here, is all," Ollie said.

"Send me what you get the minute you get it, okay? The Eight-Eight.

Oliver Weeks."

"Sure," the technician said, and shrugged and went back to his vacuuming.

"I think what happened here is what the kid says happened here,"

Flaherty said.

Sloat looked flattered.

"They killed each other, right?" Ollie said. He was already beginning to go through the bag the technician had handed him. The clutch bag, excuse me all to hell. Looked like some more hundred-dollar bills in here..

"Dude's about to take a bath," Sloat suggested, "he hears somebody coming in the apartment, he immediately grabs for a knife ..." '

"I think the kid's got it," Flaherty said, and approval again.

Fuckin Homicide jackass, Ollie thought. Fourteen hundred in the bag, plus the five on the ':-3,' floor, came to nineteen. Money like that spelled dope or prostitution. More red tops on the bottom of the bag, looked more, like a dope thing every minute. He fished out a driver's license with a photo ID on it.

"What've you got?" Flanagan asked. "Ohio driver's license," Ollie said. "Out-of-towner," Sloat surmised.

"Probably mugged her, one or the other of them, then got into a fight over the bag."

"When was this?" Ollie asked. "Before he turned apartment upside down or after?"

"What?"

"Whoever got killed first. Give me the sequence, Wilbur."

He made the name sound like a dirty word. "Start with the muggin,"

Flanagan said.

"Cooper mugged her, brought the bag back to his apartment," Sloat said.

"Who's Cooper?" Flaherty asked.

"The one who drowned."

From the door, where he was putting on his hat, the

M.E. called, "I didn't say he drowned."

"If he drowned," Sloat said.

"For all I know, he was poisoned."

Yeah, bullshit, Ollie thought.

"Good night, gentlemen," the M.E. said, and headed downstairs to the snow and the wind. Ollie looked at his watch. A quarter to seven.

"So let's hear it, Wilbur," he said.

"I've got an even better idea," Sloat said.

"Even better than your first one?" Ollie said, sounding surprised.

"They both mugged her."

"That's very good," Flaherty said appreciatively.

"Came back here to celebrate. All these empty champagne bottles? They were drinking champagne."