Delaney grabbed Jason's arm, jerked, nodded. Jason glided across the floor, stood at the bathroom door, his hand lightly on the knob. He stared back at Delaney. The Chief pointed at Boone. The sergeant moved up behind Jason. He slid his revolver from the hip holster. He thumbed off the safety. He, too, stared back at Delaney. Both cops had a strained, stretched look, lips drawn back from glistening teeth.

On the screen, Mama Perez was fumbling with the package. It was tightly wrapped with Scotch tape. She struggled to tear it open.

Saul Geltman was now directly behind her, a few feet away. He spread his feet a little wider. He braced himself. His hands came slowly from his pockets. Delaney saw the gleam.

"Go!" he shouted. "Take him!"

Boone had been right: Jason was fast. The black flung back the bathroom door. Went hurtling through. Boone dashed after. Both men roaring. Geltman caught. Stoned by sound. Head pulled. Neck stretched. Face twisted. Mama Perez suddenly bowed. Stooping. Back tensed for the knife held high, twinkling in sunlight.

Jason didn't go for the knife hand. No punch, no blow, no karate chop. He simply ran into Geltman, a full body block. Charged into him and tried to keep running, knees pumping high, feet slipping on the polished linoleum.

Geltman bounced off him. Just smashed away. Hair and knife flying, arms and legs every which way. His limp body, boneless, landed half on the bed, half off. Slowly, slowly, slipped onto the floor, and Jason clamped one big foot on the back of his neck.

"Stay here," Delaney snapped at the tech. "Keep the tape rolling."

He lumbered into the Perez apartment. Jason was jerking a dazed Saul Geltman to his feet. Boone put the muzzle of his revolver to Geltman's teeth. Mama Perez had retreated from the action. She was facing them, back against the wall. Hissing faintly. Delaney pulled out his handkerchief. Handcuffs clattered to the floor. He ignored them, but picked up the knife carefully by the tip, using the wadded handkerchief. He placed the knife on the table, alongside the torn package. One corner was ripped open; he could see the stack of cut newspaper.

Sergeant Boone holstered his revolver. He took a come-along grip on one of Geltman's arms. Jason clamped the other. The art dealer looked about wildly, hair and clothes in disarray. Delaney thought everything was under control when Mama Perez came off the wall.

"Sonnenbitch!" she screamed. "Bestid!"

She came leaping across the room, hands clawed, and jumped on Geltman before they could block her. It looked as if she were trying to shin up his body, one leg crooked around his, one knee slamming at his groin, a hand tearing at this throat, fingers raking at his eyes. While she screamed, screamed, screamed. Spanish and English. Curses, oaths, obscenities, execrations.

Delaney got an arm about her thick waist from behind. Boone and Jason tugged Geltman in the other direction. But they could not peel Rosa Perez away. She clung to Geltman, pounding on his skull with her fist, spitting in his face. Clawing, biting, butting him with her head. The five of them stood swaying, one tight group, pressed tightly together, staggering to keep their balance.

Delaney turned his face toward the door. "Brady!" he yelled desperately.

In a few seconds the backup man came dashing in from the hallway, revolver held out in front of him. The man posted on the stairs was hard on his heels. They holstered their guns and joined in, prying Mama's fingers loose, one by one, bending them back, then twisting her arms behind her as Delaney strained mightily at her waist, and Boone kicked one of her legs loose.

Finally, huffing, sweating, cursing furiously, they got the maddened woman off Geltman and dragged her away.

"Jesus Christ!" Delaney panted. "Take her in the other room and sit on her!"

The backup men hustled Mama Perez, still kicking and spitting, into the Ruiz apartment. The Chief followed them in there.

"Got enough tape?" he asked the tech man.

"Plenty, Chief. All you'll need."

"Good. Keep it rolling till I tell you to disconnect."

He went back into the Perez apartment, closing both bathroom doors behind him. They sat Saul Geltman down in a straight-backed aluminum chair facing the big window. Sergeant Boone took the other tubular chair. Delaney sat in the armchair, and Jason T. Jason stood with his back against the door.

All four of them were breathing heavily, limp and exhausted in that hot-box of a room under the roof. Boone and Jason loosened their ties, unbuttoned their collars. No one spoke for several minutes. Then Saul Geltman attempted to dust himself off.

"I have a comb in my hip pocket," he said. "Can I reach for it?"

The Chief nodded. The art dealer took out a little black comb and straightened his hair. Then he took out his handkerchief, dabbed delicately at the shallow scratches on his face.

"I'm bleeding," he said.

"I'm sorry about that, Mr. Geltman," Delaney said without irony, "but you really can't blame her."

"I want to call a lawyer," Geltman said "I know my rights."

"I'm afraid you don't," the Chief said gently. "You're not entitled to a phone call until you've been booked. You haven't even been arrested yet. Am I correct, sergeant?"

"That's correct, sir. When we arrest him, we read him his rights."

"That's how it's done," Delaney said, spreading his hands. "I thought we could just sit here a few minutes, relax, get our breath back. Just talk a little. Talk about why you assaulted that poor woman with a knife."

"I didn't assault her," Geltman said indignantly. "I just took the knife out to help her open a package."

"Assault with a deadly weapon," Delaney said tonelessly.

"It's your word against mine," Geltman said.

"Well ... no," the Chief said. "Not quite. Look at this ..."

He rose, stepped to the open closet. Geltman turned his head to watch him reach up and push aside the small, round mirror.

"A TV camera," he explained to the little man. "Picks up image and sound. Records it on videotape. It's still running."

"Shit," Saul Geltman said.

"Yes," Delaney said.

"Well, then, you were tapping my phone. That's how you knew I'd be here. And the phone tap was illegal."

The Chief sighed. "Oh, Mr. Geltman, do you really think we'd do that? No, she called from a private phone. We had the owner's permission to tape the call."

"I'd like a glass of water," Geltman said.

"Sure," Delaney said, "Jason?"

Geltman was given not one but two glasses of water. He drained both greedily, wiped his lips with his soiled handkerchief. He looked around. He seemed punished but not defeated. There was a spark in his eye. He tried for a smile and settled for a smirk.

"Miserable place," he said with a theatrical shudder. "How people can live like this ..."

"I've seen worse," Delaney shrugged. "Didn't you tell me you came from Essex Street? You must have lived in an apartment something like this."

"A long time ago," Geltman said in a low voice. "A long time ..."

"Uh-huh," Delaney nodded. "Well, that's really what I wanted to talk to you about: how you live now. And how you're going to live. You don't have to admit anything. I'm not asking for a confession. I just want you to take a look at these, please."

He took the Polaroid photos from his jacket pocket, leaned forward, handed them to Geltman. The art dealer looked at the top one, shuffled through the pack hurriedly, then shriveled back into his chair. His face had gone slack. He tossed the photos listlessly onto the table.

"So that's all over," Delaney said briskly. "The IRS was notified this morning, and I imagine they're up there right now, taking inventory. They'll pump Dora and Emily, of course. My guess is that Dora will sing first; she's the weak reed. She'll implicate you and Simon."

Geltman made a gesture, a hopeless flap of his hand.

"I don't mean to suggest you'll go to jail for tax fraud," Delaney said. "You might, but I don't think the Feds will prosecute. They'll be happy enough when they add up the estate. Oh, you might get a fine and probation, and a personal audit, of course. But I doubt if anyone will draw jail time for this. It means the end of Dora's and Emily's dreams, naturally, but then it makes millionaires of Alma and Ted. I don't derive any particular satisfaction from that, do you?"

"No," Geltman said shortly.

"And talking about the end of dreams," the Chief continued, "there goes your guaranteed future, doesn't it? I think you've sold your last Maitland painting, Mr. Geltman."

The art dealer made no reply. For a moment or two no one spoke. Then ...

"My God, it's hot in here," Edward X. Delaney said. He rose, strode to the big window, struggled with it a moment, then threw it wide open. He leaned far out, hands propped on the sill, drew a deep breath. He looked down. He came back into the room, dusting his hands, leaving the window open. "Six floors straight down to a cement courtyard," he reported. "You'd think they'd have a guard on a window like that. Well, anyway we'll get a breath of air."

He sat in the armchair again, leaned back, laced his fingers across his middle. He looked at Saul Geltman reflectively.

"Now let's talk about the murder of Victor Maitland," he said. "Premeditated murder because the man that killed brought a knife along. He didn't kill in a sudden flash of passion with whatever weapon came to hand; he brought his weapon with him. That's premeditation in any court in the land."

"I didn't kill him," Geltman said tightly.

"Sure you did," Delaney said. "You know it; we know it. I thought, just from simple curiosity, you'd like to know what we've got. Well, for starters, we've got motive. Your discovery that Maitland was sneaking paintings from the barn and peddling them secretly through Belle Sarazen. They were his paintings, and he could do anything he wanted with them. But to your way of thinking, those paintings were as much your inheritance as Dora's and Emily's, and the dying Victor Maitland was robbing you. Crazy. Not only that, but he was depressing the price of Maitlands by shoveling out more and more paintings. Right, Mr. Geltman? So you had a big fight with him about it, and he told you to go fuck yourself. Right, Mr. Geltman?"

"Conjecture," the art dealer said. "Just conjecture."

"'Conjecture,'" Delaney repeated, amused. "A legal term. You played a lot of handball with your late pal J. Julian Simon, didn't you, Mr. Geltman? By the way, do you notice I call you 'Mr. Geltman' and not 'Saul'? That's not going by the book. It's cop psychology to use first names when talking to a suspect. It diminishes them, robs them of dignity. Like stripping a man naked before you question him. But I wouldn't do that to you, Mr. Geltman; I have too much respect for your intelligence."

"Thank you," he said faintly, and sounded sincere.

"All right," Delaney said, slapping his knees. "So much for motive. A few rough spots here and there, but I think a little more digging will fill it out nicely. Now we come to opportunity. I suppose Lawyer Simon told you that we tumbled to your little con of skipping out his back door into the corridor. You must have done that, you see, because Rosa Perez and Dolores saw you near Victor Maitland's studio at a time when Simon said you were in his office."

"It's his statement against what they claim," Geltman said hotly.

"His statement," Delaney said. "Too bad he isn't alive to testify in court, isn't it?"

"I was shocked when I heard he was dead."

Delaney stared at him reflectively a few moments, then sighed.

"You weren't thinking too straight, Mr. Geltman," he said softly. "Getting a little frantic, were you? The bloodhounds nipping at your heels, and your dear chum having an attack of the runits about facing a perjury rap. So you had to take him out-right? Wait, wait," Delaney said, holding up a hand. "Just let me finish. It hasn't been announced yet, but we know Simon didn't die in that fire. Surprise! He was a clunk before he fried. Lung analysis proved that. And the Medical Examiner found the multiple stab wounds in his back. And the fire laddies think whiskey was used to make sure the whole place went up in a poof! They found the empty bottles. A terrible waste! Oh yes, we know how Simon died, Mr. Geltman. We have men flashing your photograph to tenants in Simon's building, cab drivers, everyone in the neighborhood. Sooner or later we'll find someone who saw you at or near the scene. So if I were you, I wouldn't count too much on your late buddy's statement to alibi you for the Maitland kill."

Saul Geltman had sought to interrupt this breezy recital. As it progressed, his eyes widened, mouth opened. He slipped farther down in his chair like a man hammered. He stared at Delaney, stricken.

"Well," the Chief said briskly, "that takes care of opportunity. Now we come to the weapon ..."

He rose, stepped to the table, bent far over the knife. His nose was almost touching it. Then he put on his glasses and bent over it again.

"Nice," he said. "French. High-carbon steel. Holds a good edge a long time. It might have been used to slice Maitland and Simon; the length and width of the blade fit the description of the wounds in the autopsy reports. I'll tell you, I'd never use a knife like that to murder someone, Mr. Geltman. First of all, the blade is too thin. It might hit a rib on the first jab and snap. Also, no matter how you wash it, you can never get a wood-handled knife clean. Tell him, sergeant."

"The wood handle is riveted to the blade," Boone explained. "But no matter how much you scrub, blood has soaked in between wood handle and steel. The lab guys pop the rivets, take off the wood, and examine the steel tang for blood seepage. Then they take tiny particles from the inside of the wood handles and examine them for blood. They can tell if it's animal or human. If it's human, they can usually determine the type. And tell if it matches Simon's or Maitland's."

"That's how it's done," Delaney nodded. "That's how it will be done on this knife."

"I didn't do it," Geltman muttered.

Delaney started back to his chair, replacing his glasses in his breast pocket. Then he returned to examine the knife again.

"You know," he said, "this is what cooks call a boning knife. It looks to me like it's part of a matched cutlery set. Very nice and very expensive. Sergeant, I think we better send those detectives back to Mr. Geltman's apartment again to pick up the other knives in the set and put them all through the lab.

Geltman was bewildered.

"Detectives?" he said. "Back to my apartment again?"

"Oh, I didn't mention that," Delaney said, snapping his fingers lightly. "We got a search warrant. To toss your apartment and office. They're looking for those three sketches we lifted from Maitland's studio-and you lifted from my home. Think they'll find them, Mr. Geltman?"

"I'm not going to say another word," the art dealer said.

"You put my daughters in a closet, you fucker!" Delaney screamed at him.

Geltman closed his mouth firmly, clenched his jaws. He crossed his legs and began to drum slowly with his fingers on the top knee. He refused to meet Delaney's eyes, but stared out the open window, seeing a rooftop, a wide patch of blue sky, a puff of cloud floating lazily.

"Motive, opportunity, weapon," Chief Delaney went on inexorably. "And now, on top of that, we've got you on attempted subornation. Got it on tape. And on top of that, assault with a deadly weapon. How does it sound to you, Mr. Geltman?"

No answer. Delaney let the silence build awhile, frowning slightly, looking down at his flexing hands. Jason shifted his weight from foot to foot at the door. Sergeant Boone sat perfectly still, eyes never leaving the art dealer.

"I'll be honest with you, Mr. Geltman," Delaney said finally. "I don't think the DA will go for a Murder One conviction."

Geltman started, uncrossed his knees. Then he did stare at Chief Delaney, leaning forward a little in his eagerness.

"I think you'll get a smart lawyer who'll do some plea bargaining and advise you to plead guilty to a lesser charge. Murder Two, maybe. If he's a very smart lawyer, he might even get you a manslaughter rap. The point is, no matter how you slice it, you're going to do time, Mr. Geltman. No way out of that. Jason, you want to make a guess?"

"Fifteen to twenty-five, Chief," Jason boomed.

"Sergeant?"

"Eight to ten," Boone said.

"My guess is somewhere between," Delaney said thoughtfully. "About ten to fifteen before you're up for parole. Fifteen years, Mr. Geltman. Great Meadows, I suppose. Or maybe Attica. A hard place like that."

Saul Geltman made a sound, a small sound deep inside him. His stare slid off Delaney, lifted, moved across the ceiling, stopped at the square of summer sky outside the open window.

"Ten to fifteen," Delaney nodded. "A smart lawyer could get you that. A smart, expensive lawyer. Your gallery will go, of course. You couldn't have kept that without Maitland anyway; we know that. And that beautiful apartment of yours. All your lovely things. You know, Mr. Geltman, I think that was the most magnificent home I've ever seen. Truth. I remember so much about it: those soft-toned rugs, that elm's-burl highboy, the polished wood and gleaming brass. The way everything seemed to go together. You were right: it was a dream, a beautiful dream. All gone now, of course. I suppose the IRS will sell the stuff at auction to pay your fine. Or you'll have to sell it to pay for your defense. Other people will own those lovely things. But your beautiful home will be broken up, the dream destroyed."

His voice had taken on a curious singsong quality, an almost musical cadence. Far away he could hear, dimly, street sounds: vendors' chants, traffic, blare of horns, shouts and cries. But the other men in the room heard only the soft drone of Delaney's voice, words that painted pictures and mesmerized them.

"All gone," the Chief repeated. "The beauty, the softness, the rich comfort of it all. Very different from where you're going, Mr. Geltman. For fifteen years. You'll be in a ten-by-ten concrete cell with two other guys and a pisspot. And those guys! Animals, Mr. Geltman. Rough studs who'll have you serving them hand and foot. Literally hand and foot, if you get my meaning. Food you can hardly stomach. A routine so boring that your imagination shrivels and your hope withers. Because every day is exactly like every other day-exactly, Mr. Geltman-and those fifteen years might as well be fifty years, or a hundred years, or a thousand, that's how far away the end of them will seem to you. But all that's not the worst part of prison, Mr. Geltman. Not to a man of your intelligence and sensibility and taste. Remember when we talked in your gallery about Maitland's work, and you said you thought his paintings were the idea or conception of sensuality? Well, prison is the conception of ugliness. It is complete greyness, greyness in walls and clothing and even in food. And eventually the greyness in the skin of old cons, and a greyness of the soul. Dismal, gloomy. No bright colors there. No music. No real laughter or song. No beauty anywhere. Just hard, grey ugliness that seeps and presses all around. To a man like you, it means-"

It happened so quickly, so suddenly, that viewing the videotape later, a board of inquiry agreed it could not have been prevented.

Saul Geltman jerked to his feet as if plucked up by the hand of God.

He tilted forward, saved himself from falling by taking three running steps to the open window.