"Oh? Did he say why?"

"No. He wants to come over tonight at nine. He said to call his office if you can't make it. If he doesn't hear from you, he'll figure it's all right to come over."

"All right with me. You? Have anything planned?"

"No. There's a program on Channel Thirteen I want to watch. About breast cancer."

"I'll take Thorsen," he said. "Can I set the table?"

"Done," she said. "We'll eat in fifteen minutes."

"I'll wash up then," he said, rising.

"And chase the kids down," she said, tasting the sauce.

He slid an arm around her soft waist. She came close to him, still holding a big wooden spoon.

"Did I tell you I love you?" he asked her.

"Not today, you haven't."

"Consider it told."

"Oh no you don't, buster," she said. "You don't get off that easy."

"I love you," he said, and kissed her lips. "Umm," he said. "Nothing like a horseradishy kiss. Going to have a beer with dinner?"

"I'll have a sip of yours."

"The hell you will," he said. "Have your own. With boiled beef, I want all of mine."

She made a rude gesture with the wooden spoon, and he left, laughing.

She had been Monica Gilbert, the widow of Bernard Gilbert, one of the victims of a psychopathic killer, Daniel Blank. Delaney had been a captain then, in command of a special task force that had taken Blank, and he had met Monica during the investigation of that case. A year after Barbara Delaney had died of proteus infection, the Chief had married Monica. She was twenty years younger than he.

Their evening meal was, as usual, dominated by the lively chatter of the girls. Mary and Sylvia were eleven and thirteen and, of course, knew everything. Most of the discussion involved plans for the summer, whether it would be best for the sisters to attend the same camp or different camps. The spoke learnedly of "sibling rivalry" and "intrafamilial competition." Chief Delaney listened gravely, asked serious questions, and only Monica was aware of his amusement.

Afterwards, Delaney helped clear the table, but left the rest to his wife and stepdaughters. He went upstairs to take off jacket and vest and put on a worn cardigan. He also took off his high shoes, massaged his feet, and slid them into old carpet slippers. He came down to the living room, stopping off in the kitchen to fill a hammered silver ice bucket. The dishwasher was grinding away, and Monica was just finishing tidying up. The girls had gone up to their room again.

"Can we afford it?" she asked anxiously. "Camp, I mean? It's expensive, Edward."

"You tell me," he said. "You're the financial expert in this family."

"Well ... maybe," she said, frowning. "If you and I don't go anywhere."

"So? We'll stay home. Lock up, pull down the shades, turn on the air conditioner and make love all summer."

"Knocker," she scoffed. "Your back couldn't take it."

"Sure it could," he said equably. "As long as your pearls don't break."

She burst out laughing. He looked at her wryly.

It had happened the first time they went to bed together, about two months before they were married. He had taken her to dinner and the theatre. After, she had readily agreed to stop at his home for a nightcap before returning to her home in the same neighborhood, to her children, a baby-sitter.

She was a big-bodied woman, strong, with a good waist between heavy bosom and wide hips. Not yet matronly. Still young, still juicy. A look of limpid, almost ingenuous sensuality. All of her warm and waiting.

That night she wore a thin black dress. Not clinging, but when she moved it, it touched her. About her neck, a choker of oversize pearls. When he kissed her, she pressed to him, clove to him, breast to breast, belly to belly, thigh to thigh. They stumbled, panting, up to his bedroom, where high drama became low farce.

She was lying on the bed crossways, naked except for those damned pearls. Spread out, pink and anxious. He stood at the bedside, crouched and swollen, and lifted her hips. She writhed up to embrace him. The string of pearls broke, spilling down onto the parquet floor. But they were both nutty with their lust and ...

"You broke my pearls," wailed she.

"Fuck the pearls," roared he.

"No, me!" screamed she. "Me!"

But the beads were under his floundering feet, rolling, hurting, and he began skidding about, doing a mad schottische, a wild gavotte, an insane kadzotsky, until laughter defeated them both. So they had to change positions and start all over again, which wasn't all that bad.

Smiling at the memory, they went into the living room, where he mixed them each a rye highball. They sat contentedly, both slumped with legs extended.

Deputy Commissioner Ivar Thorsen arrived promptly at nine. Monica remained in the living room to watch her TV program. The two men went into the study and closed the door. Delaney emerged a moment later to fetch the bucket of ice. His wife was seated on the edge of her chair, leaning forward, arms on her knees, eyes on the screen. Delaney smiled and touched her hair before he went back into the study.

"What, Ivar?" he asked. "Rye? Scotch? Anything?"

"A little Scotch would be fine, Edward. Just straight. No ice, please."

They sat facing in old club chairs, the original leather dry and cracked. They raised their glasses to each other, sipped.

In the Department, Thorsen was called "Admiral," and looked it: fine, silvered hair, cutting blue eyes, a posture so erect he was almost rigid. He was slender, small-boned, fastidiously well groomed.

He had been Edward Delaney's mentor in the Department, his "rabbi," and a good one, for he had a talent for political infighting, an instinct for picking the winner in the ferocious conflicts that periodically racked city government. More, he enjoyed that world where government of law crashed against government of men. He stepped his way daintily through the debris, and was never soiled.

"How are things going?" Delaney asked.

Thorsen flipped a palm back and forth.

"The usual," he said. "You know about the budget cuts and layoffs."

"Rates up?"

"No, that's the crazy thing." Thorsen laughed shortly. "Fewer cops, but no great increase in crime. The unions thought there would be. So did I."

"So did I," Delaney nodded. "Glad to hear there isn't. Chief Bernhardt is doing a good job."

Bernhardt was Delaney's successor as Chief of Detectives. A career cop, he had commanded Brooklyn detectives before being brought to headquarters in Manhattan. His wife's father was on the board of a prestigious New York bank that held a vaultful of New York City and State notes and bonds. It didn't hurt.

"Good," Thorsen said, "but not great. But Bernhardt's got his problems, too. The cutbacks have hurt. That's why I'm here."

"Oh?"

"You read about a homicide about a month ago? Victor Maitland? The artist?"

"Sure. Down in Little Italy. I followed it. It fell out of the papers in a hurry."

"There was a lot of other hot news at the time," Thorsen said. "Thank God. Also, we didn't have anything. It's still open."

"Sounded like a B-and-E to me," Delaney said. "A guy with a snootful of shit breaks the door, this Maitland puts up a fight and gets the shiv."

"Could be," Thorsen said. "I don't know all the details, but his place had been ripped off twice before, and he had locks and a chain. They weren't forced. We figured he opened for someone he knew."

"Oh? Anything missing?"

"His wallet. But he never carried much cash. And he still had his credit cards on him. There was an expensive portable radio in the place. It wasn't touched."

"Ah?" Delaney said. "A faked heist? It's been done before. Who inherits?"

"No will. That'll give a lot of lawyers a lot of work. The IRS sealed everything. The guy was loaded. His last painting went for a hundred big ones."

"I've seen his stuff," Delaney said. "I like it."

"I do, too," Thorsen said. "So does Karen. She thinks he was the greatest thing since Rembrandt. But that's neither here nor there. We're dead on the case. No leads. It would be just another open file, but we're getting a lot of flak."

Delaney rose to freshen Thorsen's drink. He also dropped two more ice cubes into his rye-and-water.

"Flak?" he said. "Where from?"

"Ever hear of a guy named J. Barnes Chapin?"

"Sure. A politico. State senator. From upstate somewhere."

"That's right," Thorsen nodded. "His home base is Rockland County. Chapin has been in Albany since the year one. He swings a lot of clout. Right now, there's a bill up for a special State grant to New York City for law enforcement-cops, courts, prisons, the works. Chapin could tip the scale."

"So?"

"Chapin is-or was-Victor Maitland's uncle."

"Oh-ho."

"The funny thing is that Chapin couldn't care less who offed Maitland. From what we've learned, this Maitland was a Grade-A bastard. As the old saying goes, the list of suspects has been narrowed to ten thousand. Everyone hated his guts, including his wife and son. Everyone but his mother. A boy's best friend etcetera. She's a wealthy old dame who lives near Nyack. One daughter, Maitland's sister, lives with her. The mother's been driving Chapin crazy. He's her brother. And he's been driving us crazy. When are we going to find Victor Maitland's killer and get his sister off his back?"

Delaney was silent, staring at Thorsen. He took a slow sip of his drink. The two men locked eyes.

"Why me?" he asked quietly.

Thorsen hunched forward.

"Look, Edward," he said, "you don't have to quote me the numbers. I know the graph: if a homicide isn't solved in the first forty-eight hours, solution probability drops off to nit. It's a cold trail. Granted. And just between you, me, and the lamppost, finding the killer of Victor Maitland comes pretty far down on the Department's anxiety list."

"I understand."

"But we've got to go through the motions. To keep J. Barnes Chapin happy. So he can keep his sister happy. Convince her we're working on it."

"And keep Chapin on the City's side when that new bill comes up for a vote."

"Of course," Thorsen shrugged. "What else?"

"Again," Delaney said, "why me?"

Thorsen sighed, sat back, crossed his knees, sipped his drink.

"Great Scotch, Edward. What is it?"

"Glenlivet."

"Well, for one thing, Chapin asked for you. Yes, he did. In person. He remembers Operation Lombard. Second, we just don't have the manpower to waste on this thing. Edward, it's cold. You know it, we know it. It was probably a smash-and-grab like you said, and the cat is probably in Kansas City by now. Who the hell knows? No one's expecting you to break it. For Christ's sake, Edward, there's been a hundred unsolved homicides in the city since Maitland was greased. We can only do so much."

"What do you want from me?" Delaney asked stonily.

"Look into it. Just look into it. Edward, I know you're retired, but don't tell me you're all that busy. I won't buy it. Just look into it. We can cover your expenses. And we'll assign you one man on active duty to drive you around and flash his potsy whenever it's needed. You'll get copies of everything we've got-reports, photos, PM, the works. Edward, we don't expect anything. Just take a look at it."

"So you can tell Chapin the murder of his nephew is under active investigation?"

Thorsen smiled wanly.

"That's exactly correct," he said. "It's for the Department, Edward."

Delaney raised his arms and went through an elaborate mime of bowing a violin. Thorsen laughed.

"Iron Balls!" he said. "Well, what the hell, I thought it might interest you, might intrigue you. Get you out of Monica's hair. No?"

Delaney looked down at his glass, turning it in his hands.

"I'll sleep on it," he said. "Talk it over with Monica. All right? I'll call you in the morning, one way or the other."

"Sure," Thorsen said. "That's good enough for me. Fine. Think it over.

He drained his drink and stood up. Delaney started to rise, then suddenly Thorsen flopped back into his chair.

"There's one other thing," he said.

"Had to be," Delaney said sardonically.

"Remember a cop named Sam-Samuel Boone? About fifteen years ago?"

"Sure, I remember him," Delaney said. "He got blown away. I went to his funeral."

"Right. It was in the South Bronx. My precinct at the time. Jewish then. Now it's all Spic and Span. This Sam Boone was the best. I mean, the best. They loved him. On his birthday, old Jewish ladies would bring cakes and cookies to the precinct house. I swear it. He was out of Kentucky or Tennessee or West Virginia, or someplace like that. An accent you could cut with a knife, and the Jews on his beat taught him some Yiddish. They'd say, 'Samele, speak me some Yiddish,' and he'd say what they had taught him in that corn-pone accent of his, and they'd break up. Anyway, a car pulled into a one-way street, going the wrong way, and piled up against on-coming traffic. Sam was nearby and walked over. The car had Illinois plates or Michigan. Something like that. Knowing Sam, I figure he would have explained to the driver about our one-way streets, get him turned around, and send him on his way with a warning. He leans down to talk to the guy-and pow! pow! pow! Three in the face and chest. The guy had to be an idiot, an idiot! What's he going to do? He can't pull ahead; he's bumper to bumper with the on-coming cars. And he can't back up because of the traffic on the avenue. So he piles out of the car.