Dellray watched him squirm. "So, we all together on that?"

"Whatta you want?"

And just to make sure the back of the chair didn't make R.C. feel too much at ease, Dellray slapped his hand on the kid's thigh and squeezed hard.

"Ouch. Why'd you do that?"

"You ever been polygraphed, R.C.?"

"No, Dad's lawyer said never-"

"It's a rhe-tor-i-cal question," Dellray said, even though it wasn't. It was just a way to burst a little intimidation over R.C.'s head like a tear gas grenade at a protest.

The agent gave another squeeze for good measure. He couldn't help thinking: Hey, McDaniel, can't do this while you're eavesdropping in the cloud zone, can you?

Which's too bad. 'Cause this is a lot more fun.

Fred Dellray was here thanks to one person: Serena. The favor that she'd asked had nothing to do with cleaning the basement. It was about getting off his ass. She'd led him downstairs into the messy storeroom, where he kept his outfits from his days as an undercover agent. She found one in particular, sealed up in the same kind of plastic bag that you used for wedding dresses. It was the Homeless Drunk costume, suitably perfumed with mold and sufficient human odor-and a little cat pee-to get a confession just by sitting down next to a suspect.

Serena had said, "You lost your snitch. Quit feeling sorry for yourself and go pick up his trail. If you can't find him, then find out what he found."

Dellray had smiled, hugged her and gone to change. As he left, Serena said, "Whoa, you smell bad, son." And gave him a playful swat on the butt. A gesture very, very few people had ever bestowed on Fred Dellray.

And he hit the street.

William Brent was good at hiding tracks, but Dellray was good at finding them. One thing he'd learned, encouragingly, was that maybe Brent had been on the job after all. Dellray found by tracing his movements that the CI had come up with a lead to Galt or to Justice For the Earth or something relevant to the attacks. The man had been working hard, tracking deep undercover. Finally he'd learned Brent had come here, to this dark pool parlor, where apparently the CI had sought, and ideally gotten, important information from the young man whose knee Dellray had just vise-gripped.

Dellray now said, "So. My cards. On the table. Are we havin' fun yet?"

"Jesus." A fierce grimace that might've sent R.C.'s cheeks into a cramp. "Just tell me what you want."

"That's the spirit, son." A picture of William Brent appeared.

Dellray watched his face closely and a flash of recognition popped into R.C.'s eyes before it dissolved. He asked the kid instantly, "What'd he pay you?"

The blink of a pause told Dellray both that Brent had paid him and that the amount he was about to say would be considerably less than what really changed hands.

"One large."

Damn. Brent was being pretty fucking generous with Dellray's money.

R.C. said, with a bit of whine, "It wasn't drugs, man. I'm not into that."

"Course you are. But I don't care. He was here about information. And now… now… now. I need to know what he asked and what you told him." Dellray limbered up his lengthy fingers again.

"Okay, I'll tell you. Bill-he said his name was Bill." R.C. pointed at the picture.

"Bill is as good as any. Keep going, friend."

"He heard somebody was staying here in the 'hood. Some guy who'd come to town recent, was driving a white van, carrying a piece. A big fucking forty-five. He clipped somebody."

Dellray gave nothing away. "Who'd he kill? And why?"

"He didn't know."

"Name?"

"Didn't have one."

The agent didn't need a polygraph. R.C. was doing just fine with the dharmic quality of honesty.

"Come on, R.C., my friend, what else about him? White van, just came to town, big forty-five. Clipped somebody for reasons unknown."

"Maybe kidnapped 'em before he killed 'em… Was somebody you didn't fuck with."

That kind of went without saying.

R.C. continued, "So this Bill or whoever heard I was connected, you know. Hooked into the wire, you know."

"The wire."

"Yeah. Not what that asshole's using to kill people. I mean the word on the street."

"Oh, that's what you mean," Dellray said but R.C. floated below irony.

"And you are connected, aren't you, son? You know all 'bout the hood, right? You're the Ethel Mertz of the Lower East Side."

"Who?"

"Keep going."

"Okay, well, like, I had heard something. I like to know who's around, what kind of shit could be going down. Anyway, I'd heard about this guy, was just like Bill said. And I sent him over to where he's staying. That's it. That's all."

Dellray believed him. "Gimme the address."

He did, a decrepit street not far away. "It's the basement apartment."

"Okay, s'all I need for now."

"You…"

"I won't tell Daddy anything. Don'tcha worry. 'Less you're fucking with me."

"I'm not, no, Fred, really."

When Dellray was at the door, R.C. called, "It wasn't what you think."

The agent turned.

"It really was 'cause you smelt bad. That's why we weren't going to serve you. Not because you're black."

Five minutes later Dellray was approaching the block R.C. had told him about. He'd debated calling in backup, but decided not to quite yet. Working street required finesse, not sirens and takedown teams. Or Tucker McDaniel. Dellray loped through the streets, dodging the dense crowds. Thinking, as he often did, It's the middle of the day. What the hell do these people do for work? Then he turned two corners and eased into an alley, so he could approach the apartment in question from the back.

He looked quickly up the dim, rot-smelling canyon.

Not far away was a white guy in a cap and baggy shirt, sweeping cobblestones. Dellray counted addresses; he was directly behind the place where R.C. had sent William Brent.

Okay, this's weird, the agent thought. He started forward through the alley. The sweeper turned his mirrored sunglasses his way and then went back to sweeping. Dellray stopped near him, frowning and looking around. Trying to make sense of this.

Finally the sweeper asked, "The fuck're you doing?"

"Well, I'll tell you," Dellray offered. "One thing I'm doing is looking at an NYPD undercover cop who, for some fucked-up reason, is trying to blend by sweeping cobblestones in a 'hood where they stopped sweeping cobblestones, oh, about a hundred and thirty years ago." Dellray displayed his ID.

"Dellray? I heard of you." Then defensively the cop said, "I'm just doing what they told me. It's a stakeout."

"Stakeout? Why? What is this place?"

"You don't know?"

Dellray rolled his eyes.

When the cop told him, Dellray froze. But only momentarily. A few seconds later he was ripping away his smelly undercover costume and dumping it in a waste bin. As he started sprinting for the subway, he noted the cop's startled reaction, and supposed it could have come from one of two things: the striptease act itself, or the fact that underneath the disgusting outfit he was wearing a kelly green velour tracksuit. He supposed it was a little of both.