"The Gonzaga Family must have wanted to deal with them," said Kurtz. "Gonzagas have been peddling heroin here since World War II. I'm surprised old Emilio never dealt with these Pennsylvania people."

"The Gonzagas never identified the Pennsylvania people," said Angelina. "Old Emilio actually asked my father for help once in finding them, if you can believe that. But the Five Families don't know anything about this rogue operation either."

"This phantom skag gang isn't mobbed up?" said Kurtz. "No vowels at the ends of their names?"

She glared at him as if he'd insulted her proud ethnic heritage. Come to think of it, thought Kurtz, he had.

The anger-blush was back in her cheeks when Angelina said, "Can you tell me what you've found out about the murder of Gonzaga's people? Did they really happen?"

"I have no idea," Kurtz slid the.38 all the way back in the holster and rubbed his temples.

"What do you mean? You think Gonzaga may have staged them?"

"I mean I haven't spent five minutes looking into those murders," said Kurtz. "I have my own case to solve."

"You mean finding who shot the probation officer? O'Toole?"

"I mean finding who shot me," said Kurtz. He unzipped the leather portfolio on his desk, removed a file, and handed it across to her. "This might help you decide."

Angelina Farino Ferrara studied Gonzaga's list of seventeen names, addresses, messages left by the killer in each case, and details of cleanup, bulletholes, blood spatters, and other forensic garbage that Kurtz had glanced over and forgotten. She looked at the map on the wall with its pins—all barely visible in the dark there—and then back at the file. Then she looked at the big Ricoh copy machine next to the couch.

"Can I copy this stuff?"

"Sure," said Kurtz. "Ten cents a page."

"You dumb shit," said Angelina, moving quickly to warm up the machine and set out the file pages. "I would have paid you a thousand bucks a page. I've been asking Toma for these details for the last week, and he's been stonewalling. What do you think he's up to, Kurtz?"

His cell phone rang. He dug it out of his jacket pocket, realized it was the other cell phone ringing, and answered it.

"Toma Gonzaga here," said the familiar, slow voice. "What have you found out, Mr. Kurtz?"

"I thought I was supposed to call you," said Kurtz.

"I was worried that something might have happened to you," said the don. "It's two days to Halloween and you know how crazy the streets can get this time of year. What have you discovered so far? Does any of it lead to Ms. Ferrara?"

"Why don't you ask her?" said Kurtz. He handed the phone to the surprised Angelina and listened to her side of the conversation.

"No… I'm here collecting the advance I gave him since he seems to be working for you now… no, I don't… he hasn't… I don't think he's even looked into it… no, Toma, believe me, if I thought it was you, I would have acted already… How sweet, fuck you, too… No, I agree. We should meet… Yes, I can do that."

She clicked off, folded the phone, and tossed it back to Kurtz.

Tossing the original file back on his desk, she bundled up the copies, shut off the machine, and slipped into her coat.

"You said something about a thousand bucks a page?" said Kurtz.

"Too late, Kurtz." She went out the door and he heard her high heels tripping down the steps, then watched her on the closed-circuit video monitor as she let herself out the lower door. He leaned closer to the monitor to make sure that the outer door had clicked shut and was locked. It would be embarrassing to relax only to find Angelina's bodyguards kicking down his office door.

When his cell phone rang again, he seriously considered not answering it. Then he did.

"Kurtz," came Angelina's voice. "I think I'm in trouble."

"What happened?"

"Come to the window."

Shutting off his desk lamp and approaching the wide window from the side, Kurtz warily peered out. Angelina was standing on the curb where the Lincoln Town Car had been parked. The spot was empty, but a red Jeep Liberty with five college-age kids in it was trying to park there.

"What's going on?" said Kurtz on the phone.

"My bodyguards and the car are gone."

"I can see that."

"They don't answer their phones or my pages."

Kurtz walked back to his desk, pulled the.38 and holster from beneath the drawer, dumped the used duct tape in the wastebasket, went back to the window, and lifted his cell phone. "What are you going to do?"

"I called for help, but it'll be thirty minutes before they get here."

"What do you want me to do about it?"

"Open the door. Let me back in."

He thought about that. "No," he said, "I'll come down."

In the morning, Kurtz dropped Angelina Farino Ferrara near her Marina Towers and headed toward the expressway to drive to Neola, New York, in search of Major O'Toole's fabled Cloud Nine amusement park. He was sure that Detective Rigby King would be busy today despite her theoretical day off, but every call from his cell phone to hers received only a busy signal. At first he was going to ignore it and drive on to Neola alone, but the thought of standing up an armed Rigby King made him go out of his way to swing by her townhouse. At least he could tell her later that he'd tried.

She was waiting for him at the curb, still talking on her phone. She folded it away when he pulled up and opened the Pinto's battered door to slip into the passenger seat.

"You're coming?" said Kurtz.

"Why so surprised?" said Rigby. She was wearing a tan corduroy blazer, pink Oxford shirt, jeans, and very white running shoes today. Her holster and 9mm were secure on her right hip, only visible if you knew to look. She was carrying a Thermos.

Kurtz shrugged. "Homicide cops, you know," he said. "I thought you might be working after all."

Rigby raised her heavy eyebrows. "Oh, you mean you thought maybe I'd be called in to investigate the murder of your girlfriend, Ms. Purina Ferrari?"

Kurtz gave her nothing but a blank look. He got the Pinto in gear and heading back toward the expressway.

"Not curious, Joe?" said Rigby. She unscrewed the Thermos and poured herself some steaming coffee, taking care not to spill it as the Pinto bounced over expansion joints.

"About what? Are you saying that Farino Ferrara was murdered?"

"We were pretty sure of it," said Rigby, sipping carefully and cradling the plastic Thermos cup in both hands as Kurtz headed up the ramp onto the Youngman Expressway. "Last night we got an anonymous call about an abandoned Lincoln Town Car that the caller said looked like it was filled with blood and gore—which, it turned out, it was—and when the uniformed officers arrived at Hemingway's—you know that café don't you, Joe? It's only a few blocks from your office isn't it? — they found a locked Town Car registered to your Ms. Farino Ferrara. It was filled with blood and brains, all right, but no bodies. The cops tried to contact the Farino woman at her penthouse out near the lake, but some goombah answering there said she was gone and no one knew where she was."

Kurtz had followed the 290 Youngman around to where it merged into 90 South near the airport. The Pinto rattled and wheezed but managed to keep up with the lighter Sunday morning traffic. It had rained much of the night and the morning was chilly, but the clouds were breaking up now and he could see blue sky to the south. Rigby's coffee smelled good. Kurtz wished he'd had time to grab some this morning. Maybe he'd go through a drive-thru on their way out past East Aurora.

"So is she dead?" said Kurtz at last.

Rigby looked at him. "It looked that way until about thirty minutes ago. We left a black and white at Marina Towers—her lawyer wouldn't let us up in the penthouse and we hadn't found a judge to issue paper yet—and Kemper called me a minute ago to tell me that the Farino woman just walked in. No car, just walked in from that asphalt path that runs along the marina opposite Chinaman's Lighthouse."