He slumped into the chair, slid down on his spine, put one ankle to his knee, munched on his knuckle. "Look, I know, okay. It is wide open." He dug into a pocket abruptly, came up with a sealed envelope on which there was some neat printing. He tossed the envelope to the desk and Karen reached for it, wary but curious.

"What is this?"

"My take," he said tersely.

She picked up her reading glasses and frowned over the words. "May 4, 1972: $150.00 to Ptl. Peter Caputo #1897326; given by Ptl. John Morrison #148790." She looked up at him over the rim of her glasses. "Then you're 'on the pad'?"

"Yeah. Oh, hell, yes, lady. I've rented a safe-deposit box and I've deposited four of those envelopes so far. Marked them just like I marked that one. Evidence for the future, but, Jesus, I don't know who to present it to."

Karen Day felt the beginnings of excitement. The articles by the young reporter had been vague, glib, a cop out. He'd been interviewed by the district attorney and all he'd come up with were secondhand hearsay allegations. Her new show hadn't caught the public's eye; there weren't too many people interested in corruption in the housing administration or the sewer department.

The Police Department was another story.

Brian was annoyed when his son asked him what was doing on the investigation relative to Pete Caputo's charges, but if he was honest with himself, he had to admit that he was less annoyed with Patrick than with Aaron Levine. The least the guy could have done was to have given him a yea or nay. He didn't particularly like having to call Levine, but he wanted to make sure that the assurance he'd given his son was justified.

"It's a coincidence that you're calling me, Chief O'Malley," Deputy Chief Inspector Aaron Levine said. "I had a notation to myself to buzz you today. Listen, that matter that we discussed. It's been looked into and the charge is without foundation."

Ed Shea drained the last of his coffee, wiped his mouth and glanced around the expensive restaurant appreciatively. "Brian, you always did know how to live. For Christ's sake, they treat you like royalty."

Brian winked, nodded at the waiter that everything was to his satisfaction and nothing further was required at the moment. Brian studied Ed Shea and grinned.

"Jesus, I still think we're the two best-looking guys from the Class of '40. Not to mention two of the most successful."

They always wound up their occasional dinner together with a few wisecracks and reminiscences. They always complimented themselves and each other on their rise in the Department and the number of men from their Police Academy class who had risen with them. And those who hadn't.

"Hey, I was down at the Police Academy last week," Brian said, "and I ran into Francis Kelly's youngest kid. He's a cadet, working the switchboard." Brian remembered the heavy-set, thick-cheeked eighteen-year-old. "Christ, he's a ringer for his mother."

"How the hell is Francis anyway? Jesus, I don't think I've seen him since he retired."

Brian shrugged. "Ah, you know, Ed. You lose touch. Especially when a guy goes out. The kid said Francis is still at the bank. That's a hell of a way to go, you know? I could never see it."

Ed Shea lit a long, thin cigar and carefully turned his face to one side as he blew smoke from between his pursed lips. He closed his eyes appreciatively for a moment. "You know, Bri, these younger kids today have the right idea. They put their time in and get a college degree. Jesus, they can go out in twenty years and collect half pay plus step right into teaching. Wasn't that way in our time. But we were pretty lucky, all in all."

"Yeah, I've got no complaints."

There was a bit longer pause, as though they both were aware of having exhausted through a long and leisurely meal most of the small talk.

Ed Shea said, "Hey, how's Kevin? Jesus, last time I saw you he was having that ulcer taken care of. He ever have that surgery?"

Brian shook his head. "Kevin and his ulcer are going to be together a long time. He's fine once he gets out to Montauk for a month or so. He's been talking about packing it in for a while and moving out to Montauk permanently, but he's still got his youngest in high school. I guess in about a couple of years he will. He's got a nice place out there."

Ed Shea grinned and shook his head. "I can't picture Kevin out of harness. He'd he out with the fishermen two months and he'd be looking to take over as chief of police."

"I won't say the thought hasn't occurred to him," Brian confided.

His younger brother was a lieutenant in the Arson Squad and in fifteen years hadn't had a vacation that wasn't interrupted by a summons to come back for consultation on a case.

"Sometimes I think Kev should have been a fireman. Jesus, I wouldn't have his job for anything. So, Ed, how goes things with you?"

Ed Shea, a large, handsome, well-cared-for man, tilted his head to one side. He was well aware of his appearance: curly dark hair streaked with gray, sideburns longer than he'd ever worn them, sunlamp tan to add to his good looks. He had the look of a man who was contented with himself and with his lot in life.

"I got a number of good years left, Bri. How about you? I don't think you put on five pounds in twenty years." Ed Shea patted his own stomach and pulled a face. "Jesus, you know I'm always on a diet. If I eat a normal amount of food, I swear I put on fifteen pounds as easy as chewing."

They kidded each other about boyish appearances and it was true; they were both in good condition; each knew it and was pleased to measure himself against the other.

"How's Rita?" Brian asked. "Young and beautiful as ever?"

Ed Shea's mouth pulled down for a brief, passing moment before he gave the required assurances that his wife was all she should be. There had always been rumors about Ed Shea's marriage. He'd married a girl from a wealthy background and they lived well beyond a policeman's means: private school for their two daughters, considerable traveling around the world. On the rare occasions that Brian had attended a party at the Sheas', it was always a catered affair and anyone from the job was suitably impressed and awed. Rita had always been proper and polite to Ed's police friends; beneath the tight smile, there was always that slight indication of distaste.

"Rita's fine," Ed said. He shrugged, grinned. "You know women."

Brian signaled for the check; they did some kidding back and forth, but it had been understood that dinner was on Brian and he signed the check and slipped the waiter a bill. Then, instead of leaving, Brian leaned over a second cup of coffee. Ed Shea declined a second cup, relit his cigar, tensed just slightly. And waited.

"Jesus, they make good coffee." Brian carefully put the cup back on the saucer, stared at the black liquid for a minute, then looked up at Ed Shea. "There's something I think you ought to know, Ed."

Ed Shea removed the cigar from between his lips, held the slight quizzical smile, cocked his head to one side. "Yeah, Bri? What's that?"

"Well, just something I think you should look into yourself. If it's gotten to me, it'll travel to other ears."

Several things flashed through Ed Shea's mind, several derelictions, both personal and official, but his expression never changed. He'd caught the tension all during the lunch. There had been a few empty, blank, silent moments and there had been something just behind Brian's quick wisecracking and easy bantering talk. He dropped his hand over the ashtray and carefully, lovingly tipped the white ash off his cigar.

"Okay, Brian, if I should hear something, suppose you tell me."

"It's gotten to me that there is a pad flourishing in your division. Widespread. Wide open. I think the best way would be for you to look into it directly."

Ed Shea narrowed his eyes against the acrid smoke of the thin cigar and studied Brian O'Malley for a moment, then he moved his head just slightly, a fraction of an inch. "Thanks, Bri," he said quietly, and in the silence it was difficult for each of the two friends to know what the other was thinking. "Well, that was a hell of a good feed," Ed Shea said somewhat boisterously as he stood up, extended his hand. "That's one I owe you, kid."

"We gotta keep in touch, Ed, gotta do this more often."

"Right, kid, you bet."

Johnnie Morrison felt a long rivulet of sweat down the side of his temple and he casually wiped it away with the palm of his hand. He was glad it was dark; Pete might have noticed that he was sweating. It was the only outward sign of anything. Hell, it was the only sign. Inside, Johnnie was as calm as he'd ever felt in his life; more than calm. He felt almost peculiar, at peace, happy, on top of everything in the whole world. He didn't even wonder how he could feel this way, just accepted it and went with it. Just the damn sweat, on his lip, down his face, along his body. Well, the hell with it.

"I wanna check that Macy's warehouse over on Tenth Avenue and Thirty-sixth Street," Johnnie said quietly. "Uniform guy told me that there was an attempted bust-in last night. You'd be surprised how stupid some of these guys are; they don't score one night, they come back right away. They figure you won't figure they'd do that."

Pete Caputo made a left turn, drove toward Tenth Avenue. He was as tense as Morrison was calm. There was something wrong; he'd known it for days. Nothing had changed, nothing he could put his finger on, yet he knew instinctively that something was very wrong. He'd seen something in Morrison's expression one night, a quick, studying, calculating glance, then he'd looked away, as though he'd been caught at something shameful. He never said anything, never indicated anything; just something was wrong.

He'd had the feeling he'd been followed for nearly a week now but he wouldn't let himself give in to that. That was too crazy. He'd been careful of his visits to Karen Day; he'd met her in coffeehouses and at her apartment. He was sure she was convinced he was telling the truth. She'd said she'd been talking to her producers about making some equipment available: vans with cameras and really good audio equipment. He'd promised to wear a wire because he knew she'd do what the D.A. couldn't or wouldn't do: get the bastards at the top.

As they drove up Tenth, Johnnie Morrison hummed softly to himself, then whistled a tuneless continuation of his song. Suddenly, he grabbed Pete's arm, pointed across 31st Street toward the waterfront.

"Did you see that guy?"

Pete shook his head. He'd been staring at the long line of traffic lights along the empty middle-of-the-night street.

"Keep cruising, keep cruising. Christ, if that's who I think it is, this is perfect."

"What? What's perfect?"

Johnnie Morrison bit his lip, shook his head. "Look, go up two blocks, circle back and then we'll come up on him. Hit the left side of the street"

"But who is the guy?"

"Remember that nigger wanted out in Cleveland for killing two cops? I'd swear on a stack of Bibles that's the bastard leaning against that white convertible on the corner."

Caputo was confused; he tried to see if Morrison was serious. "But...Johnnie, how the hell could you tell? Did you really get that good a look at him? Gee, I don't even remember the flier. Are you sure?"

"Sure enough to want a better look. Okay, okay, slow down and pull up to the curb and cut the motor. He hasn't even seen us. He's waiting for someone. And there's nothing around here but warehouses so he's up to no good, that's for fucking sure."

They slid from the car silently, slipped into the shadows against the building. He was a tall, dark Negro, dressed in sports clothes, middle-aged, slight Afro, hands jammed into his pockets. He shifted from one foot to the other and looked up, startled, frightened, as the two men confronted him.

Johnnie Morrison held his revolver level with the man's chest.

"Hey? Hey, what is this? What is this?"

He started to pull his hands from his trouser pockets when Johnnie Morrison shot him twice, once in the heart, once in the stomach.

Pete Caputo, stunned, his revolver slack in his hand, turned to his partner. "Johnnie? Jesus Christ, Johnnie, what did you do?"

The strange warm calmness filled Johnnie Morrison, the certainty that things were going to work out just fine. He raised his left hand, pointed a second revolver at Pete Caputo's face.

"Why, buddy, I just killed the fucking nigger who killed my partner."

He fired just once. It was all that was necessary.

FORTY-ONE.

BRIAN DRANK THE BLACK coffee and made a face. It had grown cold in the heavy mug on his cluttered desk. He rubbed his eyes, felt the stubble on his cheeks and chin. He moved his hand around in the top side drawer of his desk and found some shaving equipment.

Lieutenant Fitzgerald tapped lightly on the door and entered the office. His only concession to the long hours was a loosened collar and pulled-down tie.

"I have a copy of Morrison's statement, Chief. And here's a list of telephone calls that came for you while you were on the wire with Chief Pollack."

"Okay, leave them. Listen, I'm going to take a quick shave and then I've got a meeting with Chief Pollack." He scanned the messages, tucked them into the corner of his desk blotter; Karen Day had called twice. "You can tell any media people that a statement will be issued from the Chief Inspector's office this afternoon."

There was a lot of white in with the black of his tough beard and he scraped the dull razor and cursed about the poor light and the flecks of blood along his jawline. He felt seedy and needed a shower. He'd been going since he'd gotten the call from Headquarters at three-forty-five in the morning. It was past noon and all he'd had was a few cups of bad coffee and a slightly stale Danish.

Based on the initially vague facts, in his car on his way to the scene he jotted down the initial statement for the press: standard release under standard circumstances. A police officer was killed in the performance of his duty; suspect was shot and killed by the officer's partner.

It wasn't until he arrived at the scene of the killing that he knew the dead officer was Pete Caputo. Caputo's partner, Johnnie Morrison, told a simple, straightforward story. En route to check out the warehouse on 36th Street and Tenth Avenue, they spotted suspect leaning against a car on the corner of 31st Street and Tenth. Patrolman Caputo remarked that the man bore a close resemblance to one Clarence Phillips, a felon wanted in Cleveland in connection with the shooting of two police officers. They circled hack, parked the car, approached the suspect, identified themselves, at which time the suspect raised a revolver, which he apparently had been holding, fired once point-blank at Patrolman Caputo, killing him instantly.

Patrolman Morrison fired his service revolver twice, killing the perpetrator.

Arthur Pollack's voice in their last conversation still puzzled him. It was as thin and drawn as fine wire. "I want you over here as soon as possible, Brian. There's something odd in all of this. Something that doesn't fit."

Arthur Pollack massaged his eyes gently with his fingertips. They were red-rimmed and his complexion was gray. He picked up the mug of tea, swallowed, shrugged. "I have a sore throat," he said, "and according to my wife tea and lemon are the next best thing to bed rest." He felt his hot forehead and sighed. "Frankly, I prefer bed rest. However. Well, Brian, here's what's come up. The 'perpetrator' has been identified as one Martin Osmond of 88 Interwood Terrace, Manhattan; age forty-eight years; born U.S.; married. Professor of chemistry at C.C.N.Y." He looked up from the slip of paper which contained the information. "Brian, he was waiting to take his son home from work. The son is a college student who works two nights a week at the warehouse at Thirty-first Street and Tenth Avenue, a seven P.M. to three A.M. shift. The boy's car was stolen last week and his father didn't want him to travel by subway." Arthur touched lightly along the side of his throat and swallowed painfully. His voice was rasping and dry. "The man felt it was dangerous for his son to travel on public facilities, so he drove down to pick him up." Arthur spread his hands in a futile, puzzled gesture. "So what in God's name have we got here, Brian? What was a man like that doing with a loaded revolver which for no reason at all he points in the face of a policeman and fires?"

Carefully, Brian asked, "You got people doing complete backgrounds on both the father and son? Chief, you know as well as I do, sometimes the most seemingly decent people can become involved in things."

Pollack held his throat, swallowed some tea, shook his head. He sounded anguished, but whether from physical pain or circumstance, Brian couldn't tell. "Brian, these were very fine people and I want to know what the hell happened last night."

Johnnie Morrison leaned back in the large leather-upholstered chair and carefully pushed his fingertips through his thick hair so that the effect was casual and ruffled.

"Tell me again, Patrolman Morrison," Chief O'Malley said. "Tell me right from the beginning. Just go over the whole thing like I never heard any of it before."

Morrison glanced at the Chief of Detectives, who nodded, then he sighed, rearranged himself more comfortably in the chair, and in a sad and patient manner, he carefully recited the events of the previous night in an emotionless monotone. There was no slightest deviation from what he had already recited over and over again.

The telephone messages piled up; Karen Day called again. His son Patrick telephoned twice. The Commissioner's office called and Brian was to attend a conference at 4 P.M.

He added the memorandums to the others, lit another cigarette and dialed quickly. Lieutenant Fitzgerald poked his head into the office but Brian waved him away and the young lieutenant backed off discreetly.

"Inspector Shea's office," a bright young voice informed him.

"Put Inspector Shea on, this is Chief O'Malley."

After a moment of background sounds, Ed's voice was in his ear, a little tight, a little forced. "Hey, Chief. Hell of a thing, this shooting, huh? What's up?"

"Ed, I want to see you. Some place where we can talk."

There was a brief silence, then Ed Shea suggested a bar on Third Avenue in the 50's.

Shea looked tired; his eyes were narrowed to slits and what showed was red and irritated. "You want a sandwich, Brian?"

Brian shook his head. "No, just coffee is fine." He waited while Ed consulted the menu and finally ordered a hamburger, which was the house specialty.

"I can't remember when, or for that matter what, I ate last," Ed said apologetically. "Jesus, it's getting a little harder to take the long hours, Brian, don't you find that?"

He closed his eyes for a moment, rubbed them delicately with his well-groomed fingers, sighed and then he became very still, his dark eyes settled now on Brian's face. "Well, what's up, buddy?"

Brian licked his lips, shook his head as though to clear it. His voice was thick from exhaustion and far too many cigarettes, yet automatically, distastefully, he lit another. It tasted bitter and gave no pleasure or comfort.

"Ed, this is a bad one. What do you know about this guy Johnnie Morrison?"

Ed Shea shrugged slightly, a fractional move of his shoulders, but the muscles around his mouth tightened. It seemed that everything about him tightened imperceptibly. Some tension seemed to emanate from him, yet was quickly covered, obliterated by his expression of concern. "What's the problem, Bri?"

Brian roughly rubbed a hand over his face, took a deep unhealthy drag on the cigarette and said hoarsely, "He's lying. His story doesn't hold water."

Ed Shea's voice was steady and calm, as though he hadn't heard what Brian had just said. He spoke softly and rationally, almost persuasively. "We've got a dead patrolman, Brian. Killed in the line of duty. And we've got a dead perpetrator, killed right on the spot by the patrolman's partner." His hand on the table turned palm upward; his dark brows rose simultaneously. "I don't see any problem."

"Ed, this guy, Martin Osmond, was a professor at C.C.N.Y. He was waiting to pick his son up from work. They're both clean, father and son. Upstanding citizens. Why the hell would he suddenly pull a gun and shoot"-Brian snapped his fingers-"just like that?"