"Like I said: liars lie. So?"

"So idiot therapists who do their incompetent 'validations' of child sexual abuse start adding 'Did he have a black shirt?' to their stupid checklists. And when they get an affirmative answer, as they inevitably will in some cases, there's their 'proof.' The first thing any charlatan needs is nomenclature. A special language. Trappings. That's the true genesis of psychobabble terms such as 'disclosure' and 'in denial.' Every good con man needs plausibility..."

"People see what they want to see," I said. "Whatever pays their bills or races their motors. You pointed it out yourself, in the stuff you gave me."

"And so what's missing?" he asked, making a temple of his fingertips, gazing out at me between them. "I'll tell you, Mr. Burke: objective, damnatheaconsequences investigation. The entire problem with the soacalled system is lack of objectivity. Prosecutors want to prove their cases, not find the truth. And defense attorneys...obviously, most of the time, it's their job to avoid the truth."

"What about caseworkers?," I asked, knowing the answer. "Like for Child Protective Services?"

"Please," he sneered. "Search as you might throughout this country, you will not find more undertrained, undersupervised, understaffed, and underpaid individuals. They operate entirely without protocols, without standards. Tell me this: Why should a case of suspected child abuse not be investigated the precise same way in Detroit as it is in Denver? In some jurisdictions, they use actual social workers. MSWs. In others, any college degree will suffice. Do you know what the Star Chamber was, Mr. Burke?"

"England, right? Three, four hundred years ago? A little room where they dragged you in and told you you were guilty."

"Close enough," he acknowledged. "For the child, for the putatively abused child, every single little caseworker is a personal Star Chamber. If that caseworker decides there is probable cause to proceed, so be it. But if he or she does not, then what? Nothing. Nothing at all. If the caseworker is a bigot, or a moron, or an overzealous doagooder, that determines the result, not the facts. The true investigator is, first and foremost, a skeptic. He does not operate under superstition or myth. But if you have a caseworker who doesn't 'believe' incest occurs, any investigation that individual performs will be fatally flawed...and the poor child won't have a chance."

"And if they see incest under every bed..."

"Yes! Then the poor parents won't have a chance either. In America, the predominant factor in the outcome of any child abuse case isn't the truth itself. No, it's the quality of advocacy on either side. An incompetent prosecutor, or even a lazy one, will result in more acquittals than even the most brilliant defense could provide."

"Yeah, and- "

"Of course"- he cut me off- "a sufficiently skilled defense can shred even the truest case. It happens all the time." He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. "Mr. Burke, I live in the crossfire between two armed camps: the 'Believe the Children!' lunatics and the 'False Allegations!' fanatics. My only weapon is the truth. And if my syndrome is to achieve genuine professional acceptance, I must avoid the personal stigma of being associated with either group. My credentials as a debunker are impeccable when it comes to child sexual abuse. I have exposed case after case of incompetent, shoddy, or outright fabricated allegations of child sexual abuse. But I have never taken the position that such things do not, in fact, occur...and I personally find every single such occurrence abominable. Most cases, if you work them diligently enough, are susceptible to actual proof. And if the law were brought into the twentieth century, that proof would be much more widely available."

He took a short breath. When I didn't say anything, he rolled on like there had been no pause. "For example, the law should be that every single abortion performed on a minor must include the preservation of fetal tissue for DNA analysis. You could not ask for better, stronger proof of incest, if it actually caused the pregnancy. But the antiaabortion crowd, those soacalled 'proafamily' people, they are bitterly opposed. And they have enough clout in Congress to keep such a law off the books."

"Kids don't vote," I said softly. Thinking: They don't carry guns either. Until they get older. And then they almost always shoot each other.

"Politics doesn't interest me," Kite replied. "The political process is tawdry, as whorish as anything you could find in Times Square. I'm not an organizer. I don't speak at conferences. I don't go to demonstrations. I'm not even an activist. I hunt...the truth. My contribution will be the FSG syndrome," he said, voice thickening. "And I do not intend to have all my years of research and investigation trivialized by snide little comments about my objectivity. My syndrome has validity only through contrast," he continued, his noacolor complexion blotching red. "That is the very essence of investigation: friction creates heat, and heat creates light. The light of truth."

"And I come in...where?" I asked him, calling a halt to the flow. I could hear a harsh, resentful intake of breath somewhere behind me. Heather, angry that the minister's sermon was interrupted by some fool talking in church.

He took a deep breath. I heard the tap of spike heels. Heather brought him an earless white china cup, holding it in both hands like a precious offering. He sipped from the cup, inhaling the fumes as he did, pulling in calm. "Forgive me," he said quietly. "I am not normally a passionate man. This...my syndrome...is the one thing that inspires me to emotionalism. Your question is a fair one. I should have anticipated it- and answered it- first. Mr. Burke, I am not usually publicly associated with the cases I investigate. I have no desire for the spotlight, quite the contrary, in fact. But I realize that all causes need publicity if they are to capture the imagination- and the support- of the public. An hour on Oprah is, regrettably, worth more to a cause than a hundred articles in the most prestigious journals.

"Indeed, I will be completely honest with you: Miss Winfrey is one of my objectives. She combines a massive audience with a high degree of personal credibility. And on this particular issue, child sexual abuse, she has been a leading figure in American consciousness."

"I still don't get it," I told him. "You can't just call up and book a spot on Oprah. She doesn't do Siameseatwin lesbian dwarf adultery stuff the way the others do."

"Mr. Burke, believe me, I have thoroughly researched all the available television talk shows. In fact, I've made poor Heather monitor them every day for months," he said, glancing over my shoulder. She made some little sound, too faint for me to recognize. "The sexual abuse industry has made it impossible for a straightforward victim to tell her story. Simple incest won't even get you a booking on the trash shows anymore. It isn't good theater. But in a short time," he said soberly, "a young woman is going to come forward with the most shocking allegations concerning a major figure in a religious organization. She will have no conventional proof other than her own word. She will be immediately embraced by one end of the continuum...and immediately attacked by the other. I plan to stand with her, right in the middle of that firestorm, because every word she will utter will be the truth. I expect to defend her against all the soacalled investigators who will try to tear her story apart. For the first time in my career, I will personally handle a case," he said, voice gathering momentum. "As her attorney, I will sue not only the perpetrator of the crimes against her; I will sue the organization which spawned him and tolerated his predatory conduct. I will fight them when they raise the statute of limitations; I will fight them on the law; I will fight them on the facts." He took a deep breath. "And I will prevail. The truth will prevail."

"So this is all about a lawsuit?" I said.

"No, Mr. Burke," he said sharply, "this is not about a lawsuit. It is about the launch of a new era in the investigation of child sexual abuse. This case will be my credential, my entree to the rarefied air of public credibility. You see, I do expect to be on Oprah. But without my client. The show will not be about this one case, it will be about my syndrome. Before I can establish a new method of investigation, which will disprove false allegations, I need to establish that some allegations are true. Yes, this one case will get me on the show. But I will use the time to illustrate dozens of other cases. Cases in which my syndrome was employed as the ultimate litmus test."

"Yeah, all right. But I still don't see where I come in."

"Because I have to be sure, Mr. Burke. Everything is riding on that one foundation. And unlike others in my profession, I will never fall victim to arrogance. I am convinced to a moral certainty that this young woman is telling the truth. But I cannot take chances, not with an undertaking of this magnitude. I want you to step in now. I want you to do anything you can, and I mean anything at all, to break the young woman's story. If there's a defect anywhere, I want you to find it."

"But if I did find one...?"

"Then there is no case," he said flatly. "And I will wait patiently for another which appears to meet all my criteria. This isn't about money for me, not at all. In fact, I am taking this case pro bono, waiving my fee entirely, including expenses. But I know I will come under fire, and I simply cannot risk being wrong."

"How do you expect me to- ?"

"I don't care what you do, Mr. Burke. I hope I made that crystal clear. I want the truth. Wherever it may be found and whatever it turns out to be. My client has pledged full cooperation. She will answer any questions you have...and do whatever else you want."

"You polygraphed her?"

"Yes. Two separate examiners, with impeccable credentials. No deception was indicated.

"She saw a psychiatrist?"

"And a psychologist. Both agreed: PostaTraumatic Stress Disorder. The psychologist's diagnosis included child sexual abuse as proximate cause. The psychiatrist wouldn't go that far...but they never do."

"Medicals?"

"Inconclusive. You'll see for yourself."

"Independent corrob?"

"Same answer."

"How much time would I have?"

"As much as you need," he said. "I am not going to move forward until I'm absolutely certain. You are the last piece of the puzzle, Mr. Burke. My own investigation is completed- the lawsuit awaits only your own."

"You went to a lot of trouble," I said quietly.

"I always do," he replied.

I could feel Heather behind me, the sheer intensity of her pushing against the cushion of air between us. "How would we work it?" I asked him.

I couldn't read his eyes behind the pink glasses. A tic jumped in his face. "We both know paying someone by the hour leads to potential corruption," he said calmly. "The same goes for paying by the result. I propose a flat fee, openaended. I will be buying your complete investigation, for as long as it takes. And your confidential report."

"I won't- "

"Not in writing, Mr. Burke. You report to me. Verbally. Your name never comes into this."

"And you wouldn't expect me to testify?"

A smile snaked its way from one corner of his mouth, disappearing when it reached the far end. "No offense, Mr. Burke, but your record makes you something less than an ideal candidate for courtroom testimony."

"None taken," I assured him.

"Then there's only the matter of your fee."

"I don't know how to estimate a job like this," I told him. "Could take a long time to- "

"I understand. Still...I was thinking, say, thirty thousand dollars. In cash, of course. Payable oneathird now, oneathird as you progress, and the final third when you tender your report."

"I was thinking seventyafive," I said, taking the traditional gangster lawyer's route: more than double your asking fee, get the biggest chunk you can right then, and expect the client to stiff you for the rest. "Half up front, half when I'm done."

"Yes, I'm sure," he said smoothly. "Perhaps a compromise is in order. Heather!"

I heard the tap of her heels, caught a glimpse of her blackasheathed hips as she brushed past me to my left. She was back in a minute, carrying a slim black anodizedaaluminum case. She bent forward, her back to Kite, and put the case in my lap.

"There's fifty thousand dollars in there, Mr. Burke," he said. "In a form I'm certain will be acceptable to you. Will you take that as payment in full?"

I took it as a signal we were done playing this game. "Yes," I told him.

He nodded as solemnly as if we just signed a ceaseafire treaty. "As soon as my client is available for your first interview, I'll call you."

I got to my feet, the aluminum briefcase in my hand. If Kite was surprised I hadn't opened it, his face didn't give it away.

Heather led me to the grille. When she got a few feet away, she stopped, slowly enough so I could see it coming. I stopped too. She backed up, one little step at a time, until her bottom was pressed hard against my crotch. The thick corset made it feel like a side of beef. "Thank you," she whispered, shifting her hips.

"Your ankle must hurt in those shoes," I said.

"I'm real good with pain," she said, twitching her bottom against me again. "And I still owe you. Don't forget."

The next morning was a Sunday. The blue dragon tapestry was in the window of Mama's restaurant. Cops inside. I wasn't worried about it- cops were always dropping in, wasting their time asking questions. There was plenty to ask about. The Chinese youth gangs had pretty much given up trying to get a toehold on the gambling industry. Their elders had been at it too long, had too many connections. And the young ones had decimated their own ranks in bloody turf wars that made the old Colombian killacrews look like Quakers.

The new crew was mostly Fukinese, and their latest game is kidnapping. They aren't any good at it. The wild kids snatched shop owners right out of their houses, dragged them to some abandoned apartment building, tortured them into calling their families. The snatching was easy, but the vicious amateurs never mastered the art of the ransom exchange. Though they mostly got nabbed, the body counts kept going up, and the business community was pressuring the cops hard.

When I was a kid, one of my foster homes was right on the Chinatown border. The old border, next to Little Italy. Some of the kids I knew had real mothers, not the Stateapaid ones I got. I always listened to what real mothers said, trying to see if I could hear the difference in their voices, how come they had wanted their kids. The real mothers always pointed to the Chinese kids as role models. So studious, hardworking. So polite and respectful. You wouldn't see those kids hanging out on street corners or in some stupid gang. No, not then. We let immigrants build this country, then we leave our mark on them for gratitude.

Mama wouldn't touch rough stuff and the cops knew it. They knew she wouldn't talk to them too, but they kept coming.

I had time to kill, but I didn't want to leave the neighborhood, so I drifted over to a sidewalk kiosk.

"You got the Racing Edition?" I asked the Chinese woman, pointing at the comics section that covers the Sunday News.

"Not ready yet," she said, nodding her head at various stacks of the different sections waiting to be assembled into one edition. "You need coupons?" she asked brightly, holding out a colorful sheaf.

"No thanks," I said.

The woman deftly flicked the coupons sideways into a large carton without looking and went back to her work. A little girl, maybe nine years old- her daughter- was sitting at a makeshift desk inside the kiosk. Someone had juryarigged a single bare lightbulb for the child to work by. Behind her was a perfect cardboard imitation of the wall of slots they use for mail at hotel desks. The scissors in her small hands flashed as she snipped the brilliantlyacolored sheets of coupons into individual units, sticking them in the pigeonholes without looking.

I stopped by the door to light a cigarette. A white woman wearing a quilted green parka pushed past me, asked the kiosk operator: "You have any for Pampers?"

"Sure, we got. How many you need?"

"Twenty?"

"Pampers?" the Chinese woman called out to the little girl.

"Yes," the child said gravely, handing over the coupons.

"Twenty coupons, 50 cents off, two dollars," the Chinese woman told the customer.

"That's...what? Twenty per cent?," the woman in the green parka said. "No. I'll go a dollar, okay?"

"Dollar fifty," the Chinese woman said, holding out the coupons.

The white woman reached in her purse.

The little girl made a mark in her schoolbook, adding to a neat column of figures.

The old woman was a good poacher. Most people don't give a damn about the coupons, so she pulled them out of every paper. If somebody bitched, she could always give them back. And the white woman had just saved herself some real money too. Even with her Sunday paper costing an extra buck and a half, she was still way ahead of the game. If you know where to shop, you can buy anything in this city.

When I walked by the second time, the white dragon was back in the window. I went around to the alley in the back, slapped my gloved palm against the door. One of the thugs let me in. I took my booth in the back. The soup arrived about the same time Mama did. She serves it around the clock, always keeps a giant pot bubbling in the kitchen, throwing stuff in from time to time as the mood seizes her. It's the only thing she ever cooks herself.

"You had visitors?" I asked her.

"Not me," Mama said. "You. Bull cop."

That wasn't slang for Mama. Only one cop it could mean. Morales, the human streetasweeper. A while back, he'd been stalking me- some unsolved homicides inside a house of childamolesting beasts in the Bronx. I was guilty, all right, but he couldn't lay a glove on me no matter how many rounds we danced. Then I got caught between him and a psychotic woman detective fronting for a serial rapeamurderer. At least that's what I thought, right until the end. She shot Morales, I shot her. She died. He took the shooting for himself, ended up a hero in the process. Morales always hated me. Probably still did. But he was a man, and he paid his debts.

"What'd he want?" I asked.

"He say, 'Kite is dirty.'"

"That's all."

"Yes. He wait for you. Long time. Order plenty food."

"He eat the food?"

"No."

"He pay for it?"

"Yes. Leave money on table. Right there," she said, pointing to a corner table.

"He say he want me to call him?"

"No. Say 'Kite is dirty. Tell Burke. Kite is dirty.' Then get up and go."

"Okay. Look, Mama- "

"You not like soup?"

"Oh. Sorry," I said, spooning up a mouthful. "It's perfect, Mama. As always."

"Yes. Max be here soon, okay?"

"Okay. And the Prof, you found him too?"

"Everybody come. Before ten, okay?"