''Where're your gloves?''

''Ain't got no gloves. Where're we going?''

''Just gonna drive around a minute, keep the heat going,'' Stadic said. ''What'd you find out?''

Sell-More shrugged. ''My man said that Daymon Harp's got a cop, 'cause every time somebody tries to edge in on Daymon, they get busted the next day. He says everybody knows that.''

''That's it?''

''Dude gotta be in narcotics,'' Sell-More said.

Though he was driving, Stadic closed his eyes for a moment. He felt the world slipping out of control, like one of those nightmares where something goes wrong, and you can't ever get it quite right again. If a dumbass like Sell-More could figure this out, then other people could figure it out, too. He hadn't been given away by the name, but by the pattern. And if anyone looked at the pattern of arrests closely enough, they'd find Stadic's name.

''Hey, man…''

The tone in Sell-More's voice snapped his eyes open, and he found that he was drifting toward a parked Pontiac. He wrenched the car back to the middle of the street, missing the Pontiac by a foot.

''You okay?'' Sell-More asked.

''Tired,'' Stadic said. He steadied himself. One thing at a time. When Harp got back, Stadic would have to move him out of town. Kill him? Probably not. The thing was, Harp maybe had stashed Stadic's name somewhere as an insurance policy, the same way he'd taken those pictures… Goddamn him.

Stadic slipped his hand inside his coat, found the cell phone. The cold lump of his pistol was next to it. ''I need you to make a phone call,'' he said.

SHERRILL AND SLOAN HAD COME BACK, STILL IN THEIR parkas.

''Cold?''

''Yeah. Getting bad,'' Sherrill said. ''Supposed to get warmer tomorrow, but they're talking about some big storm is getting wound up somewhere. Somebody's gonna get it in two or three days.''

''Doesn't make it easier.''

''Nobody on the streets,'' Sloan said. ''You hear anything from Sell-More?''

''Not a thing.'' The phone rang, and Lucas picked it up.

Sell-More said, ''This is the guy you give the ten dollars to.''

Lucas grinned at Sloan and pointed at the phone: ''Yeah? Sell-More?''

''I got a name for you.''

Lucas leaned forward in the chair. ''Who?''

''You said a hundred dollars.''

''If you got a name.''

After a five-second silence, Sell-More said one word: ''Palin.''

''Say that again?''

''Palin. Like, my Pal… in… trouble. Pal-in.''

''Where'd you get this?'' Lucas asked.

''Some homeboy down on Franklin.''

''You come up here, ask for Davenport. If the name's anything, you got a hundred. And I want the name of the homeboy. That's another hundred.''

''Don't leave,'' Sell-More said. ''I'm on my way.''

LUCAS DROPPED THE PHONE ON THE HOOK AND looked at Sloan. ''Arne Palin?''

Sloan dropped his jaw in mock surprise. ''Arne Palin? No way.''

''Sell-More says Arne Palin,'' Lucas said.

''Arne's so goddamn straight he still doesn't say 'fuck' in front of women,''

Sherrill said.

Lucas scratched his head: ''But he used to be a roaring drunk. You remember that, Sloan? He did some pretty wild shit, fifteen years ago.''

''Yeah, cowboy shit. But jeez…'' Sloan shook his head. ''If you were gonna pick a name who didn't do it-I'd pick Palin. I don't think he's smart enough to think of doing it.''

''Gotta be bullshit,'' Lucas agreed. ''But I wonder where Sell-More got it?'' He picked up the phone and called Anderson. ''Is Arne Palin on your list?''

Anderson said, ''Yeah. He's trying to transfer into personnel. They had him up there a few days. You got something?''

''Maybe. Check and see where he's been the last few days-when he's been on duty and so on. See if he was working that day O'Donald saw the guy at the laundromat.''

''How close a check?'' Anderson asked. He sounded tired.

''Close. We got the name off the street.''

''Arne?''

''Yeah, I know. But check, huh?''

STADIC EASED THE CAR TO THE CURB. ''OUT,'' HE SAID. ''And you keep your mouth shut. You keep your mouth shutuntil Harp gets back, and you won't have to worry about gettin' high, not for a while. You be the man.''

''The man,'' Sell-More said, picking up on Stadic's fake jive. ''I be the man.''

''That's right,'' Stadic said. He checked the rearview mirror: nothing in sight.

He'd picked the darkest piece of iceclogged street he could find. ''You go on, now.''

Sell-More cracked the door and swiveled to clamber out.

''And get you some gloves. Your hands are gonna freeze,'' Stadic said. He groped under his sweater for the stock of the old. 38. ''Do that,'' Sell-More said.

He was out, ready to slam the door, when Stadic called, ''Hey. Wait a minute.''

Sell-More leaned forward to say, ''Huh?'' but never got the syllable out: As he leaned under the roof, Stadic shot him in the face, one quick shot, a bang and a flash, and Sell-More dropped straight down, banging his head on the doorsill as he fell, a wet snapping sound.

''Shit.'' Stadic stretched across the seat, and put the muzzle almost against the back of Sell-More's head, and pulled the trigger again. Sell-More's head popped up and down. ''If you ain't dead, fuck ya,'' Stadic said, and he stretched out and caught the door handle and pulled the door shut.

He was in his own car with the murder weapon. He could feel his heart thumping: had to dump the gun. If he got a block away, no jury would convict him, unless he had the gun. But he couldn't ditch it too quick. They'd check close around the body, anyplace a gun might be thrown.

And he listened to the radio; the radio was routine, nothing more. Give it another block. Give it one more. Another one. No calls? He found another dark street, caught the black cut of a storm sewer, pulled up close, cracked the door, dumped the gun. Just before he closed the door, he heard an odd sound, and he hesitated.

What was it? His ears were still ringing from the shots, maybe he was hearing that. He rolled down the window, just an inch, and heard the sound again, over the noise of the wheels. And then he passed the end of the block, and looked down to the right. A group of kids on the sidewalk, with candles.

Carolers.

''Christ,'' he said. ''Little fuckers oughta be in bed.'' And he went on.

SELL-MORE HADN'T SHOWN, AND DEL HAD COME AND gone-he'd be at the hospital, he said. Sherrill had left for the funeral home. Visitation night. Lucas and Sloan said they'd be along.

''You don't have to come,'' Sherrill said.

''Of course we have to,'' Lucas said. He patted her on the shoulder. ''We'll be there.''

When she was gone, Sloan said, ''Why don't we pick up a burger and a beer before we go over?''

Lucas nodded: ''All right.'' He was locking the door when they heard running footsteps. Anderson, white-faced, came around the corner: ''It's Palin,'' he blurted.

''What?'' Lucas looked at Sloan, then back to Anderson.

''I had Gina down at Dispatch running tapes, to nail down where Palin was when he was on duty. And night before last, he called in a Wisconsin plate. You won't believe…''

''Elmore Darling,'' Lucas said, snapping his fingers. ''That's how he found

Darling. Took the numbers off the plate when he talked to LaChaise, ran them, went over there and killed Darling.''

''I think so,'' Anderson said, his oversized Adam's apple bobbing in his thin neck. ''We never would have caught him if we hadn't run those old tapes.''

''Arne Palin,'' Sloan said, shaking his head.

''Let's take him,'' Lucas said.