"For the last time, Jesus, put it down."

"Well, f.u.c.k you, too, McFadden!" Martinez said, and slammed the telephone down in its cradle.

"I'm sorry you had to see all this, Lieutenant," Matt said.

"Why do I have the feeling you two don't like each other much?" Deitrich said.

"They love each other, Lieutenant," McFadden said. "They just have a strange way of showing it."

"So what have you decided to do?" Deitrich said.

"Unless somebody can show me what's wrong with my idea . . ." Matt said.

"It's your a.s.s, hotshot," Martinez said.

"How long would it take to get two-better even, three-patrol cars out to Maple Avenue?"

"Five minutes after I get on the radio."

"How about one car to meet us on Maple Avenue?" Matt asked. "And two cars to Elm Street, to go noisily through Mrs. Worner's backyard to make sure n.o.body gets out Uncle Vincent's back door?"

"No problem."

"Screaming sirens and flashing lights would be nice," Matt said.

"No problem."

"Martinez, are you going with McFadden, or would you rather stay here and sulk?" Matt asked.

"You son of a b.i.t.c.h!" Martinez spluttered.

"Jesus Christ, Matt," McFadden said. "You never know when to quit."

"This gentleman," Vincenzo Savarese said softly to the waiter, "is my guest, and so are those two."

He pointed to a table near the door of the Hotel Warwick's small, elegant dining room, where Pietro Ca.s.sandro and Peter Wohl were holding large, ornate menus.

"That's very kind," Chief Inspector Dennis V. Coughlin said, "but why don't we go Dutch?"

"I am Italian, and you are Irish. How can we go Dutch?" Savarese asked. "Besides, it'd give me pleasure. Please indulge me."

"Thank you," Coughlin said, giving in.

He ordered freshly squeezed orange juice, sc.r.a.pple, two soft-scrambled eggs, biscuits, and coffee. Savarese-surprising him, for Savarese was slight, almost delicate-ordered a much larger breakfast of freshly squeezed orange juice, eggs Benedict, a side order of corned beef hash, biscuits, and coffee, and asked that his coffee be served now, with fresh cream only-if they had only milk, then black.

"Looking at Inspector Wohl reminds me how quickly the years pa.s.s," Savarese said. "I remember him, in short pants, at baseball games with his father."

"I think he'll be police commissioner one day," Coughlin said. "He's a fine man."

"And when are they going to make you police commissioner?"

"The day after Miami gets twelve inches of snow," Coughlin said.

"I think you are much too modest," Savarese said. "You are universally recognized as one of the best policemen in Philadelphia."

"Thank you, but police commissioner is not in the cards for me."

The waiter appeared with their coffee and a small pitcher of fresh cream.

"One never knows what the future will bring," Savarese said.

Coughlin waited until they had put cream and sugar in their coffee.

"Let me begin, Mr. Savarese, by telling you how sorry I am, both professionally and personally, about what happened to your granddaughter."

Savarese's expression didn't change at all. After a moment, he said: "Thank you. We can only pray for her full recovery. We have tried to get the best possible medical attention."

"I think you have found the best," Coughlin said.

Savarese nodded.

"As I was just saying, one never knows what the future will bring."

"I thought you would like to know that at seven fifty-eight this morning, the animal responsible for your granddaughter's difficulty was stripped of his police officer's badge and arrested. The entire Philadelphia Police Department is deeply ashamed that he once wore our uniform. He has brought shame on us all."

Savarese looked directly at Coughlin, but said nothing.

The waiter appeared with their orange juice, a wicker basket full of a.s.sorted biscuits, rolls and croissants, two tubs of b.u.t.ter, and a selection of marmalades.

Savarese absently selected a croissant, broke it in two, and b.u.t.tered the half he kept in his hand.

"You're sure you have the right man?" he asked finally.

"We're sure."

"He has confessed to this outrage?"

"At this very moment, he is being interviewed by the man I believe to be the best interrogator in the department."

"But he has not confessed?"

"There was a witness, Mr. Savarese. He has positively identified him."

"But he has not confessed," Savarese insisted.

"That's one of the things I wanted to talk to you about," Coughlin said. "Under the circ.u.mstances-"

"What circ.u.mstances?"

"To bring this animal to trial, Mr. Savarese, it would be necessary to identify the victim of his unspeakable behavior to the court and his defense counsel-"

"We are speaking, aren't we, as man-to-man?" Savarese interrupted.

"Yes, we are."

"I'm sure you'll understand that I cannot permit my granddaughter to suffer any more than she has already suffered."

"I understand that," Coughlin said. "More important, Mr. Callis, the district attorney, understands that."

"There is only one situation that I can imagine that would guarantee that what happened to my granddaughter would not become public knowledge . . . ," Savarese said.

"That's what I wanted to speak to you about, Mr. Savarese," Coughlin said.

". . . and that would be the unavailability of this animal to stand trial," Savarese finished.

"That sounds to me, Mr. Savarese, as if you are suggesting this animal be killed."

"What I said, Mr. Coughlin, is that the only way I can see that my granddaughter's name will not be dragged through the sewer, as it would be if there was to be a trial, would be if there was no trial. And there can be no trial if there is no accused."

"The man we're talking about was not arrested on a rape charge, Mr. Savarese, but on a wide array of other charges that should see him sent away for a very long time."

"What you have this man on, Mr. Coughlin," Savarese said patiently, as if explaining something to a backward child, "is nothing more than allegations that he stole from drug dealers. He will not spend much time-if, indeed, any-in prison."

The waiter appeared with Savarese's eggs Benedict and Coughlin's sc.r.a.pple and scrambled eggs.

Coughlin had not seen him coming, and when he looked up at him in surprise, he knew from the look on the waiter's face that he had heard at least the end-the "time in prison"-of Savarese's last sentence.

He laid the food before the two of them and fled.

"I'm surprised you know about the charges," Coughlin said.

"And I'm surprised that you got to this animal before I did," Savarese said. "Perhaps we have both underestimated the other."

"I've never underestimated you, Mr. Savarese, but I think you may have underestimated me. Or at least the Philadelphia Police Department."

"Why would you say that?" Savarese said.

"Mr. Ronald R. Ketcham is now under the protection of the U.S. Marshals' Service . . ."

"I don't believe I know the name, Mr. Coughlin."

". . . as a material witness to an unlawful abduction on federal property."

"As I said, I don't believe I know the name, Mr. Coughlin."

"Oh, I think you know the name, Mr. Savarese," Coughlin said. "And a good deal about Mr. Ketcham. I'm sure Joey Fiorello told you everything Phil Chason found out about him."

"I don't know either of those names, either, I'm afraid."

"I thought we were speaking man-to-man," Coughlin said.

Savarese took a bite of his eggs Benedict, chewed them, and then dabbed delicately at his mouth with his napkin.

"Has it occurred to you, Inspector," Savarese said, "that if you-the police department-had not been so efficient-more efficient, frankly, than I would have believed-the problem would have been solved?"

"Mr. Savarese, I know that you take pride in your reputation as a man of honor," Coughlin said.

Savarese raised his eyebrows questioningly.

"I also like to think of myself as an honorable man," Coughlin said.

"And you are so regarded by me."

"I have taken an oath-a vow before G.o.d-to uphold and defend the law."

"Someone once said, 'The law is an a.s.s.' "

"I think that's often true," Coughlin said. "But when that is true, what we should do is change the law, not ignore it."

"Man-to-man, you said," Savarese said. "Man-to-man, taking into account what it says in the Bible about an eye for an eye and a tooth for tooth, what do you think should happen to an animal who did what this animal did to my granddaughter? Who took from her her innocence, her dignity, her sanity . . ."

"When I consider that question I have to remind myself that in the Bible it also says, 'Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.' "

"That's avoiding the question," Savarese said.

"I can't let myself think about things like that," Coughlin said.

"Is there justice, would you say," Savarese asked, "in permitting an animal like this one to escape any punishment at all for the terrible things he did, because to punish him according to the law would mean bringing even greater pain and humiliation to the innocent person he violated?"

"Man-to-man, no, Mr. Savarese," Coughlin said.

Savarese held up both hands, palms upward.

"Thank you for your honesty," he said.

"I was hoping, Mr. Savarese, that you would decide, perhaps to save your granddaughter the risk of any further pain, that my a.s.surance that this animal will be behind bars for a very long time would be enough punishment."

He looked into Savarese's eyes and was surprised at the cold hate he saw in them, and even more that he felt frightened by it.

And then the hate in Savarese's eyes seemed to diminish.

"Forgive me," Savarese said.

"Pardon me?"