Behind the TV, a semicircular wall of shoulder-high speakers flanked a conversation pit; a marble-topped table in the center held an array of CD and tape equipment, along with a library of a thousand or more compact discs. The floor beneath the stereo area was hardwood, covered with animal skins: tiger and jaguar, stitched beaver, a buffalo robe, a sleek dark square of what might have been mink. Erroll Garner bubbled out of the speakers, working through "Mambo Carmel."

Beyond the bed, and between the bed and the sports area, a glass shower stall stood out of the floor like an oversized phone booth. Two toilets sat next to it, facing each other, and on the other side, a huge tub.

Smith waited in the sports area, two thirds of the way to the back wall. The wall was pierced by three or four doors. So there were more rooms, Lucas thought…

Smith, his back to them, waggled a driver, drove a golf ball into a net, shook his head, and put the club in a bag that hung from a wall peg. Behind him, a rank of unlit lights waited over what appeared to be a real grass putting green, built on a raised surface. Beyond the green, a stained-glass lamp hung over an antique pool table; and at the back of the room, a basketball net hung from a wall. Below it, a court was complete out to the top of the free-throw circle.

"Can't keep my head down," Smith said. He strode toward them, his golf shoes scuffing over the artificial turf. Smith was a short, barrel-chested, barrel-gutted man with a fuzzy mustache and kinky black hair. He wore a black golf shirt tucked into black pleated slacks, with a woven leather belt circling his waist. A gold chain dangled from his neck, with what looked like a St. Christopher medal. He smiled at Fell and stuck his hand out. "You're the cop who was watching me last year…"

Fell ignored the hand. "We need to talk to you about this Bekker guy," she said bluntly. "The guy who's chopping up these people…"

"The freak," Smith said. He took his hand back, couldn't find a place for it, and finally stuck it in his slacks pocket. He was puzzled, his mustache quivering. "Why talk to me?"

"He needs money and drugs, and he can't get them legitimately," Lucas said. He'd drifted past the driving area to the putting green. The green's surface was knee high, but dished, to provide a variety of contours. He reached down and pressed his fingers against it. Real grass, carefully groomed, cool and slightly damp to the touch.

"Now that's a hell of a project, right there," Smith said enthusiastically. He picked up a remote control, touched a series of buttons, and the lights over the putting green flickered and came on. "Those are special grow lights," he said, pointing up at the lighting fixture. "Same spectrum as the sun. Joe over there, he knows all about different grasses, he set it up. This is genuine bent grass. It took him a year to get it right."

Smith stepped up and onto the green, walked lightly across it, then turned to look at Lucas. Back to business: "So this guy needs money and drugs?"

"Yeah. And we want you to put the word out on your network. Somebody is dealing with him, and we want him. Now."

Smith picked up a putter that was leaning against the far end. Three balls waited in a rack, and he popped them out, lined up the first one, stroked and missed. The ball rolled past the cup and stopped two feet away.

"Twenty-two feet. Not bad," he said. "When you've got a long lag like that, you just try to get it within two feet of the cup. You pretend you're shooting for a manhole cover. That's the secret to single-bogey golf. Do cops play golf?"

"We need you to put out the word," Fell said.

"Talk into my belly button, said Little Red Riding Hood," Smith said. He lined up another putt, let it go. The ball rolled four feet past the cup. "Fuck it," he said. "Nerves. You guys are putting pressure on me."

"There's no wire," Lucas said quietly. "Neither one of us is wired. We're looking for a little help."

"What do I get out of it?" Smith asked.

"Civic pride," Lucas said. The pitch of his voice had dropped a bit, but Smith pretended not to notice, and lined up the last ball.

"Civic pride? In fuckin' New York?" He snorted, looked up and said, "Excuse the language, Dr. Fell… Anyway, I really don't know what you're talking about, this network."

He walked around the green, squinting at the short putt. The blond man approached with a china platter covered with steaming slices of bread. "Anybody for fresh bread? We've got straight and garlic butter…"

"Fuck the bread," said Fell. She looked at Lucas. "We're not getting to him. Maybe we ought to have the fire department check his…"

"Nah, political shit doesn't work with a guy who's really connected," Lucas said. "Mr. Smith sounds like he's connected."

Smith squinted at him. "Who're you? I don't remember you…"

"I've been hired as a consultant here," Lucas said. He wandered back to the driving net, speaking so softly that the others could barely pick up the words. He pulled a three iron out of the golf bag and looked at it. "I used to work in Minneapolis, until I got thrown off the force. I caught Bekker the first time, but not before he killed a good friend of mine. Cut her throat. He let her see it coming. Made her wait for it. Then he sawed right through her neck… She was tied up, couldn't fight back. So later, when I caught Bekker…"

"His face got all fucked up," Smith said suddenly.

"That's right," said Lucas. He'd come back, carrying the iron. "His face got all fucked up."

"Wait a minute," said Fell.

Lucas ignored her, hopped up on the putting green, and walked toward Smith. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Fell's hand sliding into the fold of her shoulder bag. "And I didn't worry about fucking him up. You know why? Because I've got a lot of money of my own and I didn't need the job. I don't need any job."

"What the fuck are you talking…" Smith backed away, looked quickly at the blond.

"… And Bekker got me really pissed," Lucas said to Smith, his voice riding over the other man's. His eyes were wide, the tendons in his neck straining at his shirt collar. "I mean really fuckin' pissed. And I had this pistol, with this big sharp front sight on it, and when I caught him, I pounded his face with the sight until you couldn't tell it was a face. Before that, Bekker'd been really pretty, just like this fuckin' green…"

Lucas pivoted and swung the three iron, a long sweeping swing into the perfect turf. A two-pound divot of dirt and grass sprayed off the platform across the pool table.

"Wait, wait…" Smith was waving his hands, trying to stop it.

The blond had set the china tray aside and his hand went toward the small of his back and Fell had a pistol out, pointed at his head, and she was yelling, "No, no, no…"

Lucas rolled on, swinging the club like a scythe, screaming, walking around Smith, saliva spraying on Smith's black shirt. "Pounded his face, pounded his motherfuckin' face, you believe the way we pounded his fuckin' face."

When he stopped, breathing hard, a dozen ragged furrows slashed the surface of the green. Lucas turned and looked at the blond man. Hopped down off the platform, walked toward him.

"You were going to pull out a gun," he said.

The blond man shrugged. He had heavy shoulders, like a weight lifter, and he shifted, setting his feet.

"That really pisses me off," Lucas shouted at him.

"Hold it, for Christ's sake," said Fell, her voice low and urgent.

Lucas swung the iron again, quickly, violently, overhead, then down. The blond flinched, but the iron smashed through the freshly baked bread and the platter beneath it. Pieces of china skittered across the floor, and he shouted, "And tried to fuckin' bribe us…"

Then he ran down, staggered, turned back to Smith and pointed the club like a saber.