"Yeah," she said dryly. "Anyway, this Kite's a strange bird all right. He said to me- actually, he swore to me- that he's just after the truth. That if he ever found a real standaup case, he'd go to the mat with it. For the kid, not the defendant."

"And you've heard that before..."

"I have. Lots of times. But with this guy, I wouldn't swear to it. Either way."

"Thanks."

"You want the documents?"

"Yeah. Whatever you have. And maybe the watch, too."

"Are you in something?" she asked quietly.

"I might be. I don't know. But if I go down the tunnel, I'd like some light."

"Chiara- you talked to her before- she lives around here. Goes for a run every afternoon around five. She'll have the documents with her tomorrow, okay?"

"The blonde girl with the pit bull?"

"That's an AmStaff," Wolfe said, smiling.

"Sure," I told her. "Whatever you say."

"Give her the money," Wolfe said by way of goodbye. She turned and walked away. Suddenly she pivoted, stepped back toward me. I walked up to meet her. She stood very close, voice low, hardly moving her lips. "He's got a lot of friends," she said. "If something happened to him, there'd be a lot of people looking."

"He got a lot of enemies?" I asked her innocently.

"Those too," she said.

"Anything happening?" I asked Mama from the pay phone on the fringe of the park.

"Woman call. Say you call Kite tomorrow morning, okay?"

"Okay. Anything else?"

"No. Burke..."

"What?"

"Woman very angry."

"Why? What did she say?"

"Say nothing. What I tell you, that's all."

"So?"

"Under her voice. Very angry."

"At me?"

"I don't know. But very angry. Maybe you- "

"I'm always careful, Mama," I told her.

When someone at Kite's social level says "morning," they mean: any time past nine. Me, I was raised different. You knew it was morning by the PA system blaring in the corridor. That was prison. Before that, it was the juvenile institution, with the bossaman sticking his ugly head into the dorm room and screaming at you. Most of the time, in the juvie joints, I was awake anyway- hard to sleep when it could cost you so much to close your eyes or turn your back.

I never heard an alarm clock when I was a kid, not even in the freakish foster home they sentenced me to that first time. They woke me up there with a kick or a slap. Once with a pot of scalding water. I told the social worker it had been an accident- told her I tripped right near the stove. She didn't believe me. I didn't want her to believe me. But she acted like she did, and nothing ever happened.

If it hadn't been for the fire, they would have left me in that place.

I watched the darkness lift, sitting with Pansy on my rusty fire escape, smoking a peaceful cigarette, scratching her behind her ears the way she likes. I had the cell phone with me, complete with a newly cloned number good for at least another few days, but time wasn't pressing so there was no need to risk it. I heated up a pint of roast pork almond ding Mama had insisted I take with me last visit. Pansy's the only dog I ever heard of who loves almonds. But until I run across something she won't eat, I'm not going to be too impressed with it. Me, I had some rye toast, dry, and some ice water.

I ate slowly, reading the paper. The usual mulch of crime and whine. Another little girl tortured to death. Child Protective Services couldn't comment on the rumor that they'd returned the kid to her mother after the last abuse and never bothered to check up on her again. After all, their records are confidential. To protect the kids. Lying maggots. Politicians promised an investigation as the usual babblers ranted on: If you're a parent and you feel like hurting your kid, seek counseling. Yeah, that ought to do it. Next thing you know, they'll be telling incest victims to Just Say No.

Of course, a spontaneous memorial sprung up outside the building where the little girl died: handwritten poetry about how much everybody loved her, pictures cut from newspapers. Flowers as dead as that baby. But that's okay- it'll make the late news on TV. And they'll have an open-casket wake, so there'll be plenty of photo ops too.

All that concern for dead babies, none of it for the living ones. Everything as empty as a President's promise.

I felt a shudder of hate, like someone had pulled a string of broken glass right through my spine. I stared for a long time at the red dot I'd painted on my mirror, breathing deep through my nose all the way down into my groin....

When I came out of it, it was almost three hours later. I didn't think about where I'd gone, but I didn't like the fear-stink in the room.

I took a shower and tried to start over. I worked on my mail for a while, keeping the lines out, trolling for freaks. They're the easiest to sting, especially the stalkers who want kids. But the Internet has changed the game a bit- they all want samples now. I know this guy. Everyone calls him Spike. Doesn't leave his house much, and doesn't say why. But he hates the babyarapers and he's real good with software- you lock modems with this boy, your hard drive's going to fry.

Spike lets me use one of his machines for an Eamail drop, but I only tap it for big scores, not the nickelaandadime stuff I usually work. It's all anarchy on the Internet now. Makes me nervous. I'm more comfortable when I know the rules- it's easier to cheat.

"Mr. Kite's office." It was the woman, a tightness in her husky voice.

"It's Burke," I said. "Returning his call."

"Thank you. Can you come over? There's some information you need to have. Before you make up your mind."

"Come over now?"

"Yes. If that's convenient."

"I need about an hour, hour and a half."

"That would be fine."

There was enough of a snap in the air to justify me putting on a leather jacket over a denim work shirt and a pair of cargo pants. I laced up a pair of work boots, patted myself down to make sure I had everything else, tapped Mama's number into the cellular, told her where I was going. Now that Wolfe had confirmed Kite was a major player, I wasn't worried about him pulling up stakes. And Max knew where to find him if he was going to be stupid.

It didn't feel like that though.

I walked over to Foley Square, taking my time, and grabbed the 6 Train uptown.

I found a seat next to a white kid with the sides of his head shaved but centeraparted long hair flopping down each side of his narrow face. He had a pair of headphones tight on his head but I could still hear the bass line pounding through. He was nodding to himself, playing Russian roulette with his eardrums.

I got out at Fiftyafirst. The streets were quiet- still too early for the twoahouralunch crowd. I snapped a halfasmoked cigarette into the gutter and stepped into Kite's building.

The doorman opened his mouth to say something about the service entrance, but I beat him to the punch with Kite's name. He picked up the desk phone, announced me, listened for a second, then waved me into the private elevator with no change of facial expression. He was a professional assakisser, reserving his special talent for members only.

The ancient elevator car's hydraulics were as wellagreased as Congress- it rocked slightly but didn't make a sound on the way up. The door opened to show me the woman, Heather, standing behind the grille. She was wrapped in a gauzy piece of red chiffon, heavy makeup masking her face. Her hair was sleek and shiny; in the faint light, it looked the same color as the blackacherry soda I used to love when I was a kid.

She stepped back so I could swing the grille open. The chiffon wrap was open to the waist, cinched tightly with a belt of the same material. Her breasts looked artificial in the dim light, jutting huge and rigid, the nipples so heavily rouged they almost disappeared.

I closed the grille behind me. When I turned back to face her, she was already walking down the hall without a word. I stepped behind her, not too close. Her hands went to her waist, came away with the sash. She shrugged her shoulders and the wrap slid off. She kept walking, barefoot, naked except for a red garter high on her thick right thigh. Released from the bondage of the corset she'd been wearing the last time, her body was still curvy, but soft and fleshy, shimmering with every bouncy, assured step she took.

As she turned the corner into the big open room, she suddenly stopped dead in her tracks. I stopped too, just in time to keep from blundering into her. She spun on her heel and whirled to face me, a left hook coming up from around her hip, catching me right under the cheekbone. I dropped with the punch. As I hit the ground, I whipped my left leg around on the slick hardwood floor- the toe of my heavy boot cracked hard into her ankle. Her leg wouldn't hold her and she fell forward, right on top of me. I took her face into my chest as I fired a twoafinger strike into the side of her neck. She gasped in pain and tried to claw at my face, snarling some foulness I couldn't understand, but I had my forearms crossed and she never got through. I turned under her, just in time to take her knee on the outside of my thigh, pulled my right hand free and hit her with a sharp, digging punch just under her ribs- I felt her breath go. I spun with the punch, got her facedown on the floor, and rammed my knee into her spine as I reached forward and locked her jaw with both hands. "One snap and you're in a fucking wheelchair for life, bitch!" I whispered in her ear.

Her whole body shook, but she didn't try to break the hold. "You done?" I asked her.

"Yes," she said quietly, her body limp.

I backed off her, carefully. She stayed facedown on the floor, pulling in ragged breaths. A muscle jumped right over the red garter on the back of her thigh.

A minute passed. I slipped my right hand into my jacket pocket, palmed a roll of quarters, made a fist. Waited.

She slid her knees forward so her hips were elevated, but she kept her face on the floor. It was a submissive position, like an animal calling off a territorial fight. "Can I get up?" she said.

"Do it slow," I told her.

She tried to put some weight on her left leg, but it was no go. She gave it up and turned to face me on her knees, eyes on mine, gazing up. She didn't look submissive any longer- her orange eyes were as cold and watchful as a lizard's.

"What the fuck was that?" I asked.

"A warning," she said, still short of breath, but her voice hard. "It was supposed to be a beating. Just to show you. I thought, if you saw me naked all of a sudden, you'd be...frozen. And I could get the first shot in, before you realized..." She gulped down another breath, eyes still steady on mine. "I thought you'd take it- I didn't think you'd hit a woman."

"You had bad information," I told her.

"No," she said. "I had good information. But I didn't listen. He always warns me about that. Not listening."

"You're still not listening. I asked you: What was that all about, jumping me?"

"A message. That you better not play him wrong. If you do, I'll kill you."

"You don't have to worry about that, you crazy bitch- I'm done with this."

"You can't," she hissed. "He'll..."

"What?"

"He doesn't know anything about this. I mean it. He's not even here. He didn't know you were coming today. This was all mine. I read your file and I was...afraid for him. This is important. Really important. You'll never know how much. It means everything to him."

"You got a funny way of- "

"And he means everything to me," she cut in. Everything, you understand? I did it wrong, okay. You want to kick my ass now, that's okay too. Go ahead- I won't say anything."

"I don't care what you say," I told her, meaning it.

"You have to do it," she said, looking down at the floor, her voice soft. "Please."

"I don't have to do anything."

"I'll make it up to you. I promise. I'll make it worth your while. Just tell me what you want..."

I stepped carefully around her, kept going all the way to the front door. She called something softly at my back. I closed the door behind me, leaving her there.

I could feel my face swelling under the skin, but I didn't think the cheekbone was broken. Putting my fingers to the pain, I couldn't feel my pulse in the damaged flesh. Not too bad, then.

The subway glass reflected back my image, just starting to go swollen and discolored, the eye already closed. Nobody but me was interested- straphangers see worse every day.

I spent the rest of the ride reading the posters. My favorite was from a law firm: BABY BORN BRAINaDAMAGED?

YOU MAY BE ENTITLED TO A LARGE CASH AWARD!.

FREE CONSULTATION- NO FEE

UNLESS WE GET MONEY FOR YOU!.

Back at the office, I cracked open one of those InstaaCold packs they sell in drugstores, squeezed it in the middle until the liquid formed inside, and held the artificial ice against my cheek while I reached out for Mama on the cellular.

"That woman call. Call twice. She say, you call her, okay? Very, very important. Call right now."

That was quick. "Anything else?" I asked her.

"Girl call too. Bondi. Say to call her too. Very important also, okay?"

"Okay."

"You need Max?"