"You won't be seeing this fucking loser again," Hathaway said to O'Toole as he shoved Kurtz out the door. "He's going back to Attica, and this time he's never coming out."

Kurtz glanced back once at Peg O'Toole before another shove sent him down the hallway. She had set her gun away. Her expression was unreadable.

Kurtz knew that it was not going to be an easy interrogation when Hathaway, the homicide cop, lowered some louvered blinds over the one-way mirror lining one wall of the interrogation room and then ripped the recording-microphone wire out of its jack on the floor. A second bad omen was that Kurtz was handcuffed behind his back to a straight-back metal chair which was, in turn, bolted to the floor. The third clue came from some dark stains on the battered wooden table and more stains spattered on the linoleum floor near the bolted chair, although Kurtz told himself that these could have been from spilled coffee. But perhaps the strongest hint was the fact that Hathaway was pulling on a pair of those latex gloves paramedics use to keep from getting AIDS.

"Welcome back, Kurtz, you fuck," Hathaway said when the blinds were down. He took three quick steps closer and backhanded Kurtz across the face.

Kurtz shook his head and spat blood onto the linoleum. The good news was that Hathaway wasn't wearing the heavy gold ring that he used to wear on his right hand, possibly because it would tear the latex gloves. Kurtz's cheek still bore a faint scar from his ear to the corner of his mouth resulting from a similar chat with Hathaway almost twelve years earlier.

"Nice to see you, too, Lieutenant," said Kurtz.

"It's Detective," said Hathaway.

Kurtz shrugged as much as he could while handcuffed. "More than eleven years," he said and spat blood again, "I figured maybe you'd finally been able to pass the lieutenant's exam. Or at least the sergeant's."

Hathaway came forward and hit Kurtz again, this time with his fist closed.

Kurtz faded a bit and came back as the younger cop was saying, "… for chrissakes, Jimmy."

"Shut up," said Detective Hathaway. He paced around the table, glancing at his watch. Kurtz guessed that the detective had only so much time for the private part of this interrogation. That's good, thought Kurtz, his head still ringing.

"Where were you yesterday morning, Kurtz?" barked Hathaway.

Kurtz shook his head. Mistake. The room pitched and yawed. Only the handcuffs kept him upright in the chair.

"I said, Where were you yesterday?" said Hathaway, walking closer.

"Lawyer," said Kurtz. He still had blood in his mouth, but all of his teeth seemed solid.

"What?"

"I want a lawyer."

"Your lawyer's dead, scumbag," said Hathaway. "That ambulance-chasing pimp Murrell had a coronary four years ago."

Kurtz knew that. "Lawyer," he said again.

Hathaway's response was to remove his Glock 9mm from a shoulder holster and a tiny Smith and Wesson.32 from his suit pocket. He tossed the.32 onto the table near Kurtz. A classic plant-it-on-the-perp throw-down.

"Jimmy, for God's sake!" said the younger, shorter cop. Kurtz could not tell if it was part of their choreography or if the younger homicide detective was actually concerned. If it was the standard good-cop, bad-cop farce, then the kid was a pretty good actor.

"Maybe we didn't frisk you well enough coming in," said Hathaway, staring into Kurtz with his pale blue eyes. Kurtz had always thought that Hathaway had flies in his eyes, and a decade later, the cop was crazier than ever.

Hathaway racked a round into the chamber of his Glock. "Where were you yesterday morning, Joey-boy?"

Kurtz was getting bored with this. Over the past decade, he'd had a few conversations with other cons about the Prime Directive of "never kill a cop." Kurtz's point of view, for conversation's sake, had been "Why not?" He had often had Hathaway in mind during these talks.

Kurtz looked away from the red-faced homicide cop and thought about other things.

"You miserable asshole," said Hathaway. He holstered the Glock, disappeared the.32 with a sweep of his hand, and hit Kurtz on the collarbone with a blackjack quite similar to the one that Kurtz had used on Carl. Immediately, Kurtz's entire shoulder and left arm went numb, then raged with pain.

The other detective plugged in the microphone and opened the blinds. Hathaway had peeled off the paramedic gloves. The throwdown and blackjack were out of sight. The Glock was holstered.

Well, thought Kurtz, that went all right.

"You acknowledge, Joe Kurtz, that you've been advised of your rights?" said Detective Hathaway.

Kurtz grunted. He didn't think his collarbone was broken, but it would be a few hours before he could use his left arm.

"Where were you yesterday morning between the hours of 9:00 and 11:00 a.m.?" said Hathaway.

"I'd like to speak to an attorney," said Kurtz, enunciating as carefully as he could.

"A public defender is being notified as we speak," Hathaway said to the microphone. "It should be noted that this conversation is being held with the agreement and at the request of Mr. Kurtz."

Kurtz leaned closer to the mike. "Your mother used to suck dick on South Delaware, Detective Hathaway. I was a regular customer."

Hathaway forgot that he was not wearing gloves and backhanded Kurtz so hard that the bloody spray from his nose splattered the wall six feet away. That was smart of me, he thought. They edit these tapes, anyway. He shook his head. He had flicked his head away from the blow fast enough to avoid a broken nose.

"Do you recognize this woman?" said the other detective, sliding a white folder across the table. He opened the folder.

"Don't drip on the pictures, Kurtz!" warned Hathaway.

Kurtz tried to comply, although there was so much blood visible in the black-and-white photos that a little of the real stuff shouldn't be a problem.

"Do you recognize this woman?" repeated the other detective.

Kurtz said nothing. From the photographs, it was just possible to tell that it had been a woman. Kurtz knew who it was, of course. He recognized the straight-backed chairs around the Frank Lloyd Wright table.

"Do you deny that you were in this woman's home yesterday morning?" demanded the younger detective. And then, to the microphone, he added, "Let the record show that Mr. Kurtz refuses to identify the photograph of Mary Anne Richardson, a woman with whom he met yesterday."

She had a nose, eyes, breasts, and all of her skin yesterday, Kurtz was tempted to say aloud. He did study the photos spread out on the tabletop. The murderer had been an edged-weapons freak, powerful, a full-blown psycho, but good with the blade. For all the slaughterhouse aspect of the vivisection, it had been administered efficiently. Kurtz doubted if Mrs. Richardson would have appreciated that distinction, since it looked as if the cutter had kept her alive for quite a while during the proceedings. Kurtz studied the background, trying to guess the time of the murder from the arrangement of the furniture. The furniture was exactly as he and the lady had left it. There had been no real struggle—or the knife man had been big enough that the struggle had been localized to that small patch of soaked carpet just outside the dining room. Or, most likely, there had been more than one man—one to hold and one to carve.

"Is that semen on her dress?" asked Kurtz.

"Shut up," said Detective Hathaway. He stepped closer, put one hand over the microphone, and gripped Kurtz's shoulder with his other hand. Kurtz's moan was brief, but the detective kept his hand over the mike. "You're going to go all the way down for this, Kurtz. We have your name in her appointment book. We have a caller who ID'd you at the scene."