Louise followed the nod. A man in civilian clothing, but with a pistol on his hip, and therefore certainly a cop, was stepping around the body, taking pictures of it from all angles. And then he finished. When he did, another policeman (adetective, Louise corrected herself) bent over and with a thick chunk of yellow chalk, outlined the body on the parking lot's macadam.

"Where's your car, Miss Dutton?" Wohl asked.

Louise could not remember where she had left it. She looked around until she found it, and then pointed to it.

"Over there," she said, "the yellow one."

"Would you like to ride in your car, or in the police car?" Wohl asked.

Louise thought that over for a moment before replying, "I think my car."

"These officers will take you to the studio and then home, Miss Dutton," Wohl said. "Please don't go anywhere else until we've taken care of your interview with Homicide. Thank you very much for your cooperation."

He offered his hand, and she took it.

The first thing Wohl thought was professional. Her hand was a little clammy, often a symptom of stress. Getting a cop to drive her had been a good idea, beyond hoping that it would make her think well of the police department. Then he thought that it was a very nice hand, indeed. Soft and smooth skinned.

There was little question what Dutch saw in her, he thought. But what did she see in him? This was a tough, well-educated young woman, not some secretary likely to be awed by a big, strong policeman.

A black Oldsmobile with red lights flashing from behind the grille pulled into the parking lot as Louise Dutton's yellow convertible, following a blue-and-white, turned onto Roosevelt Boulevard.

Chief Inspector of Detectives Matt Lowenstein, a large, florid-faced, silver-haired man in his fifties, got out the passenger side and walked purposefully over to McGovern and Wohl.

"Goddamned shame," he said. "Goddamned shame. They pick up the one that got away?"

"Not yet, sir," McGovern said. "But we will."

"Every male east of Broad Street with a zipper jacket and blond hair has been stopped for questioning," Wohl said, dryly. Lowenstein looked at him, waiting for an explanation. "A Highway Patrol sergeant went on the J-Band and ordered every Highway vehicle to respond."

Lowenstein shook his head. He agreed with Wohl that had been unnecessary, even unwise. But the Highway Patrol was the Highway Patrol, and when one of their own was involved in a police shooting, they could be expected to act that way. And, anyway, it was too late now, water under the dam, to change anything.

"I understand we got an eyewitness," he said.

"I just sent her home," Wohl said.

"They interviewed her here? Already?"

"No. I told her that someone would pick her up for the interview at her home in about an hour," Wohl said.

Captain McGovern's eyes grew wide. Wohl had overstepped his authority, and it was clear to him that he was about to get his ass eaten out by Chief Inspector Lowenstein.

But Chief Inspector Lowenstein didn't even comment.

"Jank Jankowitz tried to reach you on the radio, Peter," he said. " When he couldn't, he got on the horn to me. The commissioner thinks it would be a good idea for you to go by the hospital… Where did they take him?"

"I don't know, Chief. I can find out," Wohl replied.

Lowenstein nodded. "If you miss him there, he's going by the Moffitt house. Meet him there."

"Yes, sir," Peter said.

Leonard Cohen, before he had become the news director of WCBL-TV, had been what he thought of as a bona fide journalist. That is, he had worked for newspapers before they were somewhat condescendingly referred to as "the print media."

He privately thought that the trouble with most of the people he knew in "electronic journalism" was that few of them had started out working for a newspaper, and consequently were incapable of recognizing the iceberg tip of a genuine story, unless they happened to fall over it on their way to the mirror to touch up their makeup, and sometimes not then.

The phone wasn't even back in its cradle after Louise Dutton had called to make sure they wouldn't put the name of the cop who got himself shot on the air before the cops could inform his widow when he sensed there was more to what was going on than Louise Dutton had told him.

He was a little embarrassed that he hadn't picked up on it while he had her on the telephone.

He went quickly to the engineering room.

"Are we in touch with the van at the Waikiki Diner?" he asked.

"I dunno," the technician said. "Sometimes it works, and sometimes it don't."

"Find out, Goddamn it!"

Penny Bakersfield's voice, clipped and metallic because of the shortwave radio's modulation limitations, came clearly over the loudspeaker.

"Yes, Leonard?"

"Penny, can you see what Louise Dutton is doing out there?"

"At the moment, she's walking toward her car. There are a couple of cops with her."

"Tell Whatsisname-"

"Ned," she furnished.

"Tell Ned to shoot it," he ordered. "Tell him to shoot whatever he can of her out there. If you can get the cops in the shot, so much the better."

"May I ask why?"

"Goddamn it, Penny, do what you're told. And then the two of you get back here as soon as you can."

"You don't have to snip at me, Leonard!" Penny said.

Officer Mason, once he and Officer Foley had slid the stretcher with Captain Richard C. Moffitt on it into the back of Two-Oh-One, had been faced with the decision of which hospital the "wounded" Highway Patrol officer should be transported to.

There had been really no doubt in his mind that Moffitt was dead; in the year and a half he'd been assigned to wagon duty, he'd seen enough dead and nearly dead people to tell the difference. But Moffitt was a cop, and no matter what, "wounded" and "injured" cops were hauled to a hospital.

"Tell Radio Nazareth," Officer Mason had said to Officer Foley as he flicked on the siren and lights.

Nazareth Hospital, at Roosevelt Boulevard and Pennypack Circle, was not the nearest hospital, but it was, in Officer Mason's opinion, the best choice of the several available to him. Maybe Dutch Moffitt wasn' t dead.

They had been waiting for him at Nazareth Emergency, nurses and doctors and everything else, but Dutch Moffitt was dead, period.

Police Commissioner Taddeus Czernick had arrived a few minutes later, and on his heels came cars bearing Mayor Jerry Carlucci, Chief Inspector Dennis V. Coughlin, and Captain Charley Gait of the Civil Disobedience Squad. Officer Mason heard Captain Gaft explain his presence to Chief Inspector Coughlin: Until last month, he had been Dutch Moffitt's home district commander, and he thought he should come; he knew Jeannie Moffitt pretty good.

And then Captain Paul Mowery, Dutch Moffitt's new home district commander, appeared. He held open the glass door from the Emergency parking lot for Jeannie Moffitt. She was a tall, healthy-looking, white-skinned woman with reddish brown hair. She was wearing a faded cotton housedress and a gray, unbuttoned cardigan.

"Be strong, Jeannie," Chief Inspector Coughlin said. "Dutch's gone."

"I knew it," Jean Moffitt said, almost matter-of-factly. "I knew it." And then she fumbled in her purse for a handkerchief, and then started to sob. "Oh, God, Denny! What am I going to tell the kids?"

Coughlin wrapped his arms around her, and Mayor Carlucci and Commissioner Czernick stepped close to the two of them, their faces mirroring their emotions. They desperately wanted to do something, anything, to help, and there was nothing in their power that could.