She continued to look horrified," Yeah, right. You think so? Why don't you get a shave on the back of your head too. Then we can both look cool."

I grinned at her. "I will if you want me to."

Dr. Petito walked into Jannie's room and heard us trying to cheer each other up.

"You're number one on our list," he told her and smiled.

Jannie puffed up her little chest," See that? I'm number one."

They took Jannie away from me at five minutes past seven in the morning.

I held a special image in my mind of Jannie dancing with Rosie the cat, singing "Roses are Red." I let it play over and over again that long, terrible morning at St. Anthony's. I suspect that waiting in hospitals is as close as we get to being in hell before our time, or at least in purgatory. Nana, Damon, and I didn't talk much the whole time. Sampson and Jannie's aunts came by for short stints. They were devastated too. It was just awful. The worst hours of my life.

Sampson took Nana and Damon to the cafeteria to get something to eat, but I wouldn't leave. There was no word of how Jannie was doing. Everything at the hospital felt unreal to me. Images of Maria's death came flashing back to me. After my wife was wounded in a senseless drive-by shooting, she had been brought to St. Anthony's too.

At a few minutes past five, the neurologist, Dr. Petito, walked into the waiting room where we were gathered. I saw him before he saw us. I felt ill. Suddenly, my heart was racing, thudding loudly. I couldn't tell anything from his face, other than that he looked tired. He saw us, waved a hand, and walked our way.

He was smiling, and I knew it was good.

"We got it," Dr. Petito said as soon as he reached us. He shook my hand, then Nana's, and Damon's. "Congratulations."

"Thank you," I whispered as I held his hand tightly, 'for all your sacrifices."

About fifteen minutes later, Nana and I were allowed into the recovery suite. Suddenly I was feeling buoyant, pleasantly lightheaded. Jannie was the only patient in there. We walked quietly to her bedside, almost on tiptoes. A gauze turban covered her little head. She was hooked up to monitors and an IV.

I took one hand. Nana Mama took the other. Our girl was okay; they got it.

"I feel like I lived and went to heaven," Nana said to me and smiled. "Don't you?"

Jannie stirred and began to wake up after about twenty-five minutes in the recovery room. Dr. Petito was called and returned moments later. He asked her to take some deep breaths, then try to cough.

"You have a headache, Jannie?" he asked.

"I think so," she said.

Then she looked over at Nana and me. She squinted first, then she tried to open her eyes wide. She was obviously still groggy. "Hello, Daddy. Hello, Nana. I knew you'd be in heaven too," Jannie finally said.

I turned around then, so that she could see what I'd done.

I had shaven a spot back there. It was just like hers.

Two days later, I returned to the robbery-murders, a case that both fascinated and repulsed me. Work was still there, wasn't it? The investigation had survived without me. On the other hand, no one had been caught. One of Nana's favorite sayings came to mind: If you're going around in circles, maybe you're cutting corners. Perhaps that was the problem with the investigation so far.

I saw Betsey Cavalierre at the FBI office on Fourth Street. She wagged a finger at me, but she also smiled in a friendly way. She had on a tan blazer, blue T-shirt, jeans, and she looked good. I was glad to see her. That first smile of hers seemed to finally break the ice between us.

'You should have told me about your little girl the operation. Everything okay, Alex? You haven't slept much, have you?"

"The doctor said he got it all. She's a tough little girl. This morning she asked me when we could start our boxing lessons again. I'm sorry I didn't tell you before. I wasn't myself."

She waved off my last few words. 'I'm just happy that your daughter is fine, "she said. "I can see the relief on your face."

I smiled. "Well, I can feel it. It brought lots of things into focus for me. Let's go to work."

Betsey winked. "I've been here since six."

"Show-off,” I said.

I sat down at the desk I was using and started to look through the mountain of paperwork that had already accumulated. Agent Cavalierre was at the desk across from mine. I was glad to be back on the line. One or more killers were out there murdering bank tellers, managers, families. I wanted to help stop it if I could.

An hour or so later, I looked up and saw Agent Cavalierre staring my way with a blank look on her face. She'd been lost in her thoughts, I suppose.

"There's someone I need to see," I said. "I should have thought of him before today. He left Washington for a while. Went to Philly, New York, Los Angeles. Now he's back. He's robbed a lot of banks, and he's violent."

Betsey nodded. "I'd love to meet him. Sounds like a swell guy."

It probably had something to do with our scarcity of solid leads that she went with me that morning. We rode in her car to a fleabag hotel on New York Avenue. The Doral was a decrepit, paint-peeling flophouse. A trio of skinny, shopworn prostitutes in miniskirts were just leaving the hotel as we arrived. A retro-looking pimp in a gold lame zoot suit leaned against a yellow Cadillac convertible, picking at his teeth.

"You take me to all the nicest places," Agent Cavalierre said as she climbed out of the car. I noticed she was wearing an ankle holster. Dressed for success.