A beautiful brunette—full-breasted, long-haired, with lovely skin and alluring eyes—was sitting on a long bench in the filthy waiting area. She got up when he came out. Kurtz wondered idly how anyone could look so fresh and put together at two in the morning.

"Mr. Kurtz, you look like shit," said the brunette.

Kurtz nodded.

"Mr. Kurtz, my name is—"

"Sophia Farino," said Kurtz. "Little Skag showed me a picture of you."

She smiled slightly. "The family calls him 'Stephen. "

"Everyone else who's met him calls him 'Little Skag' or just 'Skag, " said Kurtz.

Sophia Farino nodded. "Shall we go?"

Kurtz stood where he was. "You're telling me that you made bail for me?"

She nodded.

"Why you?" said Kurtz. "If the family wanted it done, why not send Miles the lawyer down? And why in the middle of the night? Why not wait for the arraignment?"

"There never was going to be any arraignment," said Sophia. "You were going to be charged with parole violations—carrying a firearm—and sent over to County in the morning."

Kurtz rubbed his chin and heard the stubble rasp. "Parole violation?"

Sophia smiled and began walking. Kurtz followed her down the echoing stairway and out into the night. He was very alert, his nerves pulled very tight. Without being obvious about it, he was checking every shadow, responding to every movement.

"The Richardson murder has lots of clues," said Sophia, "but none of them lead to you. They already have a blood type from the semen they found on the woman. Not yours."

"How do you know?"

Instead of answering, she said, "Someone made an anonymous call that you were at the Richardson place yesterday. If they told you that the woman had your name in her Day-Timer, they lied. She'd scribbled something about meeting a Mr. Quotes."

"The lady was never very good with names," said Kurtz.

Sophia led the way out into the cold but brilliantly lighted parking lot and beeped a black Porsche Boxster open. "Want a ride?" she said.

"I'll walk," said Kurtz.

"Not wise," said the woman. "You know why someone went to all this work to get you to County?"

Kurtz did, of course. At least now he did. A yard hit. A shank job. He was lucky that it hadn't happened in interrogation or the holding pen. Hathaway almost certainly had been part of the setup. What had kept the homicide cop from going ahead with it, using the throwdown and the Glock, and collecting the ten grand? His young partner? Kurtz would probably never know. But he was sure that someone else would have been waiting downstream and that Hathaway would still have gotten his cut.

"You'd better ride with me," said Sophia.

"How do I know you're not the one?" said Kurtz.

Don Farino's daughter laughed. It was a rich, unselfconscious laugh, her head thrown back, a totally sincere laugh from a grown-up woman. "You flatter me," she said. "I have something to talk to you about, Kurtz, and this would be a good time. I think I can help you figure out who's setting you up for this hit and why. Last offer. Want a ride?"

Kurtz went around and got in the passenger side of the low, muscular Boxster.

Kurtz had expected either just a ride and a talk or a trip out to the Farino family manse in Orchard Park, but Sophia drove him to her loft in the old section of downtown Buffalo.

He knew that she'd had to pass through a metal detector even to get into the waiting area of the city jail, so there was no weapon in the purse she tossed on the floor of the Boxster's passenger side. That meant the center console. If the woman had unclicked that console during the short drive, it would have been an interesting few seconds of activity for Kurtz, but she went nowhere near it.

Her loft was in an old warehouse that had been gentrified, given huge windows and metal terraces that looked out toward the downtown or the harbor, had a secure parking lot dug out under the building, and sported security guards in the lobby and basement entrance. Sort of like my current place, thought Kurtz with a hint of irony.

Sophia used a security card to get into the parking basement, exchanged pleasantries with the uniformed guard at the door to the elevators, and took Kurtz up to the sixth—and top—floor.

"I'll get us drinks," she said after entering the loft, locking the door behind her, and tossing her keys into an enameled vase on a red-lacquer side table. "Scotch do?"

"Sure," said Kurtz. He had not eaten since a slice of toast that morning—yesterday morning now—about twenty hours earlier.

The don's daughter had a nice place: exposed brick, modern furniture that still looked comfortable, a wide-screen HDTV in one corner with the usual gaggle of stereo equipment—DVD players, VCR, surround-sound receivers, pre-amps. There were tall, framed French minimalist posters that looked original—and which were probably as expensive as hell—a mezzanine under skylights with hundreds of books set in black lacquer shelves, and a huge, semicircular window dominating the west wall with a view of the river, the harbor, and the bridge lights.

She handed him the Scotch. He sipped some. Chivas.

"Aren't you going to compliment me on my place?" she said.

Kurtz shrugged. It would be a great place to hit if he were into robbery, but he doubted if she would take that as a compliment. "You were going to tell me your theories," he said.

Sophia sipped her Scotch and sighed. "Come here, Kurtz," she said, not actually touching him on the arm, but leading him over to a full-length mirror near the door. "What do you see?" she asked after she stepped back.

"Me," said Kurtz. In truth, he saw a hollow-eyed man with matted hair, a torn, bloodied shirt, a fresh scratch along one cheek, and rivulets of dried blood on his face and neck.

"You stink, Kurtz."

He nodded, taking the comment in the spirit it was meant—a statement of fact.

"You need to take a shower," she said. "Get into some clean clothes."

"Later," he said. There was no warm water and no clean clothes at his warehouse flop.

"Now," said Sophia and took his Scotch glass and set it on the counter. She went into a bathroom in the short hall between the living room and what looked like a bedroom. Kurtz heard water running. She poked her head out into the hall. "Coming?"

"No," said Kurtz.

"Jesus, you're paranoid."

Yeah, thought Kurtz, but am I paranoid enough?

Sophia had kicked off her shoes and now was pulling off her blouse and skirt. She wore only white underpants and a white bra. With a motion that Kurtz had not seen in person in more than eleven years, she unhooked the bra and tossed it out of sight. She stood there in her white, lacy but not trampy underpants, cut high on the sides. "Well?" she said.

Kurtz checked the door. Bolted and police locked. He checked the small kitchen. Another door, bolted and chained. He slid open the door to the terrace and walked out onto the metal structure. It was cold and beginning to rain. There was no way to gain access to the terrace short of rappelling from the rooftop. He went back in, walked past Sophia—who had her arms crossed in front of her full breasts but who was still goose-bumpy from the sudden blast of cold air—and checked the bedroom, looking into the closets and under the bed.

Then he came back to the bathroom.

Sophia was naked now, standing under the warm water, her long, curly hair already wet. "My God," she said through the open shower door, "you are paranoid."

Kurtz took off his bloody clothes.

Kurtz was excited, but not crazy excited. After the first couple of years without sex, he had realized, the need for it stayed the same but the obsession for it either drove men crazy—he had seen plenty of that in Attica—or leveled off to a sort of metaphysical hunger. Kurtz had read Epictetus and the other Stoics while serving his time and found their philosophy admirable but boring. The trick, he thought, was to enjoy the hard-on but not be led around by it.