"I don't know," she said, crisply.

"He seems like the kind of guy who'd be looking around," he offered.

"Pot and kettle."

"Hey-I didn't say it was bad. I just wondered about him and Fell. That's a match made in hell."

"She's very attractive."

"I guess, if you like the type," Kennett said. "She looks like a biker chick who fell off the Harley one too many times. Why'd you put him with her? Some kind of psychological compulsion to bury your sexual history?"

"No, no, no. We just needed somebody who knew Midtown fences . . . ."

"Yeah, but Davenport's supposed to be a talking head."

"He's never a talking head. Even when he's talking. The guy has more moves than you do, and you're the sneakiest, shiftiest . . ."

" . . . crookedest . . ."

" . . . most underhanded asshole on the force. Besides, he had to do something to get the media to talk to him."

"I suppose." Kennett's fingertips slipped along her thigh again, her skin soft and slightly cool from evaporating sweat. "We'll either have to get a sheet to cover up or figure out some way to warm up the place again."

Lily groped for his groin and said, "Oh, Jesus. Are you sure? Dick . . ."

He rolled into her, his arm around her, pulling her tight. "That's the word, all right. Dick."

"Be serious."

"All right. How's this: I really do need you; it's the thing that keeps my heart going . . . ."

Much later, when he was sleeping, she thought: They can all make you feel guilty; it's what they do best. . . .

CHAPTER.

14.

The phone rang early and Lucas rolled out of the blankets, dropped his feet to the floor and sat a moment before he picked up the receiver. "Yeah?"

"How's your head?" Kennett sounded wide awake and almost chipper.

"Better," Lucas said. He couldn't seem to focus and noticed that the window shade was bright with low-angle sunshine. "What time is it?"

"Seven o'clock."

"Ah, Jesus, man, I don't get up at seven . . . ." His face hurt again, and when he turned toward the bed, he noticed a spot of blood on the pillowcase.

"Hey, it's a great day, but it's gonna be hot," Kennett said cheerfully.

"Thanks. If you hadn't called, I woulda had to look out the window . . . ." What's going on?

"I understand that you and Fell talked to a guy named Whitechurch yesterday, at Bellevue?"

"Yeah?"

"Bekker took him off last night."

"What?" Lucas stood up, trying to understand.

"Shot him in a hallway. Cut his eyes," Kennett said.

"The morgue guys said it's gotta be Bekker, 'cause it was done too well to be a copycat. And with you talking to him about Bekker, there's no way it's a coincidence. When they called me, a couple of hours ago now, I shipped Carter over to the hospital. Somebody there finally figured out that cops were talking to Whitechurch yesterday . . . ."

"Ah, Jesus," Lucas said. "Whitechurch was wrong, too. We knew it. We knew he was bullshitting us."

"How'd you get onto him?"

"A fence," Lucas said. "Down on the Lower East Side."

"Smith?"

"No, a small-timer, a woman named Arnold. We'll go back and talk to her, but I don't think she has any connection with Whitechurch except to handle occasional shipments from him. But why was Bekker talking to Whitechurch again? More equipment?"

"Whitechurch was dealing dope," Kennett said.

"Ah. For sure?"

"Yeah, we got it from a couple of places. And I'd bet that's where the halothane is from."

"Telephones?"

"We sent a subpoena over, and the phone company's mopping up their computers right now. They'll run back all the calls that came into Whitechurch's apartment and his office phone, both, and where they came from, for the last two months."

"That should do it," Lucas said. "Fell's got a beeper: if you find him, call us. I'd like to see the end of it."

"Mmm. It doesn't feel that easy," Kennett said.

"All right. Well: I'll get Fell and get back to the fence. Goddammit, why'd Whitechurch cover for him? That'd be something to figure out."

Lucas called Fell and told her.

"Did we mess it up?" she asked anxiously.

"No. We barely touched the guy-there was no way to know. But Kennett's people are all over him now. Everybody who knew him. We've got to talk to what's-her-name, the fence."

"Arnold. Rose."

"Yeah . . . So what's your status? Are you ready?" Lucas asked.

"Hey, I'm just sitting here on my bed, buck naked, half asleep."

"Jesus, if you had a warm croissant and a cup of coffee, I'd come right over," Lucas said. The nude photo of Fell and the other cop popped up in his head.

"Fuck you, Davenport," Fell said, laughing. "If you're ready, why don't you get a cab? I'll be out front by the time you get here."

"You come get me," Lucas said. "I'm barely awake, and I gotta shave." He touched his raw cheek.

"Be ready," she said.

Fell, when she arrived, was wearing a black tailored cotton dress with small flowers-the kind of dress women wore in Moline, Illinois-black low heels and nylons.

"Jesus, you look terrific," Lucas said, climbing into the cab behind her.

She blushed and said, "We just gonna walk in on Arnold?"

"You don't want to talk about how terrific you look?"

"Hey, just shut the fuck up, okay, Davenport?" she said.

"Anything you want . . ." Under his breath, he added, "Toots."

"What? What'd you just say?"

"Nothing," Lucas said innocently.

She closed one eye and said, "You're walking on the edge, buddy."

Arnold was scared. "He maybe got done because he talked to you," she said, sucking her heavy lips in and out.

"No. He got done because he called this asshole Bekker, who he was protecting, and told him that we'd interviewed him," Lucas said. "Bekker knows me. He didn't want to take any chances."

"So what do you want from me? I gave you everything."

"How'd you get in touch with Whitechurch when you needed to?" Lucas asked.

"I never needed to. When he had something good, he'd bring it over. Otherwise-shit, I don't handle hospital stuff. I handle shit you can sell, cheap. Suits. Neckties. Telephones. I wouldn't know what to do with no hospital stuff."

Fell pointed a finger at her: "You took down Simpson-McCall, what, two months ago . . . ?"

Arnold looked away. "No. I don't know nothing about that."

Fell studied her for a moment, then looked at Lucas. "Brokerage moves to a new building, one of those over-the-weekend moves. Trucks coming and going all night with files, computers, telephones, furniture, putting it in. The only thing is, not all of the trucks were hired by the brokerage. Some assholes rented trucks, drove them up to the loading docks, and disappeared over the horizon. . . . One of them took off six hundred brand-new beige two-button phones. Somebody else got fifty Northgate IBM compatibles, still in the boxes."

"Really?" said Arnold, faintly distressed. "Computers?"

Fell nodded, and Lucas looked back at Arnold. "If you had to get to Whitechurch, what'd you do?"

Arnold shrugged. "Call him at the hospital. Wasn't no big secret where he worked. Nights only, though."

"Did he have a special number?"

"I don't know, man, I never called him."

"Did . . ."

Fell's beeper went off. She took it out of her purse, glanced at the readout. "Where's the phone?" she asked Arnold. To Lucas, she said, "I bet they got him."

"Over there, at the end of the counter, underneath . . ." Arnold said, pointing.

As Fell punched the number into the telephone, Lucas went back to Arnold. "Did he work with anybody?"

"Man, I bought telephones from him, four dollars apiece," Arnold said impatiently. "Boxes of pens and pencils. Notepads. Cartons of Xerox paper. Cleaning supplies. He once came in with two hundred bottles of ERA, you know, the laundry soap. I don't know where he got it, I didn't ask any questions. And that's all I know about him."

"Yeah, this is Fell, you beeped?" Fell said into the phone. And then, voice hushed, "Jesus. What's the address. Huh? Okay." She hung up and looked at Lucas. "Bekker did another one, another woman. Ten minutes from here, walking."

Lucas pointed a finger at Arnold: "Did you hear that? Think about Whitechurch. Anything you think of, call us. Anything."

"Man, there's nothin' . . ."

But Lucas and Fell were out the door.

The body was in a dead-end alley off Prince. Uniforms blocked the mouth of the alley, kept back the curious. Fell and Lucas flashed their badges and went through. Kennett and two other plainclothesmen were there, staring into a window well. Kennett's hands, gripping the rail around the well, were white with tension.

"Goddamn maniac," he said as Lucas and Fell walked up. The crime-scene techs had dropped a ladder into the well. Lucas looked over the railing and saw a small woman's body at the bottom of the well, nude, crumpled like a doll, the techs working over her.

"No question it was Bekker?" Lucas asked.

"No, but it's different. This doesn't look so scientific. She's pretty slashed up, like he . . . I don't know. It looks like he was having fun."

"Eyes?"

"Yeah, the eyes are cut and the doc says it looks like his work. The eyelids gone, very neat and surgical. The sonofabitch has a signature."

"How long has she been down there?" Fell asked.

"Not long. A few hours at the most. Probably went in before dawn, this morning."

"Got an ID?" asked Lucas.

"No." Kennett looked at Fell, who was lighting a Lucky. "Could I bum one, I . . ."